Dedicated to:

My Family, for their love.

National Park Rangers, for continuing to believe in the dream.

Mother Africa, for forming me into what I am.

Foreword

Only those who have long since passed the halfway point can fully appreciate how ephemeral is our time in this life. Diana and I started our lives together at El Morro National Monument in 1967. Here in 1605 Don Juan de Ona᷃te scrawled graffiti that started with "Pasò por Aquí" ─ "passed by here". This seems an appropriate description for memoirs.

"These are experiences that few are lucky enough to have. I will re-live them someday, as an old man, sitting in front of a roaring fire, on a cold day, at the ranch. I can hear it now as I start a story, "Let me tell you about....". Listeners will simply think it is the imaginings of an old man, but I will know that “once upon a time” this all really happened."

From: "March 1994, Cold and Sled Dogs", Epistle by Paul D. Guraedy

The first thing that a reader should realize is ─ Yes this is my memoirs; but, it is not the story of me alone. Almost two-thirds of my life has been a team effort with Diana Lolet Smith, my wife, a former park naturalist, she knew what life would be like married to a park ranger. She was; however, not prepared for marriage to a Cajun. As a young girl she told her Mom, "Someday I'm going to marry a southern gentleman who has a house with columns out front." She says, "I got part of my wish. I ended up marrying a Cajun with columns under the house." A few years ago she summed things up, "My journey with this Coonass has been, aggravating, irritating, frustrating, innervating, rewarding; but, it has never been boring.

Since our wedding in 1967 she has been wife, mother, lover, confidant, supporter, and cheerleader. She made the house at each assignment a home. She allowed me to attain the successful career that I had. This is as much the story of Diana L. Guraedy; as it is Paul D. Guraedy.

I have always thoroughly enjoyed relating stories orally. No written version can completely express, gestures, noises, facial expression and body language. This is probably a holdover from early childhood in Louisiana before air-conditioning. The only relief from the pervasive summer heat was for neighbors to gather on the lawn for an evening of conversation. It was a time of truly getting to know the folks around you as everyone related their day's activities, cementing friendships with the mortar of familiarity. The night's dark shadows concealed ─ who knew what. It was time for the men to provide entertainment by scaring hell out of the kids. Mothers were not to be left behind; but bided their time. It was the next day when we young 'uns heard, "If you keep that up, old raw guts and bloody bones is gonna come get you tonight". The threat worked a little bit that day, worked a lot that evening. As I got older, I wondered what happened to them that got ─ got. Did my disappearing friends really move away? These are only very pleasant memories today as I become the story teller.

The beginnings of this autobiography started a long time ago. In phone calls back home, I started relating some of the "interesting" things that were taking place. Soon I heard the cry, "Put these in writing." My first attempt in satisfying my family ─ actually in getting them to shut up ─ were "Notes from North Pole." The reading list expanded to include friends along with the relatives. I remembered what my Dad once said, "Christianity would be a lot better off if Paul had not run all over the countryside writing those letters." I thought this appropriate for this Paul's writings and continued my notes, now dubbed Epistles From Paul into retirement. I will not duplicate this material. They will be included at the end of this current writing.

After retirement, I started entertaining guests here in Whooping Hollow Woods by telling stories of things that had happened prior to my assignment in Alaska. Things that have never been written.

With increasing frequency I began hearing, "You have to write these down also". Sunnie, Diana and Bob Squarebriggs ─ my woodcarving friend from Canada ─ were the most vocal. At first, I just did not want to be bothered. Then came the argument, "You need to do it for your children and grand-children." I was unsure of how I would go about this. Initially I thought I would knock this out in a few pages and be done with it. So I just started jotting mnemonics of stories that should be included. This quickly ran to several pages and I realized that it was not going to be a short task. Worse still I had informed Diana, Sunnie and Squarebriggs that I was abiding by their command and was underway.

Random parks, random stories. I soon had about 30 pages and sent the draft to one of my proofreaders. Before really starting to help with punctuation, Diana started saying, "What about.....?" I went back and included, "What about...." and another, and another. "Damn there is a lot of stuff to write about."

My adult life was spent as a Park Ranger. The easiest way for me to proceed seemed to be by park assignments. I listed each park and started writing about a few incidents in each. This led me to the title, "Three Decades Under the Smokey Bear Hat". I soon realized that there needed to be an explanation of how I became a park ranger and added Chapter 1.

Acknowledgements

In my reading, I always go to the "Thank You" acknowledgements. It not only recognizes assistance; but, also provides additional interesting information. I never really considered the fact that the author may not just be being nice. Until I ventured into this writing, I had not considered the appreciation of a writer for the incredible value of proofreaders.

Reliance on my proofreaders has allowed me to concentrate on the story rather than the necessaries such as verb tense, punctuation and, yes, even spelling. Spelling was probably especially challenging, as I write the stories as if I was giving them orally. This means using some interesting spellings to try and get near the colloquial English.

