After learning that I had a career as a US national park interpretive ranger, some people have asked what motivated me to do it, especially when they hear about the daily struggles that go along with the job. The pay (which wasn’t much), the constant threat of budget cuts and job cuts and program cuts (which are a large part of why I left), the constant moving, the arcane hiring system, and the actual job itself, which required sometimes super-human effort from just an average little human like me.
You may be asking yourself even now what got me out of bed in the mornings, sometimes before 4 am, to put on my green wool pants and thick, polyester shirt, shine my heavy brown boots, tie my tie and clip it with a little gold arrowhead pin, and head out into the icy rain or hot desert sun to answer many, many visitor questions.
At first I was drawn to the novelty of the job, the same factor motivating the many folks who are curious about ranger life. I was propelled by the myth of the ranger, the wonders of nature, and the sense that I was doing something special that few are fortunate enough to do. I was a bonafide American park ranger, a legend of the West, an object to photograph like the bears at Glacier or the geysers at Yellowstone.
I had splendid times as a park ranger, moments when I asked myself, “How is this my life?” I stumbled daily across unexpected beauty or grace or the struggle for survival, like I had a backstage pass to the wildest show on Earth.
While working as a park ranger in Glacier Bay National Park, I once saw a whale teaching her calf to breach, her bulky, muscular body rising out of the water and scything the air, followed by the awkward plop of her baby, barely tugging half its much smaller frame out of the water. I also witnessed a bald eagle sweep out of the sky, snatch a seagull mid-flight, crack its bones with strong talons, then perch on an iceberg to feast.
As a park ranger, I have watched fiery sunsets over Lake Michigan, explored tidal pools teeming with alien-looking lifeforms on the Pacific coast, and hiked along the rim of a canyon at night guided only by the light of the moon. These experiences are privileges: not many jobs or even vacations provide them. Moments like these kept me going on difficult days.
It was not until later in my career, when nothing about the job was novel or mythic anymore, that I realized that I needed something new to sustain me.
Eventually, my favorite part of my job became helping others discover for themselves that sense of wonder that first brought me to national parks. Like a contact high, seeing excitement and awe on the face of another person helped me relive it for myself. Sharing something I loved with others became the best part of any ranger day.
In Zion National Park, late in my park service career, I helped with a program that brought fifth grade students into the park. The children from Las Vegas, a three-hour bus ride away, were especially delighted upon arrival.
One afternoon I walked with a girl lagging behind the others, a look of shock on her face as she took in the cinnamon and whipped cream canyon walls, the rough little river paved with stones, and the scrubby brush, grasses, and cacti.
A teaching assistant informed me that the child had been quaking with excitement the entire morning. I asked the girl why she was so thrilled.
“I’ve never left Las Vegas before,” she told me, “because that’s where my mom and my dad live.”
I smiled. This was a good day at work.
We took her and the other children on a hike in the Narrows, where the canyon is only as wide as the river still carving it. Carrying walking sticks and wearing wetsuit socks for our feet, we hiked up the river half a mile to a delicate and thin waterfall.
The walls of the canyon here were smooth and high, a snake of blue sky visible hundreds of feet above us, mirroring the path of the river below. We pushed upstream in water up to our knees and in some places our waists. The children slipped and splashed and generally had the best time I’ve ever seen children have.
When they are grown, I don’t know if those children will remember hiking the Narrows or camping under the stars. But one of the things I learned being a park ranger is that these were the moments that I myself would never forget.
The visitors I met came and went; I never knew what happened to them after they left my park. Did that elderly couple ever spot a Green Jay, did the child earn a good grade for the interview they did of me, did those bicyclists make it all the way to the coast?
I had thousands of such moments, special to both me and hopefully the visitors, in my park career. It is the cumulative impact of these moments of which I am most proud; add all of them together and surely, I must have done some good.
Inspired to support America’s public lands? Here are five ways you can help.