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.

realism

Working (and sweating) on my yoga mat this evening I could hear the storm outside beginning to build. Far away rumbles turned into drama and action and rain. There is little on this planet as deeply desired and cherished as a desert rain. It had been at least 4 months. Finding myself in an ever so painfully slow chaturanga on the moment of cloud burst, I happily leaped from the calm green of my mat out into the crash-bang of the storm. It was good to dance, bare feet slapping, face greeting pelting raindrops, my nose inhaling the rich fragrance of smoky, earthy wetness. It was a religious experience.

How do we find ourselves in these incredibly mysterious spaces? Is it our mind that muddles a reality that is so painfully simplistic we create these hidden places and meanings? Is the world so infinitely complex that the reality of every single experience IS actually that mysterious, that awe-inspiring that we cannot even begin to explain it to ourselves? Spending as much time in nature as I am so achingly blessed to do I am beginning to understand those idealistic crazies - the "mad ones" as Kerouac would say. The "good ones" as we said today. I am really finding it hard to imagine any other life being considered "reality" than the one found outside. Those feelings started long ago but this life is living in every sense of the word. After the storm, I headed up to Sotol Vista to get a glimpse of the sunset and hear the water churning through the arroyos on its way to the river. Surprisingly, I was instead greeted with a magnificent light show as another huge storm rolled across the Caballo Muerto and Chisos ranges. Being alone up there looking out into Mexico and back into the majestic face of another thundercloud, there was no other thing. Nature is both deeply complex and shockingly black and white- the floodwaters give life and yet wipe anything in the path away. It is everything.
Don't get me wrong,  I am not out here pulling a Muir yet. Far from it. The joys of creature comforts are many. I love the company of other people more than anything else in the world (depending on the company), my heart races in the presence of beautiful art and music, my face burns at the word sunshine, a warm shower and a soft bed are heaven but I just can't fathom a life spent with so much control. Living feels best and worst at the whim of nature - being in flux, in change, and immersing yourself up to the neck in the wild flow is becoming a non-negotiable for me. Living feels a lot like letting go... like dancing in the rain on a quiet Tuesday evening.

Wintertime and the Livin is easy

Sooooo, back after a long bout of silence but promises, promises I'll be back in the saddle again. I spent the winter in West TX at a new favorite National Park. The dry desert heat and cool mountain mornings make it an unforgettable place. The drought, the heat, the death, the flowers, the river, the wildlife all coexist in a way that just is. The park itself is impossible to know in its entirety, like another person, but by the end of our season we had enjoyed some of its character immensely. The community of rangers and staff made the experience easy and welcoming and I really loved it there.
In mid-April I migrated northward with the instinctual hope that I would return.

Proud

This week I have been reflecting on the National Park idea and how truly spectacular it all is.  Everytime I get close enough to a town to hear the radio, I hear a lot about the political scene heating up and I am just so glad that something this unifying exists. I am trying to remember and share with visitors how much this park truly belongs to them/us. It doesn't matter what kind of American you are. These places are yours. We do have lots of rules and guidelines but they are truly good and have been an idea, if not actualized, since the beginning. There is even a call to preserve the park for future persons, those that don't even exist right now. And this grand idea is actually being realized and practiced daily. Sure, it isn't perfect but we are actually safe guarding something alturistic, beautiful, and good. There are laws that limit pillaging and hypocrisy.  It's shockingly fabulous!

Lazy Sunday (Monday)

There is a certain beauty to free wifi, Jackson Lake Lodge, a view of the Tetons through the huge picture window, and a Snake River Lager. Hanging (100 yards away) with a little male yearling grizz on the way here made it even better.

I am enjoying the quiet of the house and location and are so glad to be here. Last week I checked out  two hikes that leave from our back yard; one of the hikes lead to a gorgeous waterfall. We laughed as we post-holed through the snow drifts and many times wound up with snow in our boots. On both hikes we saw lots of animal signs and scat (bison! moose! bear! wolf!). We have a few boar grizzlies that hang out near our abode and we like walking down to the river to see them in the evenings (packing bear spray, of course).   Other exciting sightings (from friends) in the area include moose and wolves but so far we haven't seen any so far.
Work life is wonderful, tomorrow I will give my first program which is on day hiking in bear country. I'll be giving 8 programs in total and love being able to choose what I want to study and teach.  It's been nice having this new job and new experiences. I had a great time during our 3 weeks of training and met some incredible people from all over the country. The hubs is loving it too- already having wild experiences including lots of snow and wind to make the roads especially fun for visitors. His birthday is at the end of the week and we'll celebrate with a nice dinner out (a luxury for sure) as we both requested to get off early.
We are forever seeking the joy of being alive. 

What a ride

I am officially here and honestly, it feels like home. The past few days have been full of smiles and warm greetings and stories, many stories. Our over-wintering friends are pulling themselves out of their winter dens (bears and humans) and embracing the spring that is arriving rather quickly. Although, for the humans at least, having all these people around again must take some getting used to. Their exuberance for our tales of adventures back East is refreshing and really kind. Yes, there is a lot of warmth in being back here even if the snow is still hip-high in places.

Training is underway and I have really enjoyed it. My time deep in the interior meeting new friends and seeing elk, marten, grizzlies, and water fowl at the lake has been wonderful. Two more weeks of training follow for me and yes, I'll enjoy my four days of "in town" training. I'll admit to dreaming of draft beers already. I am most excited for the day when we meet with some of the best resource experts in the country and learn all about the wildlife in depth. The training has been incredible so far and really has been stretching me.

My response from a piece of training asking why the park is relevant to me:

I find relevance in the wildness of this place. Wilderness here is the unique opportunity to be a part of an ecosystem, a participant, in a very real way. To see wild things and sleep in wild places creates something new inside of us. There is a certainty of your being in possession of the qualities of LIFE when you are here. There is no holding space or keeping time you must certainly be alive. The park not only encourages alertness, awe, excitement, humility it REQUIRES it. Reverence and respect are a given.

And the countdown begins

21 days... My life is full of lists right now- mental and physical lists of all I need to do, what I need to pack, where I need to find it, and what I want to experience when I am there. THERE. The word of those who move, who travel, who explore. The journey is important (some say it's everything) but for me, after three years, the physicality of being THERE feels pretty special too. 

I picture the house with the horses corralled behind it and although I've never been inside, I can already imagine being there. I always picture it in full summer sun but realize the reality will most likely be snowy and gray for a bit as May in Wyoming's northern corner usually is. Leaving 70 degree days of summer-so-close-you-can-taste-it (with wild edible hunting, gardens growing, baby animals maturing, and sun shining) for a little piece of heaven with spring still on the way. The spectacle of reawakening is just beginning when I arrive each year... I travel back in time and relive it again. That is worth it.


For now, it's counting down days of work left (less than 12 for me) and trying to remember where exactly the stove fuel is. Or taking out my brand new hiking boots for small hikes in order to prevent blistering and to attempt a gradual breaking in. I savor every East Coast draft straight from the brewery, every wild-picked morel mushroom, every taste of local honey, every sushi date and bluegrass music event, every smiling face of the loved ones I have at home. I think of places we just have to try or to hike once more before we head OUT WEST. I am a migrator whose wings are itching and head is filled with the opportunities that await me. What program will I give first? Which favorite hike will I do first? How many bears will I see that first month (I saw at least 12 bears last May)?
I am ready to find out...