Diana has been invaluable in trying to rephrase Cajun oral rendition into understandable prose. Most of my stories depend on body language and verbal emphasis; so an attempt has to be made to convey this to print. Diana says, "Forget the gag, if you want to silence a "Coonass"; just tie his hands."

As you wander through my writings ─ please remember that stories are best related verbally. I write them as I would tell them. That is what is responsible for strange spelling and sentence structure. I use ─ to indicate a definite pause (dramatic type). So I ask you readers to provide emphasis, gestures, sounds and facial expressions as you peruse these writings. Boy, I wish I could have used this on my English teacher!

Long ago I realized the value of an editor. Luckily one was always at hand. Diana graduated with majors in both Botany and English. Diana was perfect as my "clean up" ghost writer. I soon got used to her exclaiming, "You can't say that!", prior to "cleaning up the language a bit." She also became frustrated at times trying to make sense of the Cajun tendency for run on sentences, "I think you just throw a comma or period in there now and then to show that you know they exist."

When I undertook this autobiography, we soon realized that in our 47 years of marriage, Diana had learned to understand "Coonass"! She could "read in" the missing data. She is also so familiar with life in the National Park Service that things made sense to her that did not to my other proofreaders.

My other proofreader's real name is Kini; although she was given the name Jane Herrick at birth. Kini was aware that I was writing an autobiography that was really a relating of some of the more interesting incidents that occurred during my Park Service career. I sent her and Ila Kay Guraedy an excerpt that was still in 1st draft form. Right away she realized that someone needed to translate "Park Service" into plain English. She volunteered. I accepted.

Then I dropped the other shoe. I was only going to cover parks up to where I started writing epistles. I intended to simply attach the epistles to the end of this writing. They needed proofreading also. They were written as letters back home talking about Alaska living. If they didn't make sense; well, crap, the reader could just email for additional information. Obviously, this would not work in this document.

My frien's, it is impossible to overstate my debt to these two ghost writers. Their names should accompany mine as author.

.

Growing Up: Journey to Becoming a Park Ranger

How does one become a park ranger?

First, it is necessary to relate some background information to fully comprehend the "interesting incidents" that will be related a little further on. Then again ─ maybe, it's not necessary. Feel free to skip forward.

My journey to achieve this ambition is almost a fairy tale. Basically, I was in the right place; at the right time; with the right background.

My pre-teen years were spent in a housing project called Forest Glen, located near Pineville, Louisiana. Sound ominous? Absolutely not!

These two story, barrack-like buildings with four apartments in each of the three entrances. Two were upstairs and two downstairs. The only requirement for living here was that the families must have children living at home. Four buildings, sixteen apartments and beaucoup kids ─ on our street alone. Over twenty of these buildings in the project.

Forest Glen was bordered on the North by an Insane Asylum, on the South by the Red River and two lakes, and on the east and west by woods and bayous. Plenty of playmates, plenty of water and forests, an incredible place for growing up. I believe this started my love of wilderness and an almost abhorrence of urban areas.

I attended Menard Memorial High School. ─ Roman Catholic, military institution. Not by choice. I was on the verge of being "kicked out" of Pineville High School. Teachers considered me a troublemaker. My view was, "They expect little from me, why shouldn't I take the easy road and do what I want?" Early on I earned the sobriquet, "Ragin' Cajun" and it followed me throughout my life. A Superintendent who followed me once advised the staff, "You will find that they have gone to the opposite in replacing the volatile Paul Guraedy!"

My Father was not satisfied allowing me to cruise through life on my own terms. He had heard of the work that the Brothers of the Sacred Heart were doing at Menard High School. When Dad went in to enroll me, the principal Brother Julius had only one question, "Is he mentally capable?"

Dad answered, "He is. It's just that the Public Schools could not control him."

"That's fine then. You know that we are also a boarding school. If he does not perform up to our expectations, we will telephone you with the news that he would be living here for the time being. You would, of course, have to accept responsibility for the financial charges."

Discipline was immediate, harsh; but, fair. Only once was my friend, Pete Morace, and I punished for something for which we were innocent. Brother Marion was meting out the punishment. He listened to our protestations of innocence. After which he delivered both punishment and wisdom. "I don't know if you boys are really innocent as you claim or not. But, if you are, chalk this one up to one of the times you were guilty and did not get caught." Damn! It would be ridiculous for us not to acknowledge the truth of this statement.

I adapted well to the discipline of the brothers and all aspects of the military, eventually attaining the rank of Cadet/Captain in command of a squadron of three flights. Although I dated during these teen years; I never had a serious girlfriend. Perhaps it was attending an all boys high school. More than likely it was the demands placed upon my time by involvement in competitive activities (sports, rifle and pistol team, close order drill team, search and rescue team). Outside of school, I spent as much time as possible hunting, fishing and swimming.

