A Seasonal Ranger Screws up His First Arrest

That Summer in Death Canyon, First Day

As a first year seasonal employee in Grand Teton National Park, I should have spent that summer sitting in a booth at the entrance gate. 

          But the people who managed the park recognised I was specially qualified: I knew how to saddle a horse. So they assigned me to back country patrol and posted me up in Death Canyon at a relatively remote, pack-in ranger station. 

          That was the summer of 1959. I was 21 and had been a university graduate almost a whole month.

Death Canyon Ranger Station, 1959, with Spud, who replaced King. 

Notice the hitching rail, which is a replacement also. 

Its predecessor will play an exciting role in a later post. 

(family album)

My initial task of the summer was to ride up to the cabin, inventory its contents, and make a list of the gear and supplies needing to be packed in. The job finished, I remounted King, the big, black, handsome half-Morgan I’d been assigned, and started back toward the trail head at White Grass Ranger Station.

Two hundred yards east of the ranger station, at the top of the steep climb up the canyon from Phelps Lake, a group of dismounted riders was milling around, boisterous and talkative. Guests from a dude ranch, they were guided by a pair of young wranglers. 

          They were also escorted—in clear violation of Park Regulations—by a very happy black and white cattle dog, tongue hanging, running excitedly among all those legs.

Rule, rules, rules

Park regulation had come to Jackson Hole relatively recently and was still unwelcome to many people. Seasonal rangers especially were not held in high esteem by the locals. Ranchers resented the very real legal authority the park ranger badge conferred on what they saw as intruding, mostly urban youngsters.  

Here’s an example of what people complained about. Later that summer a party of six rode up to the ranger station at midday. The man in the lead dismounted, clearly angry and looking for a confrontation. Anyone wearing a park uniform would do. I stepped out the cabin door.

The Idiot says something stupid

“Why does the Park Service hire idiots like that guy down at White Grass? Is it official policy? Do they go out of their way to find people like him?”

 “What’s he done this time?”

“Just look. Me. My wrangler. Four dudes. Six saddle horses and three pack horses. And that silly son-of-a-bitch told me I should camp near water.”

I laughed. Holding out my hand to shake his, I said, “Well now, I’m sure you’re all going to be sleeping next to the creek tonight. No point in letting good advice go to waste.”

He glared at me. Then he started laughing too. The rest of his day went better I think.

In fairness to The Idiot, he was merely parroting something his superiors at headquarters had instructed him to tell people headed into the back country. Back packers carry their water, and some like to spend nights high up on the dry ridges. Abandoned campfires had been found smoldering because the canteen was empty the next morning.

Riders are a different story. Cowboys leading dudes and pack strings will always camp along the creek bottoms because they need gallons of water. The Idiot should have thought of that. And he should have understood the resentment triggered when a wet-behind-the-ears seasonal orders an experienced local to do something obvious.

Death Canyon Creek 

(NPS)

No leash, no pet

Now let’s return to that first day in Death Canyon, when a young man, wearing a ranger badge and Smoky the Bear hat, sat on the tall horse King, surrounded by dudes, a dozen mounts, and a happy, scampering dog.

The two young wranglers looked up from his left stirrup, smiling but apprehensive. They tried to seem nonchalant about the dog, shooing him away unobtrusively. They cast furtive glances at the ranger, wondering whether he had noticed the dog; or whether, being a seasonal, he was even aware of the prohibition against unleashed pets in the Park. 

          The dudes, understanding none of this, kept calling the dog, petting him, and encouraging his antics. And the new ranger? He paid no attention.

Planning for Saturday night

The wranglers and the ranger chatted. They exchanged names. He explained he would be working out of the ranger station and patrolling the south end of the Park for the rest of the summer. They said they brought people up the canyon for trail rides and expected to see him often.

All agreed to watch for each other Saturday night at the bar of the Wort Hotel in Jackson. The wranglers exchanged relieved grins as the ranger finally reined his big horse around to head down the canyon.

Then he stopped, turned in his saddle, and said, “Next time, leave the dog at home.” Among the dude ranches in Jackson Hole it was reported that the Park Service had stationed a seasonal ranger in Death Canyon. But he was okay.

And no more dogs came up the trail that summer.

Grand Tetons. 

Death Canyon is left center of photo, 

the distinctive Death Canyon Ledge visible at its head. 

(NPS)

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Too Much Handsome, Too Much Devil