Park Ranger

Chapter 7: El Morro National Monument

El Morro NM, my first permanent assignment in the NPS, is a small isolated park with almost no winter visitation. The park is located in the high desert, at 7,500 in the Tinaja Valley of the Zuni Mountains in central New Mexico. It is a 200' high sandstone mesa with a basin at the foot of the bluff containing 200,000 gallons of water. It was a stopping place for travelers through the area First to arrive were the Anasazi who built a pueblo on top of the mesa. They were the first to use this sandstone outcropping for graffiti, carving in many petroglyphs. The Spanish followed with the Governor of New Mexico, Don Juan de Oῆate. In 1605, adding his inscription ─ defacing one of the Anasazi drawings. Every phase of southwestern history is represented on this monument to graffiti ─ immigrants, camel experiment, pueblo rebellion. Eventually leading to El Morro's unofficial name "Inscription Rock".

The nearest neighbors were about 15 miles in either direction and the nearest shopping in Grants, New Mexico ─ 50 miles away. Diana advises that there is nothing that aids a marriage as much as starting in a location such as this. It forces the couple into relying and supporting one another without the interference of family. New friends tend to be mutual and certainly did not offer advice colored by long term relationships. El Morro was the perfect place. The staff welcomed the newlyweds and their friendship assisted us through the establishing of our marriage. We miss them all.

My grandmother and grandfather Blackwell had visited soon after we settled in to El Morro. She brought a whole bunch of tomatoes she canned. This was the main ingredient in our meals as the end of each pay period neared. We would have been eating tomato casserole for Christmas; if Paul Berger had not decided to give each of his employees (all three) a turkey. The common saying was that Ranger's are paid in sunsets. They were beautiful but ephemeral. I decided that we would have at least one nice ornament for Christmas. An old twisted piece of juniper, with four holes drilled in it, was to be our only decoration. Then Jack Aragon showed up with a Christmas tree that he had cut for us off his ranch. We still use the "yule log" each Christmas and our tree of choice would be a wonderful smelling pinyon pine, with all of it dripping sap..

Superintendent Paul Berger had joined the Park Service before WW II and told me he wanted to coast his way out. He told me that I was to tackle any new programs that came along and just keep him informed. With the departure of Joe Peynetsa (Zuni tribal member) at the end of the first year, I became the defacto administrative officer. The maintenance chief departed after only a month or so and Jack Aragon was given a temporary promotion.

Ten months after our wedding, the truth of Doc Wallace's gleeful observation that until they really kick in; birth control pills can actually act in favor of fertility. Well, we had said that we cic not want children for a year or so. We almost made it! I was awakened at about 2:00a.m. with Diana calmly stating, "I think we better head to the hospital. My water broke."

I remember the contrast. Her calmness and my thinking, "Oh Hell! I'm the only one in the park ─ everyone else was on leave or at training. I'll stop at the Aragon ranch on the way and ask him to come in and watch things until I get back. Crap, there's a winter storm going on. Open range, cows and deer will be resting on the relatively warmer road. Fifty 50 miles of frozen road between here and Grants. Hang on! Rangers don't panic. Bullshit, what if I have to deliver the baby? Time to get the hell out on the road."

At noon the next day, I stood looking through the window into the nursery. Damn, he looks like he's been in a brawl. Face and head were bruised. I learned that he had gotten "stuck", the nurse had not bothered to call the Doctor, when he got there, he fired the nurse and pulled David into the world. As I think about my experience pulling calves ─ damn being a male is a lot better!

David proved to be the key to a relationship with the local Navajo community. This became apparent on his first trip to the Ramah Trading Post. Diana pulled up to find the usual contingent of Navajo men sitting on the porch. It's elevation gave them a good view inside the pickup. Diana got out and went around to get David's carrier. Suddenly, she was surrounded by men wanting to assist her in getting the two of them up the steps and safely inside.

The men returned to their bench sitting; but, were quickly replaced by their wives. The ladies gathered around David, talking to him in Navajo, while stroking his arms and legs. He was certainly enjoying the attention and cooed at the ladies to tell them so. One of them quickly turned to Diana, pointed at David, and, in English, informed her, "He speaks Navajo!" All of the ladies, Diana included, burst into laughter. Barriers dropped and a trip to the Trading Post became a wonderful experience for Mother and Son.

My friend Jack's given name was Octaviano Aragon. His wife told him this was too much name and would just call him "Cracker Jack" which was later shortened to simply Jack. We became damn good friends on and off the job. During the winter months with few visitors, we were work partners. Although he lacked somewhat in formal education; Jack was a natural born problem solver. I needed a bumper for my new pickup and asked Jack if he would make me one. "Let me see," he said. He picked up a ball of twine, went to my pickup, crawled all over the rear, cut the twine in pieces, looked at them, looked up at me, "Sure!".

A few weeks later I asked Jack, "When do you want me to bring the truck by for measuring?"

"I already made the bumper, bring it by after work and we will hang it on there."

That bumper was made of 1/4" steel, with 1/2" still hangers, and was shaped so that the tailgate could be lowered completely. We did have to use a hammer to force the hangers onto the truck frame. All from a few pieces of twine!

Jack looked like something from the west of a century ago. His skin, dark from both heritage and many years of work in the sun, resembled leather. He wore western clothing with the requisite cowboy boots and hat. When he smiled ─ well, he was missing his 4 upper front teeth and those that were left gave new meaning to the saying "long of tooth". When the superintendent was gone, he would get one of the gray, rag mop heads, put it on, and then force his hat down over it. He would sit out front, still as a statute, then startle visitors by grinning and saying, "Buena Dias" as they approached wanting to see if he was real.

Working together we tackled the problems that plague a small, almost unknown, low budget park. Our successes have been deeply buried in long term memory, virtually forgotten. Those that border on being a debacle are constantly revisited through my entertaining visitors to Whooping Hollow Woods.

Park Superintendents in the mid 1960s were autocrats. They ordered what they wanted and it was subordinates jobs to produce. Paul Berger wanted a bird checklist and ordered me to get one specific to El Morro.

"Paul, I have always been fascinated by birds; but, damn, I can only identify a hand full.

He said, "Then learn and get my bird check list!" This led to a lifetime as a bird enthusiast.

One day Jack and I came into the Visitor Center, after plowing snow. It was almost as cold as outside. Paul said, "The furnace has gone out. I thought I would freeze before you two got back. Get the damn thing lit."

None of the "Paul and Jack" happenings had been serious to this point. Winter in the high country elevated this problem to a very serious level. We set out to "fix" the furnace.

As we headed for the furnace room I asked Jack, "What do you know about this furnace?"

His reply, "Where it's at." was not encouraging. I felt slightly better when he continued, "But, burning oil for heat ─ it can't be too complicated."

"Damn", the furnace room only slightly warmer than the Visitor Center. We got down on all fours and looked into what we assumed to be the combustion chamber. Jack observed, "I think there is some sort of automatic sparking ignition system. It's covered with soot. Everything may start to work if we clean it."

With safety in mind, unusual for us, we turned off the fuel oil and shut down the electricity to this part of the building. Dutifully and carefully we cleaned the apparatus. Everything was spic and span. Time for a restart.

We turned on the fuel oil, raised the thermostat and watched for the heating to ignite. Nothing! We had not “fixed” the problem. We could see that fuel pooling so we knew it was reaching the furnace. What else could be wrong? Why wouldn’t the electric spark thingy go? Oh! It needed electricity.

We remembered the circuit breaker. We forgot the fuel in the furnace. Returning to the furnace we were looking in the firebox as we turned up the thermostat. Cleaning the "spark thingy was all that was needed. Whoosh ─ the resulting explosion of flame shot out of the belly of the beast. We could feel infernal heat as the fire shot right between us. It was over before we had time to consider the "what might have happened". Besides we got away with it.

"Damn!" was our reaction, prior to falling on the floor laughing.

The repairmen were still sitting on the floor, chuckling, congratulating themselves on avoiding injury, identifying the need, restarting and thus “fixing” the problem. Suddenly, the door to the furnace room flew open, banging against the wall, scaring hell out of us.

We whirled around, There stood a black man confronting us. I don’t mean black as in African-American. I mean as in totally black. Skin, hair, clothes¾everything was black.

I have been hanging around Jack and Native Americans too long now. My mind immediately screamed, "This is the Hopi Black Ogre. One of the sacred Katsina. Not one of the good ones!".

It took a minute to realize that the figure was the superintendent, that he was covered in black, that he was very upset, and that he thought we might be the culprits responsible for his predicament.

“I am going home for lunch. I am taking the rest of the day off!” the apparition announced. “ I want it cleaned up!” the figure demanded and slammed the door shut with a bang.

“Clean what up?” Jack questioned.

