Clinton Iowa Boy Scout Expedition to the Yellowstone 1921

 

Stopped along the road, waiting for stragglers to catch up

They left town on June 26, 1921. One hundred ninety-one Boy Scouts, forty-one cars, five trucks, and a whole lot of optimism pointed west toward Yellowstone National Park. Somebody said it was educational. Somebody else said it was brave. It was probably both, though bravery looks a lot like boredom from the backseat of a Ford.

Over two thousand boys had signed up. The chosen few were declared “fit, alert, and morally sound.” That last one was important. Nobody wanted immoral children running loose in Wyoming.

Behind them came the adults—eighty-four of them. Doctors, nurses, cooks, mechanics. Civilization on wheels. J. C. Van Hul, Jr. from the Clinton Chamber of Commerce ensured they had a truck full of spare parts. If the caravan broke down somewhere between Clinton and the horizon, he had the men and equipment to fix it.

Making camp in the Grand Canyon

Each boy paid twenty-five dollars into the mess fund and got a quarter a day for spending money. A treasurer guarded the cash like it was Fort Knox. The caravan averaged 114 miles a day—through Iowa, Minnesota, South Dakota, Wyoming, and Nebraska—places where the wind still believed it owned the country. They were gone thirty-seven days and came home sunburned, mosquito-bitten, and taller in the eyes of their parents.

They slept in armories, schoolhouses, and gymnasiums offered by kind people who still believed adventure was good for the soul. In South Dakota they camped four days in the Badlands, which looked like outer space to boys used to corn and beans. In Yellowstone they spent a week watching the earth breathe through geysers and steam vents, learning the simple fact that nature doesn’t care if you’re wearing a Scout uniform.

At Standing Rock, the boys met Lakota elders and learned about a world that had been here long before the merit badges. Later, a group of cowboys staged a fake holdup—guns, bandanas, the whole show. The boys cheered. Nobody got hurt. It was America rehearsing itself again.

Map showing the route taken by the Scouts

The Cedar Rapids Gazette called the trip “one of the great ventures of its kind.” Maybe it was. For thirty-seven days those cars and trucks rolled west like a single mechanical organism fueled by beans, gasoline, and good intentions. The boys learned how to change a tire, cook in the rain, and keep going when the map turned vague.

When they returned to Clinton on July 26, the town lost its composure. Whistles screamed. Church bells rang. Shops closed. The caravan was met at the edge of town by every citizen with a flag or a voice. The boys were led to the Coliseum for speeches about courage, discipline, and the future of the nation. They stood there in clean shirts, grinning and itchy, pretending to understand.

A year later, a magazine called it “an educational aspect of Scouting.” Which sounds about right. Education always looks noble from a distance. Up close it smells like dust, gasoline, and coffee in a tin cup.