Planning for the future; however, was not my strong suit. Graduation was approaching and I thought, given my background in the Civil Air Patrol and my enjoyment of the military , I would join up. Then a friend needed a roommate at College. Might as well give it a shot. Not being sure of my actually graduating, I joined the Marine Reserves as a backup plan. My pursuit of higher education was an anomalous time.

In 1962, I graduated from Louisiana College with a major in history and minor (no major available at undergrad level) in library science.

The Work World

My Aunt saw an advertisement, in the Monroe newspaper, for a librarian wanted. I applied and became a librarian at Ouachita Parish Public Library. I quickly realized two things ─ as are all of the women dominated careers, the pay was not worth a damn ─ and that a male with a Masters Degree in Library Science was a very sought after commodity.

I worked the reference, business, periodicals, young adult, and bookmobile sections of the library. The Head Librarian at Louisiana College and my boss (Chief Librarian) at the parish library convinced me to seek out the masters degree. They wrote letters and were paving the way for my future in this field. I did really enjoy the work and would have been OK with continuing my life as a librarian.

But, I was tired of working at this pay level. One of the ladies working in the library knew the Civil Service employee who administered exams for federal jobs. I decided to give it a try. A couple of months of testing and no results. Then early one morning ─ very early, about 1:00a.m. ─ my friend the CSC (Civil Service Commission) tester joined the fun I was having at a local bar. He said, "Look I am giving the Peace Corps test in the morning, you should take it."

United States Peace Corps

I told him, "My object is to get a job with decent pay. Last I heard that did not apply to the Peace Corps. Besides I did not put in for this test."

He said, "It is a thorough test and will help develop your testing skills. There are always some no shows and I can just insert you in one of those slots."

He was serious. "OK, look if I wake up in time and if am sober enough to make it into town; I will take the damn thing." I returned to enjoyment and imbibing. Right place, Right time ─ we will ignore right background!

The next morning ─ I woke up early enough and sober enough to journey in for the test. I do admit that I was not functioning anywhere near my usual level. The test was difficult. I suspect I may have performed well, since I was not taking it seriously and did not feel any stress.

Three weeks later I received a thick envelope of forms and a letter saying, "The Peace Corps is in need of your skills to served in Nyasaland. Sign on the dotted lines, use the ticket requisition and be in New York City in four weeks."

"Where in hell was Nyasaland?" As a librarian, I had access to resources. "East Africa! Did I want to go to Africa? Hell yes!"

A month later I was on a flight to New York City for a week of Orientation to the Peace Corps. Then I was sent to an Camp Radley in the rain forest of Puerto Rico. This was an "Outward Bound" camp, which was all the rage back in the 1960s. Participants were put through a regimen that supposedly taught a person that they were capable of a lot more than they thought. We spent a month, hiking, rock climbing, rappelling, running and swimming. The only place that had objectives for everyone was swimming. It was an Olympic size pool and to pass this part. First we had to swim down and back twice with our feet tied. Second down and back with our hands tied behind our backs. Third down and back with our hands and feet tied. Finally, the fourth and toughest test of all, We had to swim down and back under water. They had the psychology of stress down so well that before one of us dove in, for safety only one person at a time in the water, that the instructor would walk along the edge of the pool, stop and tell us this is the location of the first stress point. He went down and back delineating the location of all of the "stress points". As each person made the attempt, few made it on the first try, we would all walk along observing. Each stress point was obvious as the swimmer would suddenly lose coordination for two or three strokes, smoothing out until the next stress point. It took immense will power to stroke through these "points", the desire to head for the surface was incredible, "It is impossible to continue" I thought as I made my swim. A couple of frantic strokes and, "Damn! This can't be!"; but, calmness returned and I continued to swim.

Just as we were actually reaching the point of enjoying the activity; the month was over. The Peace Corps hauled us up to Syracuse University for two months of intense training on Malawi and the "culture shock" of being immersed in a society vastly different to your own.

The part I never really understood was the psychological games. I guess it was another form of teaching stress control. We were constantly under the threat of being "deslected" for one reason or another. My roommate was a really nice guy from Tennessee. He was doing well in everything. One day we ate lunch together and went to separate classes. When I got to the apartment that evening, all of his possessions were gone. People that were deselected were called aside during the day, returned to the apartments to gather their stuff and taken to a motel at the airport. Later I learned that my roommate had been deselected because he was a "humpback" and they were afraid the African students may not accept him. This made me furious ─ until I taught at Malosa a while. The students were very superstitious and I know he would have not been able to relate to them. My students were convinced that I would not make it out of Africa alive. I enjoyed keeping chameleons for pets. The Africans believed that because of their independent eyes they carried death with them.

I was in a class on Soviet Activities in Africa, when an Instructor interrupted the class to announce, "President Kennedy has just been shot." Almost immediately a second Instructor told us, "President Kennedy is dead."