“Why’s he mad at us?” I asked.

“What the hell did he do to get black like that?” Jack continued innocently.

“Well whatever he did we might as well have lunch before ’fixing’ it,” I observed.

We headed into the visitor center straight into the answer to our queries. Our minor explosion, which had passed harmlessly between the two of us, had deposited about an inch of soot throughout the building. It had coated everything, including the Superintendent (who by the way was able to laugh about it¾a year or so and several other interesting and distracting happenings later).

It took us forever to clean the building. Finally, we called the Superintendent and advised him that the building was now spic and span. "Fine! You two find something to do outside for the next few days."

Although banishment following the fiery furnace incident was not the cause of the trail tractor episode ─ the story naturally leads to it. The winter was almost over and I was preparing to lead tours across the mesa. The past summer had taught me that planning was a very good thing.

So winter was receding and tourist season approaching. "Jack, there is some trail clean up we need to do on top of the mesa". This would normally have meant hiking up the 2 mile trail that rose 200 feet . We would be packing up tools such as shovels, rakes, and brooms. But, Superintendent Berger had purchased a small tractor for use around the visitor center, campground and employee housing.

Jack and I decided that it would be much easier to use the tractor to quickly reconnoiter the damage and decide the tools we needed. I climbed on, behind Jack, and we were on our exploratory run. The trail was clear of snow, while the landscape was a beautiful winter wonderland. This was fun ─ then we reached the switchbacks at the top of the 200 foot rise.

The unforeseen, unplanned for ─ happened. The wide tires that seemed to float across the desert sand lost traction on the icy trail. We not only lost forward motion, but, of some concern to us considering the drop off on one side, the tractor sliding backwards. It was also headed for the hair pin bend below with a steep drop off at the edge of the trail. No need for words ─ I jumped. I did feel some worry for Jack; before realizing that he was right beside me on the high side of the trail.

Snow broke out fall and we rolled over to watch, in what seemed to be slow motion, as the new tractor continued backwards down the trail. Finally, after what seemed to take forever, it turned endways and jammed between two boulders. No damage to us. No damage to the tractor. We looked at each other and started howling with laughter ─now it was great fun.

We were still chuckling and reliving what happened as we slipped and slid down the icy trail to the tractor. All we had to do was get it turned around and headed back down the trail. No one the wiser about this episode.

Not gonna happen! The frozen trail offered no more traction to our boots as we attempted to spin the tractor than it did to the tractor tires. Jack said, "We will have to get a "come along" (type of hand winch), and come back. A couple of hours later we found that there was nothing in reach of the cable to use as an anchor for the winch. It was nearly closing time when we got back to the maintenance building. The tractor would have to wait.

Jack arrived bright and early with our solution. All we needed was some wrenches. We would remove the tires, allowing us to spin the tractor, reinstall the tires and head home. Busily assembling the tools, we failed to hear the door to the office open. Then the voice of authority boomed at us, "What are you two working on today?" Before we could dream up something to get us off the hook, Paul looked around and asked, "Where's the new tractor?"

Although Jack and I continued to find the whole thing humorous; the Superintendent failed to share our enjoyment. "I want my tractor back down here before quitting time ─ and it better not have a scratch on it!" He left mumbling to himself something about his suffering penance for past deeds.

As far as the penitents are concerned, we had a good day. Well, except for the extra hikes up and down the trail as we found that we needed a special tool to remove the tires. Then had to let the air out to get them off the rims. Then had to make a trip back to get a bottle of air to re-inflate the tires. Turning the tractor, reinstalling the tires and the trip home were the easy parts.

Trail prep was not the only thing needed for receiving visitors. We gave talks at the campground each summer evening. Ponderosa pine logs had been rolled into place to form benches. Each night one of the Rangers would give a campfire talk about the area, its history, natural feature, wildlife and such.

Prior to the talk we would walk through the campground, invite the everyone to the talk and take a count of the number of campers. Not long after my arrival, I found that my training did not cover all situations. The campground arranged is in a semi circle. I started my campfire and proceeded through some bushes and high grass ─ when I happened upon a couple ...... Uhhhh, coupling. They were startled! I was startled!

My first encounter with visitor use not covered in basic training.. But rising to the situation I asked, "Only two at this site?"

They remained frozen, not what I found to be the usual reaction. I put two hash marks in my notepad and moved on. As I approached the next site I remembered, "Damn! I forget to invite them to my program. I guess this is why they did not show up.

Talks and tours led to other incidents. I was leading a tour, last year, when a lady asked, "The water hole is down below and the pueblo is built here on top of the mesa? Why did they do that?" I was about to give the standard answer that archaeologists believe it was for protection, etc.

But, a second lady answered for me, "The women had to haul the water all the way up here where the men could have the view they wanted!" Everyone loved the answer and given my experience with previous situations like this ─ I decided it was time to head off the mesa.

The Civilian Conservation Corps had laid out a trail across El Morro. Even making steps over some of the steeper sections. The marks of their chisels were still visible. A visitor had been remarking on how tough the life was for the residents of the pueblo. "They even had to cut in those hand holds to bring water up from the water hole".

I decided to add a little humor, "Yes ma'am but the really hard part was chiseling out these steps."

"Oh my word. That was really an accomplishment using nothing but deer antlers!" Right then I decided that humor would not be a regular part of my tours.

Looking back from almost half a century, I have to think that Jack and I were more successful than not. Otherwise, why did Paul keep sending us out together? I hope that it is not because no one else was there.

Wood was needed for the campfire and Paul sent Jack and I up on the Continental Divide to Oso (bear) Ridge to get a load of ponderosa. We did not want to have to take more trips than necessary so we took Jack's flatbed truck, which would haul more, instead of the park truck. We found that several fallen trees were just a little ways down off the side of the road. No problem, engage 4 wheel drive and get down there. It took us only a couple of hours to get a huge load on the truck and chained down. All we had to do was drive the 200 yards or so up to the road.

That's when I called Jack's attention to the truck wheels, "Aren't they a little deeper into the turf than they were when we drove down here."

"Damn!" told me all I needed to know. Driving out was not an option. "Let me think. I don't want to have to unload all of that wood, haul it up to the road, and put it back on the truck."

"Me neither. But we ain't got a winch, so we might as well get started.

"Wait a minute." This must have been the inspiration Jack needed. "Let's try shoveling a trough to get the truck in motion."

We started shoveling. Made a nice long trough in front of all four wheels. Jack started the truck and it rolled forward about a foot and sunk in to the soil as deeply as before. After throwing a ton of mud out behind the truck.

I moved to start loosening the chain boomers. Once again Jack was inspired. "Maybe if we could push the truck up onto new ground, we can drive out." Jack mused. He glanced over to see the incredulity on my face, "Yeah, no way that's gonna happen." Then Jack had a eureka moment. "We'll use the "high boy jack!"

"We gonna do what?", I exclaimed.

"We'll use the jack as a winch."

"Jack, you've lost your damn mind." I failed to see how jacking up the truck would accomplish anything.

"No, it'll work," he insisted.

Jack pulled a couple of chains out from under the truck seats and unstrapped the "high boy." I should have known that Jack would be coming up with some uuuuhhhhh, interesting solution to our problem. And, have to admit some worked ─ of course some failed with interesting results.

I watched in fascination as he took the longer chain, hooked it to a tree in the direction of the road, attached the chain to the top end of the jack. He laid the jack on its side, attached the second chain to the lift mechanism and then to the front bumper of the truck. Pointing to the jacking mechanism,"All we got to do is jack up."

"ALL?" it took both of us pulling on a long "cheater bar" to move the damn thing. But we jacked the high boy from the low position to the end of the bar ─ about three feet! Chock the wheels, move the jack, pull the truck, chock the wheels, move the jack..........quite a few hours later we were on the road driving back to El Morro. Another successful task completed.

All of the Aragon/Guraedy happenings did not happen on duty.

One brisk autumn day that can only be experienced in the high desert, Jack came by the house pulling a cattle trailer. Inside was a black bull. "Can you come along and help brand and turn him loose?", Jack asked. I got beer, fresh tamales and burritos for lunch.

"Where you headed?" hoping it was somewhere interesting.

His reply, "Back in behind Los Gigantes," insured the help he wanted. The red and buff sandstone giants were at the end of one mesa where there was a narrow opening between it and another. I had been wanting to explore back in there. Besides, I had never branded a cow. Here was a chance to be a real cowboy.

On the way in, we met Jose′ a rancher friend of Jack's, who agreed to come along and give us a helping hand. What was passing for a road gave out just before we stopped where the pinyon-juniper gave way to ponderosa pine trees.

