Hope

    This year on the cusp of May, I decided to spend a glorious day off visiting the Old Faithful area believing that, at this early date, I could enjoy the space without all of the crowds. 45 minutes into my 1.5 hour drive, having made it only 18 miles, I realized that summer visitation had already arrived, and that traffic was going to make my day much more about driving than seeing majestic features. I promptly chose a familiar trail, got out my day pack, and left my geyser-viewing dreams (and the crowds) behind. Hiking brought time to think and I kept hearing a question people continue to repeat: are we loving these places to death?

    For me, simplistic answers to this question don't exist. There are whole communities of people whose voices and presence are lacking outside. How can we cry “too many,” when many don’t even feel welcomed? The protection and preservation of our public lands and wild spaces, in a democracy like our own, relies on the will of the people.

We must connect to the people: the poor, the rich, the tech-dependent, the every color and every culture. We must continue to awaken, inspire, and embolden others to participate in the natural world.We must think creatively and adjust our expectations to help find a new/old path. I believe the current combination of pressures is a call for assessment, reinvention, and change. We have to reimagine what the outdoors “should” be and to preserve lands with the people rather than protect it from them. We are the land. 

Instead seeing our last remaining wild places fortressed off and heavily guarded, we can ask for inventive help, invite other perspectives, and create a culture of nurturing our Earth. When we manage these places from a system-wide or even global perspective, the largess of the task forces us to welcome help. 

Admit our wrongs. Work with our mistakes.

Openness and honesty will go a long way in creating relationships with land users the world over. When we unite the voices of the millions, if not billions, who desire to protect the land, air, and waters which sustain life, we can realize a promise for those future generations who we preserve these spaces for.

Who am I?

  There are those that prefer communicating beside a campfire, are comforted by the sounds of wildlife outside their tent as they fall asleep, find purpose and meaning in hiking until their feet or knees get weak. They prefer natured over cultured and hold that the most beautiful things are wild. Many of those people will do anything to spend their days outside. 

These are my people. This krewe consists of artists and observers, scientists and explorers, activists and athletes, park rangers and educators, elders, and babies. 

My community recognizes the irony in systems that promise a rich future while mindlessly consuming in the present. This community is called on to support others in celebrating their own power to protect the natural world.

  I have had the honor of becoming a civil servant, entrusted by the public to care for communal lands that contain large, intact and complex ecosystems. My community extends far beyond the uniform or any title and many other park rangers would not feel comfortable in my clan of radical, earth worshippers. My community is more than one job or even one purpose. I feel connected to those who attempt to live with intention, to tread as lightly as possible while learning from the earth. Each separate identity and calling benefits this community.

  For me this passion and wonder began on camping trips with family, summers at summer camp, working as an outdoor educator: time spent outdoors. I began to form a relationship with the earth, finding a wealth of knowledge and wisdom in simply observing and participating in the natural world. As an adult, I moved outside of my native Louisiana and found that there were others who felt these connections with her too. I found a community that was working to preserve land, but which transformed me. 

Like a block party for a mountain lion...

The definition of wildness actualized. Your stealth, your careful movement, the way your muscles ripple under the tawny coat, you are beautiful.

We watched you move like a shadow across the mountain. Our faces lit up, cheeks and noses red from the cold, smiles wide, we are in awe of you. The community is gathered in celebration and reverence and for a chance to be in your presence.

We take something away from these moments with wild places, wild creatures. Why else would we travel so far, stand in the cold, hike until our knees need replacing? We need it. Some of us can't get enough.
From afar and from up close our ability to connect with nature reminds us of who we are: mammals, predators, prey, coverers of great distances, observant, communal.


Using words is a futile exercise when I attempt to express my experiences here. The artistry of Yellowstone is often like living in a performance piece.
Life is art.
Donning that iconic hat.
Lining up that spotting scope.
Smelling that familiar sulfurous fragrance.
Hearing their howls blow towards me on the wind.
Placing my hand where bear's paw has been.
Living in awe.

I get to be you.

Dear Park,
I get to be you. Did you know that? Its seems impossible but somehow, I get to be geysers and grizzly bears and wildness and camping. I get to be cutthroat trout and steamy West Thumb kayak trips and their first inkling of how remarkable you are. I get to tell your story every day and yet I can't really explain what it means.
It means the gut-punch of gladness that comes when a seventeen year old with special needs squeals in excitement just to see a picture of Old Faithful on a video screen. It means a heart-melting connection was made when little ten year olds from England say they can't wait to grow up so they can come visit you. It means that I can create, I can educate, I can inspire. There is really nothing else.
Even from afar, the magic is palpable. Even from across an ocean, your lure is unmistakeable...and I get to soak it all in. I get to see their faces and hear their voices rise higher with excitement. Occasionally, I even get to receive their hugs and high-praise.
I have a feeling I might one day be asked if it was worth it and I will be humbled and honored to get to say, "yes".
Love Always, Me

Home is where you find it.

What a year it has been, my friends. Damn.

Looking through my hiking journal recently my face began to hurt with smiles at all of the crazily fun adventures I have had this year already. The winter was a blur of desert hikes, time in SPACE, prehistoric artwork, fossilized treasures, and achingly heart-felt friendship. I think it totals well over 300 miles of absolutely breathless beauty- peregrine falcons, cliff faces, narrow canyons, Great Horned Owls and love. I certainly lost myself to Big Bend but what a fantastic place to find yourself again. 