The impact on Volunteers cannot be over emphasized. We had taken Kennedy's challenge, "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country." as out credo. It didn't matter to us that we were referred to derisively at the Kennedy Kiddie Korps. We believed. We could make a difference in developing nations. We were idealists. In the words of a Statler Brothers song, "We were convinced we could change the world with our great works and deeds."

All changed one cold November afternoon. We were devastated. Our founder, our inspiration, our great leader was gone! We watched his funeral as it honored a fallen hero. Years later I read and admonition concerning a populist rebel by his enemy, "Do not kill him. In life he is a leader. In death he will become a saint." This happened to Peace Corps Volunteers. How better could we honor our founder than to follow his command? We answered the challenge.

We were allowed a short trip home for Christmas, before returning to Syracuse for a few days, then a plane to Rome (a day allowed for exploring) and on to a week of exploring around Nairobi, Kenya. A trip out onto the Serengeti was storey book Africa. It was January (wet season) and huge herds of Zebra, Wildebeast, and Antelope grazed while carefully on the lookout for lions (the ones we saw were all sleeping).

I was fortunate to have been in Africa when it was little changed from the way things were in the 19th century. The single word that comes to mind is isolated. The few roads were still dirt. A trip to town was an all day adventure. Mail was so slow and expensive that correspondence was on flimsy paper that could be folded over upon itself and morphed into its own envelope. Even then, air mail took over a week to reach us from the States. The next word to come to mind is "Fantastic".

Another Returned Peace Corps Volunteer once asked me about a return visit. I said, "Absolutely not! The two years I spent in Africa was Camelot. The bad has long since been forgotten. Only the good times survive. Why would I want to spoil a dream?"

I loved Africa. When everything was going to hell and things got really frustrating, we would say "Mother Africa wins again!". I have always held the term "born again" in derision. But, it happened to me. Mother Africa did not send home the Paul Guraedy that she had received. She removed the filter of acceptance from my eyes and forced me to see reality. The family was not pleased with the improved version. One member told Diana, "Africa ruined Paul. He has not been the same since he went over there." Totally true ─ except the ruined part. My life should always be divided into "Before Africa and After Africa". Mother Africa made the difference.

Finally I arrived in Nyasaland which would be my home for the next two years. Nyasaland was renamed Malawi when it gained independence six months after my arrival.

Malawi is located along the western edge of the Great Rift Valley. The country is about 500 miles north/south and 50 miles east/west on average. Most of the country is mountainous and lies along the western and southern shores of Lake Malawi. The southernmost of the three huge lakes of East Africa (Victoria, Tanganyika, Malawi) the lake separates Malawi from Tanzania.

When I was assigned to Malosa Secondary School, I was told, "Your school is somewhere north of Zomba (then the capital), south of the ferry across the Shire River, the driver claims he knows where it is. Good Luck!" I expected to arrive in the middle of nowhere. In fact, the area is on the slope of Malosa Mountain and in the middle of a forest. But the boarding school is part of the Episcopal headquarters for Malawi. It adjoins a small African village, lay training center, leper colony, and doctor's office (mud hut).

It was extremely easy to slip into the daily life of teaching at Malosa, where the students were eager to learn. As well they should be, graduation from Secondary School meant having a future or returning to subsistence farming. There was very little in between. We paid ₤30 and 6S (about $17) for a cook, houseboy, gardener and wood boy each month. This was not evenly divided, the lion's share went to the cook with descending unequal shares down to the wood boy. The average per capita income (all classes European, Asian, African was $32 per year. The majority of Africans never saw currency, existing on subsistence and bartering. Although our Volunteer stipend of about ₤70 per month did not allow an ostentatious life style, it provided food and drink (beer/wine). It encouraged me to frequent the African market where bananas were 4 for a "tiki" (3 pence) ─ until inflation set in and raised the price to 3 per 3d.

The headmaster sent me to Zomba to "fetch" the newly arrived Peace Corps Volunteers. On the way home, I decided that a trip to the African market would educational. I found out later, being the only "Whites" among hundreds of Africans is a bit overwhelming to recent arrivals. Especially when your driver appears to be vociferously arguing with a fairly young vendor.

The young lady was informing me of the banana price increase. I, on the other hand, was convinced that this was a bargaining ploy. I informed her that I was a teacher and she should learn to count. She informed me that she was a student at Zomba Secondary, knew how to count and was not going to be intimidated into giving her Mother's bananas away. She may have also said something about having better teachers than those at Malosa. Momma said something in rapid fire Chinyanga. I thought, "Uh Oh! Things might be escalating too far."

The young lady started laughing, "Mother says that she has seen you at the market many times and that is a good thing. Give you 4 bananas this time."