"Damn, I got to bring Diana back here", I thought as I stepped out to the smell of these evergreens, viewed the colorful outcroppings of red rock, and green grass of this small clearing. I walked back and got my first good look at the bull. As I approached the trailer, he butted the side almost rocking it up on one wheel. "Jack that is a beautiful animal. It must have cost you a fortune?"

"Nope,", smugly, "got him pretty cheap."

"How in the hell did you manage that?" as I admired the huge, black angus.

"The owner only had a small pasture near his house. This bull was too mean to keep there. None of his neighbors wanted to fool with it, so he sold it to me cheap," these words would soon come back to haunt us.

"Man, you fell into a hell of a deal," I observed.

The three amigos approached the horse trailer. The bull started violently butting the sides rocking it back and forth. The three cowboys jumped back.

"Now what?", Jose′ asked, "How we gonna get him out of there?"

"Easy," Jack announced. "We just rope him and pull him out."

José and I got on one side of the trailer and used sticks to poke at the bull and distract him from Jack, who was risking an arm and hand to get a rope between the slats of the trailer. He finally managed to lasso the front feet. Not what we planned but take what you can get.

The three of us then jerked on the rope until we got him off of his feet. We quickly tied off that rope, ran around back of the trailer and cautiously opened the doors. We roped his back feet stretched him out and tied off to José's pick up. It took us a while using another rope, staying well out of the trailer, to pull all four feet together, tie them, and finally, using José'struck, to drag him out of the trailer. We won! All we got to do is brand and turn him loose.

Dry sticks were everywhere and we soon had a nice fire prepared for the branding iron. Jack pulled out a long piece of iron with a shallow curve on one end. "Jack that looks suspiciously like a running iron and around these parts they used to hang guys for just having one."A running iron was used to alter existing brands into another in order to claim a neighbors cattle." Can't you make yourself a branding iron?" ─ Jack was an artist with metal.

"Nope," was his taciturn answer to my question. He put the iron in the fire and we settled back, broke out the tamales, burritos and beer, and waited for the iron to get red hot. Finally it reached the proper stage of glowing red and I learned why Jack could not make himself a branding iron. His cows carried an upside down A with the cross of the A continuing in an arc clear to the front shoulder, there it ended in the form of a large arrow. The brand took up the whole side of the bull. We needed a second heating of the iron. The smell of burning hair and toasted skin surrounded the protesting bull, who was bellowing out the indignity, pain, discomfort and just was plain being pissed off.

Finally the brand was complete. All we had to do was untie the knots and turn him loose. Only a single loose knot was left; when he started violently snorting, bellowing, and twisting in an attempt to get to his feet. Judiciously, we stepped back to give him room.

Normally when an animal has been treated in anything like this manner, all it wants his to get the hell away from here. Hell even grizzly bears run from the trap. With a loud bellow the bull shook his head throwing long streams of spit around. Luckily ─ for Jack and I the angry animal was facing José when he charged.

The three amigos stepping back in the general direction of the trucks proved to be fortunate. Jack and I were falling over laughing, shouting, "Run José Run." He looked like he was running hurdles while cussing the bull which was rapidly outpacing him. He gave a final leap and cleared the side of his truck to land in the bed. The bull reared up on the side leaving some memorable depressions. José climbed onto the cab. This target being beyond his reach the bull showed his recall ability. Two others had been complicit in his torture.

Jack and I watched in disbelief as the bull whirled and charged. Laughter gave way as we both screamed, "RUN!" We were already in motion and later José allowed as how we looked like high jumpers and mountain climbers as we leaped onto the flat bad and scrambled up onto the cab of the truck. We stayed away from the edge. Hugging each other like a couple of monkeys to stay as close to the middle as possible.

"What now? Jack let me see if I can distract the bull while you get in the truck."

Unfortunately the day had been cool and the windows were rolled up. I scooted toward the side and the bull took the bait. He started around the truck.

Jack leaned over the other side toward the door handle.. "Look out!" I screamed as the bull saw Jack and started around the truck after him. Back to two monkeys comforting one another. I made the second attempt to reach the handle. That damn bull learned fast, he stopped in front of the truck. Which taught us, "this ain't gonna work".

José quit laughing long enough to call over, "If you two distract him, I may can get into my truck". We managed to get the bull around to the opposite side of Jack's truck and José made it into his cab. The engine roared to life and we could hear José screaming, "Now to teach this Hijo de Puta a lesson. Now we are the bull of the woods."

Joś′ tried herding the bull away from us. It kept running round and round the truck. "This ain't gonna work either!" I'm goin' for he'p. Here!" He threw us a twist of chewing tobacco calling out, the food is by the fire. But, you might want to be satisfied chewing on this!" José headed toward the Ramah Trading Post ─ about a half hour away.

Each of us later claimed it was the other's idea; but, crap, at least it was something we could do while we waited. Jack and I each took a chaw and worked up a good spit. We hoped to distract the bull by trying to spit in his eye. Lot's of ammo, poor aim, and a half hour later, all we had was an apparently even angrier bull with his face dripping with brown tobacco spit.

Jack and I were wondering what happened to our rescuer. Concern that we might have to spend the night here was replacing worry. Finally, we heard trucks. Looked up to see José followed by about 10 pickup trucks. It seems that as he told the story and recruited a helper, another would arrive and want the whole story, then wanted to be included in the operation. This repeated itself innumerable times before José ran out of volunteers and the posse rode to Los Gigantes.

The fleet of trucks stopped about 30 yards away and we heard, "Need help with that calf? Is that a couple of monkeys on that truck? Does that little thing scare you two?"

It still took the trucks working in unison to convince the bull to forsake revenge. Then the statements of monkey rescue started. No one wanted to listen to Jack and I presenting, "the real story" of what we referred to as the bull branding incident. Every time we started all we heard were comments of "Bullshit!".

As Jack delivered me to the house; I told him, "I ain't helping with round up this fall! If that bull does what you bought him for, you are going to have some damn mean calves to brand." I could not wait to get inside and relate this to Diana. The incident did not seem to me to be as humorous as she found it to be!.

David was only a few weeks old when I was called for temporary duty at Grand Canyon. Each summer there was a gathering of motorcyclists. Attendance was in the hundreds. Usually something of a traffic problem; but easily handled by the rangers assigned there. This time word was received that the "Hell's Angels" along with some lesser known outlaw groups intended to not only participate; but they intended to take over the event.

A call went out for assistance from nearby parks. Twenty five of us swelled the ranks of the "South Rim" rangers. Word was sent to the outlaw bikers that they would not be allowed to camp inside the park. They, in turn, sent word that they were on their way and a bunch of "Smokey Bears" did not concern them in any way.

Law enforcement training and techniques had not advanced much in the first fifty years of the Park Service's existence. At this time, rangers were wearing pistols at night and on a few other occasions. However; the rule was that the weapon had to be concealed by a jacket.

There were two rival outlaw biker groups coming in and staying at a Forest Service campground. A car containing the leaders of one group missed the entrance, turned around, rushed back and collided head-on with the leaders of the other group. The top leadership of both were killed. Luckily for the Rangers. We were not prepared for them ─ or for any major law enforcement incident. We spend 5 tense days with no confrontations. It was a potential nightmare from the publicity standpoint and could have possibility resulted in deaths on both sides. Law enforcement training for Rangers was intensified; but, it would about 5 years until it reached a level of real professionalism.

El Morro was our first park together and where I went from brand new ranger to acting superintendent (my final few months) resulting in my receiving an outstanding performance award. Then things started to change, as all parks do, and I began to learn an important lesson. For park rangers there is the prime concern the resource, the park. Closely following is the ephemeral working atmosphere created by the current park staff. Sometimes it changes often and rapidly, other times it exists for most of the tenure there. At El Morro Joe Peynetsa, the Zuni Administrative Officer was the first to depart, followed by Superintendent Paul Berger, then Jack Aragon and fortunately, for my memories, Diana and I soon moved on.

Chapter 8: Virgin Islands National Park

Moving has been identified as a major stress point of life, some say only exceeded by death or childbirth. Our first move was not quite as stressful as those that followed. This time we were moved on the government's nickel, we were too excited to be aware of the stress, and comparatively we had very little in the way of possessions to be moved.

Successive moves fit into the normal pattern. Find a moving company, get an estimate, try and decide whether or not the moving allowance would be sufficient to cover packing, put in for an advance, race the advance and moving truck to the new location, finally unpacking and settling in. All within a month's time!