Leaving brought a soul-restoring roadtrip through the Gila and the Santa Fe. Even a few coffee shop connections have been life-altering. I  may have left a bit of my heart in Silver City and that is ok. I was nervous about striking out alone but it was empowering. 

Yellowstone brought more, more, more...endless adventure, new and old friendships making life worth living, the job, the hikes, the wildlife, and everyday something new.  It's not easy to explain the feeling of watching wild elk give birth, getting your bear spray out because your gut tells you to, listening to wolves howl while feasting on a carcass, seeing a geyser erupt that hasn't been active in years, and becoming deeply involved with a place that is quite unknowable. It is such an immense honor to be asked to take care of these places, to know them as much as possible, to record your observations. We rangers get to be part of these places for people- we hold space for the people's experiences and we listen and we acknowledge and appreciate them and in turn, we communicate and inspire them to hold space for the park with their taxes, and voting, and advocacy. It's an interesting exchange. 

Hiking this summer was the only thing. I didn't fish, I read very few books, I had limited internet and of course, no TV. I hiked. I played kickball. I ran and ran and ran. I sat at campfires. I played lawn games. I polar plunged in the lake. I was the big sister, the grandma, the recipient and teller of great stories. I had hours of phone convos with one of my soul sisters. I made family dinners. I studied field guides. I went to the geyser basin at night. And we hiked. Waterfalls, ink pots, pregnant pronghorn, thimble berries, canyons, moose, windswept beaches, back-country lakes, and lots of neat animal scat were feasted upon by our senses. We sweated, we blistered, we laughed and it was a hell of a good time. That was my entire summer.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. 

You're probably pretty awesome too.

Sometimes people can surprise you. Often we get so bogged down by the things we think are happening. Or by what is really happening and is so powerfully negative so we see it everywhere but it's actually happening in such small doses. Being out here in this madhouse of humanity,  I get to interact with people from all over the world and much of it is unfiltered. I do see people out of their element and thus uncomfortable and gruff but more often than not I see them tender and good.
Today I really saw people because I looked. Today I looked because people surprised me. Giving programs today meant quality time with two very different families and five heart-achingly enthusiastic, wonder-filled children. When I return to life with "news" I am  always reminded how "polarized" we are in this country. The Christians judge the gays, the liberals the conservatives, the this disapproves of the that. What I SEE instead is that people are usually pretty kind and tolerant of others. Three children with parents who identify loudly as conservative Christians can sit hand in hand with little boys with both a momma and a mommy. The kids can fawn over the bear pelts while their very "different" parents smile knowingly at each other over the five little heads. The adults can allow their children to experience people that they may in ideology "disapprove of" but in reality they treat with admiration and understanding. I see beauty and love and peace. Today I saw inept teens flirt shamelessly and awkwardly with others no matter their skin color or skin condition or language barriers. I saw people helping strangers discover a new bird or just what exactly "the ranger called that crazy yellow flower". I see people being pretty damn cool to the cross-country cyclists, the people who are lost, the really slow-talking grandpa... Sure, there are times when someone stands out and the crowd looks at them...maybe the little boy with the long hair and pink sparky shirt, or the backpacker with the dreads and the messy gear warming herself by the fire or the family with a beautiful diversity of skin tones walking down the boardwalk and I see the stares, I see the questioning but I also see the attempting to understand someone who isn't like the people they know. I see the gaining of life experiences at eight and eighty.

Of course there is evil and pain and suffering and complete aholes even in this wild place... I am not diminishing those experiences. I get yelled at and walked out on and I get pissed off at people often in this job. I also realize I often get to see people at their best (or at least on their time off) but I get to see regular people who are in an extraordinary place. Without our walls of the known, we are more open and more patient with each other. These places are wonderlands of wildness and natural beauty but they also have become places of human diversity and interaction. It's brilliant!

Holy cats, I know I sound like a kool-aid drinkin' fool right now but good glory does life make you smile until your face hurts sometimes. All it takes is five loving little kids, ten sweaty little hands, and a whole bunch of cool animal parts to make your day so much better.

Just hear this and then I'll go...

So, this is the crux. This is the undeniable hard part. This is goodbye.
Seasonal life is so fluid and real and all of the beautiful things and then it's time to say goodbye to a place. Everyday for the next seven days I have to soak in the scenery and feast with my eyes on the faces that are here. My ears have to be so, so sensitive to the voices of loved ones, of birds, of quiet so I can keep them with me.
How is it that I can leave the desert with so many hikes left undone or leave a new friendship with so many little silly questions left to ask? What do I even say about the fact I really have no guaranteed return ticket? Do we ever? It's just really hard.

Your job, if you choose to accept it:
Move to an absolutely gorgeous place and immerse yourself in the ecology, the culture, the history, the river, the mountains, the desert, the wind, the community.
Picture yourself here. BE PRESENT. Enjoy it.
Learn about it as much as possible, teach others about it. Share your joys and inspiration with them.
Don't OWN this place too much but just enough to give it your heart a bit so you care enough to protect it.
Make a little community, surround yourself with love and friendship because these people are just like SO MANY others on the planet, they are wise and wonderful and you are lucky to know them.
Make incredible memories with your people, and take lots of physical and mental photos.
Treasure it all.
Remember how lucky you are. Help others remember how lucky WE ALL are.
Be proud of yourself, you have succeeded here. People love you, you love them. You fit here.
OK, now leave. Fly off, little migrant bird, and do it all again in another place with other people and MAKE IT COUNT.  This is your story.

Constantly seeking the joy, even when its sure to bang up my heart. Yours, A.