It's the bargaining that counts. I told her to tell her Mother, "You are a hard bargainer. But, it is lunchtime and I am hungry. How about, I take 3 bananas and a handful of roasted groundnuts for 4d." Momma started laughing and nodding. We both knew that this was the going price for both of these items.

The young girl was amused when she picked up a handful of groundnuts and I said, "No! No! Your Mother has bigger hands. I want her to give me them to me." Everyone was laughing, until I started eating the groundnuts.

My fellow PVC had a horrified look on his face. "We were told not to eat things that were not cooked."

The English I had been living among had been in Africa many years. I followed their lead and suffered no more than the average person who limited their intake, and I enjoyed a much wider selection of foods.

Teaching was rewarding. But, life was not a bed of roses. There were plenty of thorns. PC Volunteers made up 51% of the teaching staff in Malawi. The second year I was there; 35,000 qualified students were applying for 3,000 vacancies. African mothers begged us to teach their children, who had been left out, in the evenings. It was not possible, we started classes at 8:00a.m. and they lasted until 5:00p.m. We had electricity, via generator, only two hours a day 6:00p.m-8:00p.m. for the student study period and staff had to be available to offer assistance. We bought corn on the black market to keep our house boy's extended family fed through the dry season.

My classes were biology, geography, and health science. Time became an interesting concept. Monday through Friday revolved around teaching. Class started at 8 a.m. and continued until 3 p.m. I was in charge of the sports programs from 3 p.m. until 5 p.m. A short break for supper and then it was time for studies. The school generator was started and we had power for a couple of hours. Grading papers or reading was a chore by candlelight, so we usually went to bed shortly after "lights out". Saturday mornings were dorm cleaning time. Saturday afternoons and Sunday were personal times. Time seemed to slow down with this endless routine.

Breaks in this cycle (holidays, school terms) were markers for the passage of time. Not much to remember about daily life so these memories stayed fresh and seemed recent. Thus time seemed both endless and compressed. Strange, but overall time moved slow and it seemed that I had been there for many years.

I shared a house with an English VSO (Volunteer in Service Overseas ─ British version of the Peace Corps) David Nichols. Screens on windows were unheard of and they were left open to allow any stray breeze to enter. My bedroom had a window on each side, with the bed in front of the back window. White mosquito netting hung from a hook in the ceiling and was tucked under the mattress.

One hot summer night. I was startled awake by the most ear splitting, spine tingling, hair raising screams I had ever heard. Whatever it was it came in the opposite window, went under my bed, and out the back window. It did not occur to me that this demon was gone. All I knew was, get the hell out of here! As I ran, the mosquito netting came loose and draped over me. I bounced off the door and made a lot of noise in an attempt to grab the handle and open the door. Finally, it opened but my pathway down the hall ─ was blocked, ─ by a ghost. The ghost turned and started running away from me and down the hall.

If it wanted out of here, I did too. I followed the ghost. It let out a yell and floated faster. Once outside, and a little time had passed the whole situation became funny. The noise was caused by a neighboring cat invading the territory of the cat we kept around to keep snakes away. In an attempt to get away from the furious resident, the neighbor had taken a path through my bedroom.

The noise of the cats, followed quickly by furious bumping on my door, scared David; who suffered the same consequence of running without removing the mosquito netting. It pulled loose and draped over him. He had just gotten his door open when a damn ghost floated out of my bedroom, and as he ran, it started chasing him! It took a while, outside the house, for reality to sink in and the whole incident to move from terrifying to humorous.

Malawians recycled or used up everything. Nothing went to waste. Toys, lamps, tires

A few months after the "demon in the bedroom" incident, David and I noticed that there were more and more Africans passing along the trail behind our house. Although there was a small village just down the drive from us, the shortest and easiest walking route to Malosa was along the entrance road.

This phenomenon remained a puzzle until we happened to mention it to the doctor.

He explained, "I get my medicine in large containers and the Africans bring their own bottles to receive their prescriptions. I had noticed that the Africans were all bringing Castle Beer bottles to me.

It was a mystery for awhile and then a couple of Jack Daniels bottles showed up. When I questioned the patients they told me that there was no need to save the bottles. Just stop by the Azungu (European) house where there was always a supply". The Doctor told me every patient had at least 3 major health problems. He only treated the current complaint.

David and I noticed that there had been a new trail going past the back of our house and that there was a lot of traffic by Africans headed up the hill. The women from a village just below the school walked through the school yard on their way uphill to an easy access to the Likwenu River (really a small stream). We assumed, that even though the trip was a little more strenuous by the new trail, this was a new route. It finally occurred to us that these folks were not carrying the heavy water jugs on their heads. A check revealed that they were headed up to the clinic. We mentioned this phenomena and that the trip was easier along the road. He said, "Ah, but I dispense medications from a large bottle into ones that they have to supply themselves.