Virgin Islands NP is a grouping of three areas - Fort Christiansted NHS, Buck Island Reef NM, on St. Croix and Virgin Islands NP on St. John. My duty station was on St. Croix at Christiansted NHS. This site contained Fort Christiansvaern, the world's largest fort constructed of masonry, that never fired a shot in anger. Management also included Buck Island Reef National Monument which was several miles offshore. It had a picnic area, beaches; but the primary attraction were the coral reefs. Mooring ropes had been embedded in the sea floor, topped at the surface with buoy and finally an additional rope with a loop to put over a cleat to anchor the boat. There were underwater signs designating a snorkel trail for park visitors to swim through the reefs. . It was hard to believe that I was being paid for spending my days at what had always been my favorite activities ─ boating and swimming.

Activities which also led to my most embarrassing moment as a ranger. Our patrol boat was a twin screw, 11' beam, 36' craft, complete with flying bridge. Usually we went out with the crew of two; that should have been required. But, occasionally we would take her out with only one ranger.

I really hated endless meetings. Today's went on forever and accomplished nothing. I was late heading to Buck Island on patrol. I wondered, "Should I change into swimming trunks before the run out. Nope, even the sailboats would beat me there today." I will stay in my dress uniform, Hiking boots, wool trousers, shirt, and topped with the smokey bear hat (about the most expensive uniform item).

Although the waves were not breaking, a fairly heavy sea was running when I arrived at the trails and found visitor boats on all of the mooring stations but one. "Time to show some ranger seamanship," I thought..

Luckily I had grabbed the buoy hook before getting underway. I was familiar with the currents. I eased the boat forward about half of its length beyond the buoy, gauging the amount of time I would need to jump off the flying bridge, hook the buoy, throw the line over the cleat and secure the boat.

My plan was executed perfectly. I walked along the gunwale to restore the hook to its hanger in the stern. I also looked around to see if the visitors were aware of my expertise.

"Damn!" My attention was caught by a very, very pregnant lady in the adjacent boat. She was wearing a very, very, tiny bikini ─ I did the classic double take; and walked off the end of the gunwale.

Few experiences compare with suddenly finding yourself in a running sea, wearing heavy boots and wool trousers, and watching the expensive flat hat floating away. Even if it is the warm waters of the Caribbean.

"Save the hat!" I acted instinctively and started swimming. It took effort to overcome the drag of the boots and wood trousers. I finally caught the hat, jammed it on my head, and started swimming for the now distant boat. Going against the current caused the trousers to be pulled down around my knees. Periodically, I stopped swimming, pulled up my trousers and lifted the drooping brim of the smokey bear hat to see if I was continuing in the general direction of the boat. Swim several yards, pull up the trousers, lift the hat brim, locate the boat and......well this happened quite a few times. "Damn, I should be thankful that all of the days of swimming were paying off." I was very tired when I finally reached my destination thinking, "All I had to do is crawl up the ladder to safety. What ladder? Holy Crap! I had not had time to throw it over the side."

I treaded water, looking up over 4' to the gunwale. "Now what?" The only thing that seemed possible was to try and emulate a breaching whale. "After all," I thought, "I am waterlogged enough to resemble one." I dove down, before turning, launching myself toward the surface and, hopefully clearing the water enough to grab the gunwale. It was a total disaster. As I broke the surface, the waterlogged trousers felt the pull of gravity. My trousers and underwear went down around my knees. I grabbed my clothes rather than the gunwale and sank beneath the waves.

"To hell with dignity!" With this desperate attempt, I paid no attention to exposure. My lunge upward allowed me to get my fingers over the gunwale. I pulled the rest of me up and flopped over onto the deck like an exhausted fish. When I recovered enough to move, I pulled up my pants, threw off the mooring line, and headed back to the harbor.

"What happened to you?", my very pregnant wife wondered. I started relating the tale and indignantly reached the trigger of my embarrassment.

"Well what would you expect a pregnant woman to be wearing?" The gales of laughter did not sound sympathetic as the tale of "man overboard" continued.

My frien's, this was 1970 ─ what back then was described as a bikini would today be considered conservative two-piece bathing attire today. Never-the-less, once again, I was the "victim?" as a swimsuit led me into another bikini incident.

One of the trails through the coral reef provided a short cut back to the mooring area. But, it required diving into a tunnel opening that the adventurous could swim through. The secret was avoiding the fire coral that lined the hole. That stuff starts burning immediately and feels very much like a burn.

On my way to work I had stopped at a street-side vendor and purchased a of paté for my lunch. This fried meat sandwich was packed with local chili peppers. I was sitting on deck enjoying this wonderful fried pie when the boat started rocking.

A man's head popped up over the gunwale."We need some help,"

He climbed aboard and was quickly followed by this young clad in my nemesis ─ the bikini. I must admit a bit more modest one this time.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

The girl said, "I was swimming through the tunnel in the reef and as I came up I brushed against something and my back is on fire." She turned and I could see the red welts left by fire coral. They extended from just under one shoulder blade, running across her back, and disappearing into the bikini clad buttock on the opposite side.

We kept a salve just for this purpose. "Lie down on that bench," I commanded. I ran into the cabin grabbed the first aid kit, opened the salve and quickly started applying it to her back. The sooner this stuff gets on there the less blistering. I was working away and then ─ I reached the bikini.

"Uh Oh! The welts keep going. Now what?" I paused, looked up at the young man, "Uhhhh, her bikini is in the way," I observed un-necessarily. He grinned in anticipation. The young lady was paying attention, she jerked the bikini, down to her knees, "Keep rubbing that stuff on me, it feels good, and don't forget my butt it burns worse than anywhere else!" The Park Service was a very militaristic organization. Rangers were taught to follow orders. I applied the soothing ointment. "Let me just lie here awhile," she finally pled.

Her fiancé and I retired to the deck of the Park Ranger. "There's beer and snacks on our boat." he informed me. We retired to his vessel to await the end of his fiancé's nap.

The Virgin Islands was one of the few parks that permitted having a drink on duty and even in uniform. My red swim trunks with the arrowhead patch might be considered a uniform. Anyway several beers later the young lady joined us.

I am not sure who was more grateful ─ the young lady for the application of the soothing balm or me for the opportunity to recruit one more satisfied visitor to the belief that park rangers were heroes and could cure any ill, solve any problem, assist any visitor.

A short time later, someone in the Washington Office seemed to recall that I had a degree in history and thought a tour of the "cannonball and chigger" circuit would enhance my background.

Chapter 9: Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park

Ticks, Chiggers and Cannonballs

Kennesaw Mountain NBP commemorates the final battle before the fall of Atlanta and "march to the sea" by Yankee troops. Here past and future, friends ─ . one a master of attack and the other the master of defense ─ William Sherman and Joe Johnston faced one another. It was here among these peaceful, once bloody, hills that I continued my march to ─ well, the future as a park ranger.

Although the Park Service, initially considered my history background as my major asset ─ I only applied this skill to any real degree at two parks. I gave guided walks on the Battlefield, talks on and offsite about the Civil War and performed demonstrations with black powder weapons.

It was here that my friendships expanded to include the most "colorful" of my bosses ─ Jack Ogle. Jack was so damn friendly that most incidents resulted in him getting away with it.

Before he entered the Park Service, Jack was driving a touring car in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He had a load of school teachers and had been telling them tall tales of mountain exploits, trout that were 5' long, the winters being so cold that the streams froze from the top of the mountain to the bottom.

One of the teachers had been waiting to pounce, "Now Jack, if those streams froze so solid, how did the trout live enough years to grow that long?"

Fortune was with the yarn spinner ─ I know the feeling well ─ it was an early spring morning, a fine was mist rising into the air from the nearby stream. "Ma'am, the Park Service has those streams heated all the way to the top of the mountains. 'See, they got it on now', you can see the steam," he continued with tour and tales.

Since I was participating in more and more offsite events, I decided to buy a new suit and, unfortunately, mentioned this to Superintendent Ogle. "Paul go over to this place called the Men's Den. A friend owns it and will give you a good deal".

Still at the lower end of the pay grades, I was always looking for a way to save money. This store was obviously the kind of place I required. Window signs pointed to the various mix and match deals that were available. But, I was armed with friendship, ignore these signs.

I asked for and was introduced to the owner Aaron Young. "We have a mutual friend and he told me that you would give me the best deal possible on a suit," I told him.

"I always take good care of friends and friends of friends. Who are we talking about?" he asked.

"I work for Jack Ogle the Superintendent of Kennesaw Battle....."

Aaron loudly interrupted, "Jack Ogle! That Son of A Bitch sold me a blind mule!"

He spent a lot of energy cussing Jack....and I may have somewhat participated as I was pretty upset that he sent me here to confront a guy that he had bested in some deal back in the Hills. Eventually, Aaron not only sold me a nice, affordable suit; but gave me more insight into my Superintendent.

The next day I imitated Sherman and planned on scorching the earth as I marched into Jack's office. "How come you sent me over to that guy for a new suit when you knew that you had sold him a blind mule. You should have known he was going to be pissed at anyone who even claimed you as a friend?" all came out in one breath.

