Master Of Mischief

Day 261: My history with the National Park Service goes back a long, long way, beginning with an uncle who was a ranger during the mid-50s who managed to wangle special permission from the superintendent to allow me (then in elementary school) to hike in and stay with him for ten days in a remote patrol cabin. I suspect that Gus thought the nine-mile, 3400' elevation gain hike would prove too much for a young girl, especially since he loaded a 35-pound pack on my back. It was my duty to carry our supplies; he was transporting a 65-pound tube radio. Did I falter? Not a bit of it! Every time we stopped to rest, I would run ahead on the steep trail to see if I could find another toad or butterfly and then rush back to prod him ever onward. At the end of ten days, I had a firm path in mind for my adult years, and thus it was that I returned to the very same district some 20 years later as a volunteer ranger.

As green as any little gourd upon the vine, my enthusiasm was undeniable, as was my desire to maintain the best possible image of the National Park Service before the public. My uniform was always pressed, the trousers creased, nametag in place above my breast pocket, and I kept a smiling face and cheerful attitude even when faced with pouring rain, failed plumbing, muddy patrols, drunken campers and the inevitable ridiculous questions from visitors. My colleagues knew me as a no-nonsense, dedicated worker who, then as now, would take on any task I was assigned. As such, it fell to me to "mind the store" while my supervisor was on leave for a month, and during those weeks, several memorable events occurred.

One day, I had gone into a small metal shed which housed our safe, leaving the door open behind me because there was no electricity in the building and I hadn't thought to take a flashlight. As I sorted among items which included our cash box, several radios and the weapons carried by the district's law enforcement rangers, searching for something I no longer recollect, the interior suddenly went dark. I turned around to find a very tall man filling the doorway, blocking the light. In my best Park Service manner, pushing trepidation aside, I asked, "May I help you, sir?"

His reply took me back a pace: "Is this the road I go up to take my snowmobile to the summit?"

First of all, snowmobiles are not allowed in the Park, never have been. Secondly, the road was a dead-end, terminating five miles beyond the entrance and approximately 12,000 vertical feet below the peak. A slight tinge of non-Washingtonian accent gave me a hint that I was dealing with a tourist, a breed entirely apart from the resident visitors who frequent the Park and know the rules. I patiently explained the situation: no, snowmobiles are not allowed and no, you can't get there from here.

Still blocking my exit from the dark shed, the man responded, "But Superintendent Briggly told me this was where to go."

William Briggle (not "Briggly") would have said no such thing, and I knew it. "I'm sorry, sir. You've been misinformed. Snowmobiles are not allowed in the Park, and there is no road to the summit. The closest you can get by car is Sunrise at 6400'."

He was insistent. "But I've got a letter right here from Superintendent Briggly. It says I can take my snowmobile to the top."

I swallowed a sigh. The man in the doorway didn't budge, so I took a step toward him. He towered over me by a good foot, and probably outweighed me by almost twice. He didn't flinch. I took another step toward him, and placed myself in an assertive stance. "Sir," I said firmly, "the Superintendent would not have said that because it is not true. Snowmobiles are not allowed in the Park. Someone is pulling your leg."

I was relieved to see Goliath give ground to David, if only a foot of space as he withdrew by one backward step. And then I heard a second voice, one I recognized, coming from behind the shed. "Nope, we're pulling yours. This is Scott from White River."

Trail crew. Damnation, if I had a nickel for every trick they pulled on me that year, I'd be laughing my way to the bank.

The Master of the Mischief retired a few years ago, and I missed the party, but he still comes 'round the Park for special events. Today at an interpretive training, he spotted me and gave me an enormous hug, no doubt remembering all the fun he and his team had at my expense. Here's to the good old days, Carl! This was your best prank, and the "baby ranger" is still just as gullible as she was thirty-five years ago.