No cannibals, poisonous snakes did not lurk in every bush, lions were not a constant threat. Well ─ most of the time. Not long after I reached Malosa, we received word that lions were scaring villagers out on the Chilwa (pronounced chirwa) plain. A missionary who had been in Africa for half a century was asked to get rid of the lions and invited me along.

Early the next morning, we arrived at the village and started walking along a trail into the bush. The surrounding trees were pretty stunted so I kept track of the larger ones thinking, "I could climb that one, that one could be easily climbed when we encountered the lions". No matter what happened I intended to err on the side of caution and scramble up one, heading for the highest branches. .

The missionary was armed with a double barrel rifle. I thought this a peculiar weapon ─ at first. Suddenly, There were two roaring blasts right beside me. One quickly following the other. I looked up to see two dead lionesses about 25 yards in front of us. "Where in the hell did they come from?" This was my first awareness of the big cats.

Comprehension dawned! Lion hunting without someone who knew what the hell they were doing was not an option. Tree climbing was not an option. Double barrels avoiding the necessity for ejecting and loading was not an option. Still, this had been fun.

Then the missionary, took off his rimless glasses, rubbed them with his shirttail and informed me, "I was not sure I could see well enough to shoot a lion anymore. It's been so many years!."

"Damn! Peace Corps Volunteers were not supposed to be hunting. Although I was not carrying the gun ─ what would have happened if.......? Volunteers have been sent home for a lot less. Best to forget about this incident."

Traveling around Africa, at least on the back roads was fantastic. I carried my passport but only had to worry about visa stamps in Mozambique and, I think, Sothern Rhodesia. The rest of the areas Tanganyika. Zambia, South Africa, we just wandered around as we pleased. Peace Corps volunteers were forbidden to own, or rent, cars or motorcycles. Most Azungu (Chinyanga word for any white person) traveled on main roads; without any real contact with the African population. Volunteers, traveled by hitching rides whenever we could. lorries delivering goods were a sure bet. The people were welcoming. All we had to say, if still in Malawi was, "Mpunzitzi Pa Malosa", which translates as I am a teacher from Malosa. We were welcomed and treated almost as royalty. The problem was it was hard to get away from each village. They wanted us to stay, attend a feast (that they really could not afford) and attend a special dance that evening. Many a time I headed back to Malosa with my pockets full of duck eggs and my belly full of the local beer.

The end of the year brought one of my most memorable Holiday Seasons. A few days before Christmas, I returned from vacation in Moçambique, Rhodesia, Zambia and a side trip into South Africa. I knew that only a few of the missionary staff were at Malosa; but, with little money and no where else to go, I planned on hitching a ride back there. At least there was a bed, food and some wine for Christmas.

I was sitting on the steps of the Peace Corps office in Blantyre finalizing my plan. A friend came up, sat down, and asked, "What are you doing for Christmas?" I laid out my only plan and he replied, "Let's go camp out on the lake."

"I know we can camp free; but, I only have a couple of pounds for food." I replied.

He stated that he had a little more than that; but, not enough to eat in the lodge.

"I am kinda fond of regular meals." I observed.

But, he had a plan, "We have to go up through PEA (Portugese East Africa, also known as Moçambique). We can buy some bread, wine and sausage. That will last us until the Peace Corps meeting and we can head for the lodge."

Sounded a damn site better than my planned alternative. "Let's go!"

Everything went according to plan ─ until we reached the road going out to the lake. We had been slowly walking for hours with no traffic and were thinking about setting up camp, when two land rovers pulled to a stop. They were from the German Embassy, headed to the Lake for the Holidays. It was a tight fit but they managed to squeeze us in. Along the way we explained our plan for camping and living on bread and sausage. They thought we were crazy!

We had been living off of bread, sausage and wine for 3 days on Christmas Eve. The night was beautiful as we sat in front of our tent and watched as moonlight lit up the waves breaking on the shore of Lake Malawi. I have to admit that we were a little melancholy and dreaming of home.

Then we heard A Cappella Christmas carols being sung in German. We turned to see a procession coming from the Lodge. The Germans, who had given us a ride in, had been thinking of us and decided to share their Christmas. The food was lavish, though I admit we did avoid the sausages. It was a Christmas that I will stand out in my memory forever!

U. S. Army and National Park Service

My travels, around Africa, increased my desire to become a Park Ranger. I loved and really intended to stay in Africa. While on vacation in Mozambique, I had met a ranger from the Southern Rhodesia parks. He could help get me a job in one of their parks. Unfortunately, just before my time was up with the Peace Corps; Rhodesia declared unilateral independence from Great Britain. Although there was no animosity, there were no diplomatic relations with the U.S. I had traveled enough now that I was not going anywhere that Uncle Sam could not reach out and gather me in his comforting hands. Head home and try for our parks.