Jack started laughing, "That lying hound. That mule wasn't blind. He could see ─ when he got real close to something!"

The only thing Cajuns put on a par with food, is humor ─ even when they are on the receiving end. I was soon laughing with Jack and describing the look on Aaron's face when I mention the name Jack Ogle.

Working for Jack Ogle was quite an experience, he was a unique character and taught me many things ─ including revealing a few of my abilities of which I was unaware. Among these was that I had a hell of a lot rather be standing before an audience speaking than sitting in the crowd being bored. A major emphasis of necessary skills for rangers was public speaking. By this time I was pretty good at it. A good thing too!

But, the Park Service was embarked on a new thrust in interpretation ─ Environmental Education. I spent much of my time working to develop off-site areas, trails, and educational materials

Jack came to my office late one afternoon, "I need you to come with me to a meeting tonight."

I had been working for Superintendent Ogle long enough to arouse suspicions, "What for?"

"I have agreed to give a little talk to a few people on Environmental Education," he innocently stated. "I just need you to come along and be ready to answer any of the technical questions. After all, you are the one that has made this program into the tremendous success that it is."

Damn, he was good. Laid on the praise. I forgot that Jack has no qualms about misrepresenting reality. He snowed me.

"Ok, as long as all I have to do is answer questions. I don't have time to put together a good presentation."

"No problem! I'll swing by and pick you up at 6:30".

That evening we entered a school auditorium to an audience of about 200 people. I took a seat on the front row, thinking, "A few people! Wonder what in the hell Jack thinks is a crowd?"

Jack stood before the group, "I'm just a Superintendent, a manager, the real work is done by the rangers. I have brought one of my experts with me tonight. He will give an explanation of the program and how it works. This is Ranger Paul Guraedy."

I did not have time to be angry. I managed to make it onto the stage and gave about a half hour talk on environmental education. Why it was needed and how we were making it work. It must have been an OK presentation. I got a lot of applause and everything ended with a lot of enthusiastic questions.

"Now, by God, I have time to get mad," I looked around for "that damned Ogle".

But, the perpetrator of this foul deed was nowhere in sight. "On top of everything else that Son of a Bitch has left without me!" One of the facilitators approached, "Jack said to meet him at the Pizza House across the street."

I stormed in there to see Jack grinning like a jackass eating briars. He did not give me a chance to start, "Settle down. We got a pitcher of beer, I've poured you a big mug full, and a pizza is on the way ─ my treat."

"Dammit, Jack! Your Treat! Why in the hell didn't you warn me about all of this?"

"Would you have agreed to come and give the talk if I had told you the truth?" Jack expressed self-rightously.

"Hell No!"

"See, that's why I didn't warn you. Now, this is really good beer and pizza, let's eat."

I don't know if it was friendship or hunger and thirst; but, damn that beer and pizza was good.

I worked with historians and local organizations to return "The General" to Kennesaw, Georgia. Ownership was in dispute between Chattanooga and Georgia, taking a Supreme Court decision to settle, several years after I left.

During the Civil War a group of Union soldiers concocted a plan to kidnap "The General" from Big Shanty (now, Kennesaw). The plan went well at first. They absconded with the steam engine and headed north, through Rebel controlled territory, bound for Union held Chattanooga. It resulted in a fascinating chase (and movie). The pursuers were on foot, hand car, locomotive, back on foot, locomotive number 2, back on foot, and finally on "The Texas" locomotive number 3. Unfortunately for the raiders, all were captured and 8 were executed. The story does have a kind of happy ending. This sideline of war initiated our Country's most prestigious award ─ The Medal of Honor.

There are some that believe history repeats itself. Sometimes I almost include myself in this group. Once again my expensive smokey bear hat suffered soaking. It was a dark and stormy day as I patrolled a lonely road ─ now isn't that a hell of a way to start a story? Rain was falling just enough to get everything soaked. One more curve and I would be on the highway and headed into the Visitor Center. Two cars blocked the gate to the fire road. "What now?" It had not been raining when I started out. The rain cover for my "flat hat" was in my desk. "Oh well hell! Duty Calls".

I turned on the emergency lights, carefully parked to block off any chance of escape, in case they got by me. I climbed out of my truck, ignored the rain and proceeded into the wet woods. I moved carefully. A ranger in the wilderness should always "see" before "being seen". It was hunting season, nice day for poaching, any reasonably thinking ranger would ignore those cars.

Up ahead there was movement. I froze. Bushes blocked my view of whatever this guy is doing. "Is he skinning a deer?' I eased in closer and got a good view. A large cedar tree offered dry shelter to a couple. Who were engaging in ─ well, "coupling!"

"Damn! This is embarrassing! Now what?" The rain was falling a little harder now. I retreated to a copse of young pines where I could watch ─ strictly to assure that they did not get away! ─ could remain reasonably dry ─ and consider what action to take. My wind breaker and smokey bear hat offered some protection. I soon became aware of their dexterity, his stamina and her flexibility.

"Uh Oh!" exclamations indicated, "They're finishing. Now what?" I backed off to a slight clearing, and waited, saw them, before they saw me,"at least they have their clothes on now,".

Rangers in green and gray can blend into the terrain. Suddenly they saw me, the guy looked quickly back to their nesting site, the girl froze for a split second and then let out a startled cry. Time to make sure I had control of the situation. "Park Ranger," I called out; as I started forward. "You folks have illegally blocked a fire road. I am going to have to see some identification, please," I informed the now very embarrassed couple.

"Is this really necessary?" the male requested. "It's raining. The woods are soaked. No danger of fire!"

"I. D! Now!" I commanded.

He dug his wallet out and handed me his driver's license.

I turned to the young lady. She was crying, "My purse is in my car."

We arrived back at the fire gate. I got out my citation book. She got out her purse.

Uh Oh! Drivers Licenses revealed two different addresses. Late 20's or early 30's a cold day, raining, in the woods, not an ideal tryst location, conclusion ─ "these two are not single! In fact, each is probably married to someone else! Now what?" I seem to be asking this a great deal.

The guy looked like he was about to go into shock. The girl was crying. Then the "Now what?" was answered. She dropped to her knees, in the mud, looked up at me, pleading, "My husband is going to kill me!" Her rain soaked dress made it very clear that she had only partially dressed to return to her car.

"Oh Hell! Spousal abuse!" Ranger hero to the rescue, of maiden in distress. I put my book away, "Damn! Ya'll just get the hell out of here. Next time park at one of the trail head and walk into the woods from there......and," ─ I could not help admonishing ─ '"next time bring a blanket!"

As stated earlier maybe it's the that one of the major emphasis of the Park Service has always been interpretation. Teaching Rangers to give talks, guide tours, inform the public was a very important part of our basic training. Perhaps this is why whenever Rangers gather; stories are an integral part of the camaraderie. I had been to only a few of these musters before it became obvious that encountering couples coupling should have definitely been included in basic ranger skills training.

My next encounter, along this line, was as a third party. No not a mệnage ᾲ trois! I was sitting at my desk when one of the maintenance workers came in and sat down. Bob was what we in the south used to call "slow". Not mentally retarded but somewhat below average IQ. He was obviously worried about something.

"Paul, you and the Superintendent are good friends aren't you." This was shortly after my new suit episode and I was not real sure how I wanted to answer. But, he was obviously very troubled.

"I think so," I cautiously answered. "Why?"

"I need you to explain to him that it was not my fault. I need this job. I don't know what I am going to do when they fire me. You have to help me!" came rolling out in a jumble.

"Whoa! Whoa! Bob, why are you thinking Jack is going to fire you?"

"It was Gene, not me. We're going to get fired."

"What the hell did you two do?"

"It wasn't me, it was Gene. I was just there with him."

"Bob slow down and start at the beginning."

"Gene and I were headed down to do some trail work at Cheatham Hill. He saw something down at the bottom of one of the hills and stopped to investigate. Someone was in the edge of the woods, kneeling down and looked nekked!"

"Ahhh, once again a definitely popular, but unacknowledged park activity."

"They did not see us as we slipped along the edge of the woods. It was a girl? She was straddling some guy. He had all of his clothes on but the girl was completely nekked. I did not know what to do. I looked over at Gene, who was grinning.

They weren't paying any attention to us. Gene walked up, drew back his hand and slapped her real hard ─ right on the butt!"

"Paul, it left a bright red imprint of his hand!? She screamed and rolled off of him. She did not even grab for her clothes. Just was kneeling and rubbing her butt."

"The guy started, hollering, 'Oh My God! Oh My God'. She started laughing!".

" I was scared! Gene was laughing!" He told them, "Get your clothes on and get out of there". "We went back to the truck and on down to Cheatem Hill. They were gone when we came back through. But, she's gonna complain and we are going to get fired."

