This is one of my favorite photos from my time in Wyoming. My "truck shot." Note the baseball hat. Still wearing that tomboy style. Jeans and hiking boots (I coveted the Red Wing work boots most of the trail crew wore). The wire-rim glasses and the white button-down shirt are perhaps giveaways that I don't entirely fit the aesthetic. (Note, also, the plentitude of snow in the background, though this picture was taken in July.) What I'm not wearing in this picture: my official USFS baseball hat and my USFS nametag. I wasn't technically on the job when this picture was snapped.
For the summer I was in Wyoming, my job was to staff a trailer near the main highway that was euphemistically called "the bear box." Tourists heading towards Yellowstone would pull in, mostly to use the bathrooms and picnic tables, and I was available to answer questions. I gave them maps of campgrounds, explained the sites of popular trails, and tried to convince them that if they did camp or hike they should be aware that there were bears -- grizzly and black -- in the area and store their food accordingly (I had lots of pamphlets on proper food storage).
It was not the job I wanted. I lived at a station with a crew that did trail work, a crew of firefighters, and a couple of bona fide rangers (with the big hats). My job seemed kind of dinky next to theirs (In the novel, I give Ron more exciting employment, rest assured).
There were things that I liked about the job. My favorite aspect was sharing in people's awe. They'd pull into the rest area, which, although it was on a highway, was also situated between two red rock bluffs, and get out and just gawp. Looking west, up the highway from the rest area, there were ranks of purple mountains, marching from the mid-distance for as far as you could see. It never got old to see folks soak up the natural beauty.
And, of course, I liked being the expert. A lot of tourists asked me how old I was and when I told them I was 18 (about to be 19) they expressed total disbelief. But I had the advantage of knowing the terrain, and I prided myself on being the resident expert. I asked the head ranger for books on the geology, the birds, the wild flowers, and so on, until I could answer any question the tourists threw at me (I promise you, I never offered information unless requested. I'm not that type of person). This was my compensation method for looking young... and it worked: I ended up having dozens of conversations a day about the world around me, with people overlooking (at least most of the time) my youthful appearance. And I ended up really enjoying the job. It wasn't the full-on, backcountry ranger experience, but it left me with a deep appreciation for the wildlife and natural history of the area... and a better understanding of the many Americans who were on the road in RVs that summer. It was a simple job, but one I left satisfied at the end of most days. I'd pack up my books (I usually had plenty of time to read) and walk down the long driveway back to the station and go over the questions I'd fielded that day, especially the ones that had stumped me: what was the gray mineral layer in the cliffs? Where were the elk herds at this time of year? It is awfully nice to be curious about the natural world, to be in the middle of it, and to feel such gratitude while living in its midst.