Peace Corps volunteers were in demand in the mid 1960's. This combined with my military high school and Marine Corps Reserve experience landed me a job, as the Public Information Officer for the U.S Army, Recruiting Command covering the northern half of Texas. My interest in Parks had not waned. I learned that I was only obligated for one month before being able to transfer and could apply for other agencies after one year as a Civil Servant. I moved to Dallas and asked for a month's notice to change jobs.

About three quarters of a year later, I called personnel for the Park Service and asked that this be changed to no notice required. The next day ─ Thursday ─ I received a call back and was asked if I had received an employment package from them and an offer of a ranger position.

"No" but, if the job is still open ─ I accept."

"Let me do some checking."

Friday morning the employment officer called back. "We sent the packet to you at your Dallas street address but mistakenly put down Pineville, Louisiana."

I was getting very nervous, "I really want this job."

"I will get back to you shortly." he told me.

About 2:00 in the afternoon he called back. My heart dropped as he said, "This is somewhat of a mess! You are in the Civil Service already. We will have to transfer you to the Albright Training Center at Grand Canyon in time to meet the starting date for the next class."

"OK, that's great," as relief flooded my system.

"You accept the job?"

"Hell yes!"

"Now for the bad part."

"Uh Oh!"

"Don't worry, you got the job. It's just going to piss off your current supervisors."

"Why?"

"This is the last week of a pay period and I assume your lieu days are Sunday and the next Saturday?"

"That's right."

"Well, we will have to transfer you to the NPS payroll as of Sunday."

"OK"

Then he dropped the other shoe. "You will have to tell the U.S. Army that you are only going to be working for them the rest of today. Good Luck! Paperwork is in the mail." and he hung up. I made my way to the Colonel's office and dropped the other shoe. Luckily, no rain was going to fall on this parade. My dream was coming true.

A military school, Marine Reserves, college roommate needed, librarian work, Civil Service Tests, being at the right bar, sober enough to take the Peace Corps test, Army needing a Public Information officer, calling to change notice time, wrong address, transfer to the NPS. Right place, right time, right background ─ the story that made my life.

National Park Ranger: Basic Training

In 1967, new Rangers began at Grand Canyon at the Horace Albright Training Center for three months of basic training. Disguised as an Introduction to Park Management. Having been subjected to Marine Corps mind altering experience disguised as Basic Training ─ well, I would like to say that I realized reality; but like everyone in this class, I was a willing participant. We were taught Ranger skills ─ law enforcement, weapon handling, fire fighting, mountain climbing, search and rescue, history of the National Park Service and public speaking. What started as a desired career turned into a passion and way of life; summarized in the directive given to the National Park Service in the 1916 Organic Act:

"The service thus established shall ... conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and the wild life therein and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations."

The metaphysical guide of National Park Rangers is the final nine words. The resource is everything! Nothing must be allowed to harm it.

The National Park Service was formed in 1916 to take over the parks which were being managed by the U.S. Army. The first time my grandparents came to visit I was at work. When I walked into the house, my grandfather did a classic double-take. "That is the uniform I wore in World War I," he said.

I told him, "the Army gave us more than the parks when we took over."

His favorite uniform item was the "smoky bear" hat ─ what the ranger's referred to as "the flat hat". One of our instructors advised us, "If you are butt naked in the shower and a crises arises that demands your immediate attention; forget everything but the "flat hat". That is your true symbol of authority. Experiments have shown that fully outfitted rangers ─ one with and one without flat hat ─ people listened to the one with the hat."

Diana once told a friend "Paul has a mistress; and, I love her as much as he does." Seeing the shocked look on this Southern Lady's face, she quickly added, " Her name is National Park Service". Over the years Diana has told many people, "When he puts on that uniform, he becomes a different person ─ a Park Ranger."

I can't deny it. I remember the first day we were permitted to wear our uniforms. I had gone to lunch at the Bright Angel Lodge and was headed back to my car. I heard a lady call out, "Hey Ranger!"

I looked around as she hurried over and asked, ...damn if I remember what! I was too busy realizing she was talking to me; and, relishing the feeling of pride at being offered this title for the very first time. It is still a moment I treasure some forty seven years later.

Paralleling my transition into Park Ranger was my morphing into marriage. Diana Smith was one of four women, out of 44 trainees, in the Albright course. We almost did not hook up. Her roommate had planned a birthday party and all of the bachelors were invited. I was trying to get up a group to make a trip to Las Vegas that weekend and was unable to find anyone else interested. So, I attended Diana’s birthday party and, as they say, “The rest is history”!

To put it simply we met in March, dated in April, courted in May and married in June at Grand Canyon. We had intended to marry in the Autumn; but, Diana was placed in a temporary assignment at Grand Canyon and would have been moved somewhere later in the summer. We decided not to wait.