"When did all of this happen?" I asked, trying to keep from laughing.

"Three days ago. I been on lieu days and just got back," he informed me.

"Let me do some checking. I don't think you will get fired over this. So just go on about your work." I advised.

I related the incident to Jack who ended up roaring with laughter. "No complaint so far and I really doubt we will hear anymore about it."

Jack was partially correct. A week later I was back in his office with the rest of the story.

"Jack I decided to have a talk with Gene. He happily related the incident in even more graphic detail, with the follow up, "I'll tell Bob to quit worrying. I ran into that girl the other night shopping at the grocery. I could not help it. I went up to her, told her who I was. She immediately remembered me and started laughing, 'It was really funny ─ except for the part where you branded my butt'."

Gene said, "I told her, 'you weren't making much progress with him. Sorry we had to interrupt'."

"Don't worry about it" she said, "he wasn't much of a man anyhow."

At Kennesaw Mountain, we lived in a log farmhouse, constructed in the 1830s The house was restored on the exterior but had been finished modern on the interior. Originally there had been a "dog trot" separating the house into two rooms on each side. This area had been enclosed and formed another room. The paucity of kitchen shelves led to Diana to ask that the visitor center desk, which had been replaced, be installed in her kitchen.

The roof was blown off by cannon fire during the battle of Kennesaw Mountain. Still, the house

served as a hospital during, and after, the battle.

Which leads to another topic of discussion among rangers particularly those stationed in historical areas is the paranormal. The topic is kept carefully within the ranks; but, the number of incidents is quite high. Books have been written on paranormal activities at three specific parks ─ Johsua Tree NP, Acadia NP and Gettysburg NMP. Ghosts are referenced in books of haunted places and battlefields. Even going so far as the author of "Paranormal Joshua Tree: Ghosts, Witches, UFOs, Unknown Creatures, Missing Persons, Haunted Places And Mysterious..." being listed as Ranger X.

One incident that comes up fairly often and involves non-park folks. It all started with reports, back in the late 19th century, at Fort Laramie and continuing until at least the 1980s when I first heard of it. I have not heard of an employee witnessing the event; but, periodically, visitors will arrive asking, "Where is the re-enactment taking place?". The report is always exactly the same, "A lady, riding sidesaddle, wearing a green velvet, historical style, riding dress. She, is observed," riding her horse toward the Fort, never looking over at the observers and disappearing over a hill."

Most rangers prefer to either keep totally silent or risk telling the things they have seen to only a trusted group of confidants. I know my own experiences were only told to a very few of my comrades during my working years.

It was at Kolb farmhouse where Diana and I had our own paranormal experience. The most sinister occurred in the shower. Periodically, a blob of bloody pus would appear in the center of a ceramic tile. We cleaned it up each time; but, years later, wished we would have taken a specimen and had it analyzed.

I was often the last person out of a park building at the end of the day. In my career, I never failed to lock every door. This activity was especially important at Kolb Farmhouse. The building was an exhibit, complete with a recorded message outside. We kept the screen doors latched in the daytime to keep visitors from walking into the house. The last thing I did as I headed to bed each night was to latch both screen doors, then shut, lock, and throw the deadbolts on the wooden doors. One morning we got up to find both wooden doors standing open and the screens unlatched. The door locks and deadbolts were in the open position.

Paranormal gave way to normal but exciting when Diana woke me at about 2:00a.m. one morning. The timing did make it seem like déja vous! Except that it was July and only about a 15 minute run to the hospital for Philip's arrival no long winter run. Diana and I have never forgotten the folks at our first assignment. Philip was given his middle name, Paul, in honor of me and Paul Berger the superintendent at our first park.

Being the father of two sons has been very interesting. Both started providing me with interludes of excitement at Kennesaw Mountain. David was just beginning to learn to talk and was hard to understand. The first clear statement I remember happened while shopping. I had him confined to a cart and squatted down to look at some magazines on the bottom shelf. I was aware of an approaching cart and watched to make sure David was not blocking the aisle. The carts had almost cleared when I heard my son's voice ordering, clear as a bell, "Go Bitch!" Luckily his cart was pointing away from the scene and even though the words had not been spoken to me ─ I Went!

A few days later David decided he was going to help Daddy. He had been watching me clean my aquarium, watching Diana clean dishes and decided he would help with the cleaning. You cannot imagine how much soapsuds result from dish detergent being added to the aerator of an aquarium. I must admit that it did clean the tank, the stand, and the floor of the living room.

Philip was not to be outdone. I was watching the news on TV, David was playing with his toys, Philip was watching David and Diana announced, "I'm going enjoy a long bath". A while later David was still there, Diana was in the tub and I could hear Philip in the kitchen. After a while it sunk in that Philip's giggling meant too much fun.

I went to check. My mind could not sort out the scene. There was my youngest son, now sans diaper, covered in some kind of brown, stick, goo. It must have felt good as he was rolling in it and have a grand old time. Then I saw the can! Surely only a half gallon of cane syrup could not cover that much of the room and a human child! But it did. Catching a greased pig loses all analogy when compared to attempting to gently carry a toddler ─ but I managed. Luckily for one of us the bathroom door was warped and would not fully close. I kicked it open and deposited Diana's youngest son in the tub with her.

She seemed to grasp the full content of what had happened a lot faster than I had. She and Philip played in the tub, with several changes of water, until I had managed to clean up the kitchen.

The Park Service decided that my career advancement should continue with another assignment as Park Historian.

Chapter10: Cumberland Gap National Historical Park

Cumberland Gap commemorates the first great gateway to the west. Pioneers followed a trail formed by bison, which used as a thoroughfare by Native Americans, and then finally developed into a primitive road opening the west for pioneers anxious to escape the increasingly crowded eastern seaboard. The States of Kentucky, Virginia and Tennessee meet in the park. Diana and I had non-park housing for the first time. Each workday I would leave Tennessee, drive across Virginia to work in Kentucky.

All of these jurisdictions became even more confusing during the summer. Tennessee and Virginia went on daylight savings time, while Kentucky remained on standard time. Damn confusing for meeting folks, making appointments and issuing citations.

As Chief Historian there were two very different aspects to my position. I was responsible for interpretive programs in the headquarters area. This included walks, talks, campfire programs and living history demonstrations. It was here that I moved up a notch from giving demonstrations with the Kentucky Long Rifle to becoming an instructor in black powder weaponry. When I arrived there were only 14 public programs. With only a slight increase in budget, I increased the number of programs per week enough for it to be referenced in the Park Service Director's article on the state of the parks in Time Magazine (my name was not mentioned).

However, the major emphasis of my job was the restoration of Hensley Settlement. This isolated mountain village survived into the first half of the 20th century, still without roads, electricity, or any other modern convenience. Everything up there had to be carted up the mountainside on the backs of mules. Life was little changed from the arrival of the settlers in the late 18th century. The Park Service used a four wheel drive trail, rough, steep, and a great many switchbacks to get up the mountain to Hensley Settlement.

Going up was bad enough in the summer; but, even more interesting coming down in the winter. During one very cold and snowy period, my supervisor, Steve Smith, decided to see Hensley Settlement with snow on the ground. We had been there for short while when the weather turned bad. The clouds dropped and a fine mist made both of us think, that getting back to civilization might be a good idea. This decision was reinforced as we realized the road was covered with ice as we approached the first steep incline, Steve said, "Maybe you better get on the brakes."

"I am on the brakes."

A few moments of silence, "Maybe you better turn the hubs (allowing the use of 4 wheel drive)

"The hubs are turned."

A few moments of silence and he advised, "Maybe you better put her in four wheel low."

"It's in double low."

A few more moments of silence, "Maybe you ought to put the chains on."

"The chains are on." This was getting funny; but, I resisted laughing ─ out loud anyway.

More silence, then came the plea, "Can you get this thing stopped?"

"Nope, but, I can keep her moving pretty slow. I think we can jump if we have too!"

A few moments silence and Steve started quietly singing, "Nearer my God to Thee.....!"

"Oh My God, this is hilarious!" I thought. Then, a few minutes later, I was almost ready to join in ─ as we skidded around the first switchback and slid down the incline to the second. But his singing seemed to be more of a prayer than a song and I knew that wouldn't do me a damn bit of good. When we finally reached the bottom, Steve showed an intense interest in the foot trail that came up the other side of the mountain.

All activities, from the reconstruction of houses, to use of animals, and growing of crops had to be accomplished within the historical framework. My repertoire of skills expanded to include plowing with mules, basic veterinary skills, hewing logs, splitting shakes, and timber frame construction.

I learned the value of hill wisdom such as that concerning the outhouse, "Too close in the summer, Too far in the inter" and mules., "Dangerous on both ends." I learned that mineral oil had probably been used for the "slicker than a greased pig" analogy. Advancing my black powder skills with the flintlock rifle assured me of the validity of an old German inscription on a Jaegar rifle, "All skill is in vain when an angle pees in the touchhole of your musket".

My responsibility included the two mules housed at Hensley Settlement. The horse belonged to the protection division; but, we shared the animals as the need arose. The foreman, Clyde Rains, of my hillbilly restoration crew came to my office to advise me, "Molly, is actin' porely". Having become conversant in "hill talk", Clyde could handle minor physical ailments. I interpreted this to mean a veterinarian's services were required.

Arrangements were made; I gave the vet a ride from his office for the two hour run up to Hensley Settlement. He immediately put his stethoscope to her belly and gave a quick diagnosis, "She's 'blocked up'. Needs a 'cleaning out'." He was either from the "Hollers" or was as familiar with hill dialog as I had become.

"Ok." I watched as he took a rubber tube and forced it down her nose. Molly complained. Clyde grabbed the halter. The Vet massaged her throat to get it past her glottis. I stood back and watched. Periodically, as the tube descended the Vet would blow into it, put his nose over the end and take a deep breath. The second time, I could not stand the suspense, "What the hell are you doing?"

"I have to know that this tube has reached her stomach." I thought of the potential for Molly throwing up and decided that whatever we were paying this guy ─ it was worth it. This thought only held until I got the bill, saw what he got per hour, that he was paid portal to portal, and contemplated what that damn mule had cost me.

Finally, the tube was satisfactorily located. The Vet mixed up a couple of quarts of some milky, thick, foul smelling concoction, put a huge funnel in the end of the tube and poured it down the gurgling, choking, protesting mule's throat.

"Will that clean her out?" I asked innocently.

"If you are going to be using her to plow over the next few days ─ well, I would sure not like to be the one hanging on to the handles!"

Sheer luck saved my budget a bundle. "Might as well take a look at the other mule while you are here," I advised.

He looked the other mule over and in the mouth before delivering the prognosis, "He's in good shape; but, he really needs his teeth floated."

I had no idea why you would want to float a mule's teeth and decided the best course of action was to just play along. "OK. Go ahead."

"I'm going to need some help. Get a good rope attached to the halter. I'm going get my twitch."

"Strange," I thought, "I had not noticed his speech impediment before. But, damn I've worked old Joe and if thinks a switch is going to mean anything to this mule, he's crazy." The vet returned with two metal rods, joined at one end with a kind of hinge.

"Here," he handed the thing to me and said "grab his lip." I stood there and looked at Clyde Rains (my mule handler), who shrugged at me.

"You've never used a twitch," he observed. "Just clamp his lower lip between the two rods, squeeze tight, and roll the lip back. He will open his mouth".

I followed instructions and, sure enough, accompanied by a foul smell and a loud bray, Old Joe opened his mouth wide. That's when I learned the meaning of "float his teeth". As a horse or mule chews grain, it wears the teeth unevenly. Eventually, the outer edge becomes so pronounced that it can actually cut the animal's jaw. To "float the teeth" the Vet takes what looks like a very rough wood rasp and files down the high side, evening up the teeth.

He carefully placed the rasp in the back of Joe's jaw, pushed down, and jerked. Joe screamed his protest at the dental work. The twitch was almost jerked from my hands. Clyde grabbed the halter to hold the mule's head. The Vet made his second scrape.Old Joe screamed and spit. I cussed, Clyde grunted and the Vet called, "Hang on boys."

Before long Old Joe and I were down on our knees, in the barn, in ─ well what covers the floor of a barn. Clyde had straddled the mule's neck holding his head almost vertical, the vet kept rasping. About a quarter hour later, the job was done, rangers and Vet were covered with mule spit and blood (occasionally the rasp hit flesh), and old Joe staggered to his feet.

Recalling an animal event involving branding, I got ready to get the hell out of the barn. Old Joe spun, ran out the back of the building, and headed for the far end of the pasture. "Hmmmm," I mused. Having teeth floated must be a lot worse than having a brand run down your body.

As we rode down the mountain and headed for town, the Vet advised, "You boys may want to hone up on some veterinarian skills".

"After watching you work today, I don't think so," I stated emphatically.

A few days later I got the Vet's bill. He charged portal to portal for his time and the hourly rate put him in a category above lawyers.

Too soon, I had to reconsider my aversion to veterinarian work. Now Old Joe was constipated. I called the Vet, "Remember your advice about us doing a little of our own medical work? Well, I have a constipated mule. It seems a shame to take you from more important animal needs just for that. Do you think we could do it ourselves?"

"Sure, no problem, drop by my office on your way up," was somewhat encouraging. I was; however, praying that I would not find a bottle and a long hose as part of the procedure.

Half my desire came true. When Clyde and I arrived, the Vet set a bottle of mineral oil on the counter, telling us, "he just needs some help in moving things through."

"How much do we give him and how often?" I asked, eyeing the gallon jug.

"Only once. Just give him the whole bottle," grinning at our reaction. "It's really easy. Just get a quart bottle, fill it with mineral oil, pull his tongue to the side, and pour it down his throat,".

"Shoot, this vet thing is easy, why in the hell were we paying him to enjoy a ride up the mountain, spend a few minutes, ride back to his office ─ and we could have done it ourselves!" I thought.

Old Joe was a little suspicious when we led him into the barn; but, a sugar cube put him at ease. Clyde filled an old wine bottle ─ the narrow neck seemed to offer an advantage ─ with mineral oil. I grabbed Old Joe by the nose and forced a finger in each nostril ─ "Damn! Why hadn't we thought to get one of those twitches?" I managed to, force his mouth open, grab his tongue, and using both hands pulled it out the side of his mouth. Clyde rammed the wine bottle into his throat, old Joe gagged but the mineral oil ran right out of the bottle. Time for a refill.

I watched the mule as Clyde refilled the bottle. We laughed at Joe as he was wallowing his tongue all over and stretching it out the front of his mouth like an ant eater. Time for the second dose. I stuck my fingers in each nostril, "it's a little slick". I grabbed his tongue, damn it was slick, as one hand slipped off, I replaced it with the other. Each hand kept sliding down, was replaced by the second, which slid down, which was replaced by the other..........! Finally, I had a eureka moment, turned loose of Old Joe, grabbed a rag, stuck my fingers back in his nose, and used the rag to pull out his tongue.. We finally got this one done. Needed one more bottle. I am sure we got the first bottle down Joe, even think we got most of the second bottle down the recalcitrant mule, but as I looked around, the mule's neck and head glistened, quite a bit was on the walls of the stall and......well......Clyde and I had to be the softest rangers around. I am also remembering that neither of us had any elimination problems for a while after treating Joe.

It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, the protection division ranger Jim and I were up at Hensley Settlement, sitting on the pasture fence, having lunch together. Jim could not resist and asked, "Which one of those mules is the one you and Clyde softened up with the mineral oil?" Needless to say, the mineral oil incident became the main topic of discussion at the Gap.

I was getting kind of tired of the comments. "The one that is smart enough to know he can't reproduce." I replied.

We had been admiring the new Morgan gelding that had been delivered a few days ago. Jim had been in the Park Management training course with Diana and me. I was aware that Jim knew very little about horses when he excitedly exclaimed, "Look at that!"

Eddie, the horse, had run his penis out as they occasionally do. "Damn, it's huge," Jim observed.

Realizing an opportunity, I rose to the task. Time for some education, "They do that all the time. Not a problem if it is cared for properly." I tried and, apparently, succeeded in keeping my tone modulated to indicate nothing interesting going on. Jim looked puzzled. I continued eating my sandwich, leaving him to mull it over for a few minutes; before asking very seriously, "You are taking care of it aren't you?"

Jim had known me long enough to be suspicious. "I'm sure Charles (Park Technician) knows what he is doing when he grooms Eddie."

"OK," I said with as serious a manner as I could muster. "You just don't want it drying out and cracking. Long term treatment needed to heal that. Crap, might even be considered animal abuse."

We quietly ate our lunch. Me trying to keep from snickering and Jim deep in thought. I got down ready to head back to my vehicle, "Paul, do the mules do the same thing Eddie was doing?"

The bait was taken and I set the hook, "Sure they do."

After a few moments of silence with me offering no clarification, "How do you take care of it?"

"Vaseline," I replied and paused as if thinking. "You know, sometimes it's kind of a struggle to get the sheath pulled back and the penis pushed out. I just make sure it is coated and slick it down nice and thick."

I left Jim carefully observing Eddie. I chuckled to myself, "A few days from now someone is going to say, 'You know what Jim thinks we ought to do with that horse'?" Damn, this is going to be better than the mineral oil story".