At the time, husbands and wives could not be employed in the same park. Diana resigned and returned to the Ozarks to sew her wedding dress. While there she visited her old family Doctor, telling him that she was getting married. Diana informed him that we did not want children for the first year or so and she had gone for birth control pills just before leaving Grand Canyon. He laughed and said, "Good Luck girl! These things take about 3 months to really become effective. Before then they are more like a fertility drug."

Given our lack of religiousness today, it is difficult to understand why we felt that the ceremony should be performed by a member of the clergy. My best man, Jack Raftery, was tasked with finding one. He called me one evening and advised me that every denomination was either having a conference, or were already booked up on our selected date of June 20th. "However; I will keep looking and put out the word to my friends.

I was beginning to ask myself, "what now?" Then Jack called, "I could not find anyone from any of the local churches. But, one of the Fire Control Rangers says that one of his aids is attending seminary during the off season. He will check and see if it would be all right for him to do the ceremony".

So, my Frien's, Diana and I were wed, in the lounge of D Block of the Albright Training Center apartment buildings, by a Fire Control Aid, named Clarence Jones. Years later we related this story to the boys, saying, "We think we are married. But never checked on it."

David quipped, "You mean that name they are calling me at school may be true!"

Philip started laughing ─ until David continued, "You know this applies to you too!"

Have we ever bothered to check? No we haven't! It does not matter to Diana and I and in today's society ─ who cares?

Twenty years later we visited with one of our Albright classmates, Hank Schoch. As we walked into his office he enthusiastically exclaimed, "I can't believe it! Twenty years!"

Diana advised him, "It does not seem that much time has passed since we last saw one another, but it has been that long."

Hank clarified, "No! That's not it. When you two got married we put a lottery pool together. Everyone entering had to guess how long it would last. We gave the money back that Christmas. Now it's been twenty years!"

"Damn!", I exclaimed. "You should have sent it to us. We could have used it that first year of marriage."

Living with the Park Service

In the mid 1960s, the Park Service was still a very structured organization. It was fairly easy to become a Park Ranger as the salary was low, housing was less than ideal in many locations, promotions required a move to a new park, there was not even a "dream sheet" as the military referred to their wish for potential assignments. Ranger's summed up their commitment with, "We are paid with sunsets!". This was meant to include living and working in the most treasured places in America.

I have mentioned that wives of rangers could not be employed by the National Park Service. In the larger parks wives found employment with concessioners. Life was very different in the smaller isolated areas. Wives were unpaid, unrecognized, unofficial volunteers. Well actually they did receive some recognition, on the Ranger's annual evaluation there was a component rating his family and how they fit into the park environment.

In those years, moving was a major trial for Park Rangers and their families. Promotions in park were unheard of, so transfers were a fact of life. A successful move, according to Park Rangers, was to find yourself in a new location and still married.

We were fortunate that most of the parks came with park houses, with a substantial rental fee of course. So house hunting could be easy but, Park Rangers living and working in the parks claimed that they were paid in sunsets rather than receive a decent wage. Finances put a terrific burden on the family and especially when it came to relocating. The Ranger had to quickly put in for an advance (which would be sent to the new location) and arrange everything for the move. Moving companies would not open the doors of the van at the new location without a certified check or cash in hand. It was a race between the advance and arrival of the moving van. More than once, I had to ask Dad for a check in case the advance was delayed. It never was and I returned the check uncashed. But it was a trial. Children objected to leaving their friends, wives bore the brunt of the preparation for the move and the establishment of a home in a new location. The one legitimate reason for refusing a transfer was schooling for children. I refused my first opportunity at a Superintendent position because the location was 90 miles from the nearest school. Although school buses were available it would have taken 2 1/2 hours of travel and a transfer to a different bus partway through the trip. Twice a day was considered sufficient challenge for the Regional Director to accept my refusal.

Diana and I moved I moved 13 times during our career. Only one move Utah to Indiana were between equal size houses. The others went big house, little house, big house, etc. When we made the move to Tucson, the boys and I were hauling boxes out the back door of the house and onto the patio. This was necessary to make room for the boxes that were still being unloaded from the truck. Goodwill loved park rangers!

Wives were considered such an integral part of the park community that they used their husbands call numbers adding "A" as their individual call number. I soon learned that "A" was for alpha when it came to park radio communications. Most of the time Diana was appreciative of the radio. It allowed her to keep up with where I was and what I was doing. She was also necessary as my dispatcher at night. Diana did not even have to look up the numbers for wreckers, ambulances, local law enforcement agencies, and was thoroughly familiar with the ten code. To those who do not deal regularly with emergencies the ten code often seems to be un-necessary "cop talk", like a child's secret code. But in my law enforcement days, radio transmissions depended on towers and repeaters. Anything seemed to affect signals adversely. In actuality, it is a means to convey information that is precise and easily understood without misinterpretations. This is verified by the three most commonly used "10s" ─ 10-4 (OK or agreement), 10-20 (location) followed very closely by 10-1 (unable to copy, change location)