It was almost a week later. The door to my office swung open and bounced off the wall. Charles rushed in screaming at me, "You son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill you!"

I was genuinely puzzled. I thought, "What was I guilty of this time?" while asking aloud "What the hell is going on?"

Charles choked out, "I'm gonna kill you. Do you know what that damn Jim wants me to do? He said it was your idea. You told him it had to be done. He said that you know all about animals. I could not convince him that you are crazy. He just said, 'Charles don't argue with me. This is an order. Obey it.' He believes you and I'm gonna kill you!"

Killing me would be an easy task to accomplish. I was falling out of my chair laughing. Good thing he was not serious with the death threat. This had reached a magnitude of which I would not even have dreamed. Life is wonderful!

It took a while for me to convince Jim that this was just a little playful fun. He never did learn to trust me again and I am pretty damn sure he was not too forgiving. And, by-the-way, I did have to leave his "going away" party early, after he opened one of his gifts to find a jar of vaseline. No! I did not do that! But damn it was a good touch by somebody.

Jim's replacement was another friend who had been in the same class with Diana and me. Sometimes I think that my guardian angel is maybe setting up situations to test my ability to show restraint and my ability to resist. If so, I usually fail. Don was a by-the-book ranger. He even once ticketed his wife for speeding. He admitted that the next week or so of cold cuts for dinner made him aware of this faux pas. Don really did not have any of the usual sins of indulgence. Let alone over indulgence. Incredible!

Don and I, along with several of the old mountain boys on my reconstruction crew were up at Hensley Settlement one summer day. It was lunch time and we had just finished eating. One of the guys had brought along a homemade twist of some extremely strong tobacco. I took the "chaw" I was offered. The spittin' and lyin' session started in earnest.

Don was fascinated, with the chewin' and spittin' (he was used to the lyin' part) and finally offered, "You know I have never smoked or chewed tobacco."

"Why not?" one of the good old boys asked ─ suspiciously.

Good lord, you don't know what you been missin'." another commented. "It delivers a bigger charge and lasts longer than whiskey. Almost better'n sex!" receiving only partial agreement from the group.

Maybe it was that final comment, Don said, "I would like to try it."

One of the boys cut a chunk off the twist. A damn big chunk, even for a regular practitioner. Don popped it in his mouth, chewed a minute and managed to gurgle at us, "Doesn't taste very good."

"Keep chewin', it gets better 'n better."

Don spat, ─ spat again, ─ and again, ─ finally he spit out the cud, leaned over drooling, "Help Me! Help Me! I can't spit fast enough. I'm gonna drown!"

Everyone was too busy rolling on the ground laughing to even contemplate assistance. Then someone hollered, "Keep breathin' 'cause, mouth to mouth ain't gonna happen'."

Damn! Lyin' 'n spittin' 'n chewin' had never been this much fun before!

` After a while some color returned to his face, and he wasn't heaving quite so bad. I advised, "Look at it this way Don, we have saved you from a habit that women find very objectionable".

Don was not easily placated and moaned, "Diana (Don's wife) is going to wonder why I won't kiss her. It will take at least a week for the taste and smell of that stuff to get out of my mouth."

"No it won't. Just keep quiet. Hell, do you think I have told Diana (my wife) that I take a chaw when I'm up here or out hunting? Damn, my Momma did not raise a complete idiot."

Cumberland Gap was my introduction to Search and Rescue. The most unusual incident, for me, was when I was the one who found the missing children. I was returning from Hensley Settlement and listening to the park radio conversations about a brother than sister (pre-teens) who had gone missing from the campground several hours earlier. It was late in the day and about time to bring in the helicopters.

"Damn!" I thought. "There goes the budget." I drove around a sharp curve, moving into the other lane to avoid to children walking on the narrow shoulder of the road. It suddenly occurred to me that I was in an area with no houses nearby, the campground was directly south of me on the other side of the mountain, these kids are very young, boy and girl. I pulled as far off the road as I could, put on my blinkers, and got on the radio.

I had not been paying that much attention to the search. I knew enough not to approach children, who had been lost very long, too rapidly, "What are the names of the missing children?" With that information I got out of the car and waited for the children to get close.

I think the uniform helped, luckily I had on the "flat hat". They stopped about 20 yards from me and looked like they might bolt into the woods. "I need some help." I called to them. I am supposed to give Jack and Jill a ride back to our campground, and I can't find them."

After a minute or so, the girl volunteered, "I am Jill and he is Jack. Are you a park ranger?"

"Yes, I am. I have been up in the mountains and am headed back to the campground. One of the other Rangers called me on the radio and said your parents think you might have gone over the mountain and since it is a long way back, if I should see you, I was supposed to give you a ride." Now and then luck just happens. I was not even part of the search and became the hero! This happened on one other occasion, but that is a story for later in the memoirs.

Surprises on the trip to and from Hensley were not unusual. I was in the roughest part of the switchbacks, coming down (a lot more difficult driving than going up) ─ suddenly one of the local hillbilly's stepped into the road in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and barely managed to control the slide as the 4x2 fishtailed to a stop. I jumped from the vehicle and was about to scream at the idiot when I noticed the shotgun. "Huuuuh, something I can help you with?" I asked politely.

"Seen any kids?" Interesting question. We were near the top of the mountain and were several miles inside the park boundary.

"Nope. Not many hikers up this high. Is someone lost?"

"Naw, my kids broke into the neighbor's house and took some stuff. I figgered I better find 'um fore he does." Was his answer as he stepped back into the woods and disappeared. I mention this episode as I had heard of something along this line a few days earlier.

One of the park maintenance workers was painting my office. I was used to these old boys tilting their heads back further and further as the tobacco juice built up in their mouths. Eventually they would gurgle so much understanding became impossible. They would go to the door, spit, and return to continue he conversation. But, this guy added greatly to my education.

I had never realized that it is impossible to spit if you have no teeth! When he approached the point of indecipherability, he would go outside, lean over, and let the juice dribble out of his mouth. Fascinating! If somewhat repulsive.

He was also the one that came in looking like hell. I observed, "It does not look as if you got a lot of sleep last night."

"I didn'."

It was the middle of the week so over indulgence did not seem to be the reason. "Sick?"

"Nope, neighbor below me and neighbor above me got in a hassle. Spent most of the night shooting at each other."

Damn, did you call the law?"

"Naw, they's all local boys. They understand our little disagreements. ain't gone come out less someone gets kilt. Sides that holler is so steep and I live in a little dip, so all the shots went way above me."

Hillbilly logic ─ ain't no arguing with that.

All of the excitement was not "away from home". I came in from work one day to be greeted by Philip screaming, "Daddy!" as he launched himself at me ─ from the top of the refrigerator. The appliance stood isolated and we never did figure out how the hell he got up there.

It was here that Diana convinced the boys that she could see around corners. "Leave that alone!" she would order from the kitchen to the boys in the living room ─ with a wall intervening. They were grown before learning that she was watching their reflection in the glass of my 40 gallon aquarium. They unknowingly interrupted this spying device.

I was at the kitchen table when I heard a loud thump, followed by squirting water. Looking up, I saw one of the boys lying in front of the aquarium, being soaked with water and fish, spraying from a huge crack in the glass. I was paralyzed for a moment ─ did I check on the kid on the floor, ─ try to stem the flow of water, ─ rescue my fish, ─ find out what happened. I did not see blood flowing, ─ crack was too large to deal with ─ what happened was a hell of a mess. Rescue my fish became my priority. What happened? Fighting! One boy charged toward the other ─ who side stepped but helped his brother increase his speed ─ charging brother ran into my aquarium ─ water behind the glass absorbed enough shock to prevent real injury ─ boys in shock ─ Daddy appears on scene boys concerned enough to help round up the fish ─ just another day in life with the Guraedy boys.

At the Gap, I continued my skills with black power, adding the flintlock Kentucky Rifle to my repertoire. With a lot of schedule twisting, I managed to increase the number of interpretive programs from 12 to about 100 each week. But, my major accomplishment was being selected as mentor/advisor to a new ranger trainee. Somebody, up there ( NO! NO! Not that high! I mean the Washington Office) thinks I am doing something right.

It was here that I turned down my first opportunity for a promotion. I was offered the Superintendent position at Thomas Edison National Historic Site. After less than 10 years service and in my 4th assignment; I had my eyes set on my own park. But this was not to be it. First, David, my oldest son, had been diagnosed with severe allergies, mostly related to the eastern climate. Second, I knew that as a historian, if I accepted a historical park; I would be stuck with this type area for the rest of my career. I really needed to focus attention in another direction. The perfect opportunity was offered ─ the right place at the right time. I was headed for Port Gibson on the Natchez Trace Parkway.