Part 1 (1/2)
I Married a Ranger.
by Dama Margaret Smith.
_FOREWORD_
_I Married a Ranger_ is an intimate story of ”pioneer” life in a national park, told in an interesting, humorous way, that makes it most delightful.
To me it is more than a book; it is a personal justification. For back in 1921, when the author came to my office in Was.h.i.+ngton and applied for the clerical vacancy existing at the Grand Canyon, no woman had been even considered for the position. The park was new, and neither time nor funds had been available to install facilities that are a necessary part of our park administrative and protective work. Especially was the Grand Canyon lacking in living quarters. For that reason the local superintendent, as well as Was.h.i.+ngton Office officials, were opposed to sending any women clerks there.
Nevertheless, after talking to the author, I decided to make an exception in her case, so she became the first woman Government employee at the Canyon. _I Married a Ranger_ proves that the decision was a happy one.
It is a pleasure to endorse Mrs. Smith's book, and at the same time to pay a tribute of admiration to the women of the Service, both employees and wives of employees, who carry on faithfully and courageously under all circ.u.mstances.
ARNO B. CAMMERER _a.s.sociate Director,_ National Park Service
Chapter I:
”OUT IN ARIZONA, WHERE THE BAD MEN ARE”
”So you think you'd like to work in the Park Office at Grand Canyon?”
”Sure!” ”Where is Grand Canyon?” I asked as an afterthought.
I knew just that little about the most spectacular chasm in the world, when I applied for an appointment there as a Government worker.
Our train pulled into the rustic station in the wee small hours, and soon I had my first glimpse of the Canyon. Bathed in cold moonlight, the depths were filled with shadows that disappeared as the sun came up while I still lingered, spellbound, on the Rim.
On the long train journey I had read and re-read the _Grand Canyon Information Booklet_, published by the National Park Service. I was still unprepared for what lay before me in carrying out my role as field clerk there. So very, very many pages of that booklet have never been written--pages replete with dangers and hards.h.i.+ps, loneliness and privations, sacrifice and service, all sweetened with friends.h.i.+ps not found in heartless, hurrying cities, lightened with loyalty and love, and tinted with glamour and romance. And over it all lies a fascination a stranger without the gates can never share.
I was the first woman ever placed in field service at the Grand Canyon, and the Superintendent was not completely overjoyed at my arrival. To be fair, I suppose he expected me to be a clinging-vine nuisance, although I a.s.sured him I was well able to take care of myself. Time softens most of life's harsh memories, and I've learned to see his side of the question. What was he to do with a girl among scores of road builders and rangers? When I tell part of my experiences with him, I do so only because he has long been out of the Service and I can now see the humorous aspect of our private feud.
As the sun rose higher over the Canyon, I reluctantly turned away and went to report my arrival to the Superintendent. He was a towering, gloomy giant of a man, and I rather timidly presented my a.s.signment. He looked down from his superior height, eyed me severely, and spoke gruffly.
”I suppose you know you were thrust upon me!”
”No. I'm very sorry,” I said, quite meekly.
While I was desperately wondering what to do or say next, a tall blond man in Park uniform entered the office.
The Superintendent looked quite relieved.
”This is White Mountain, Chief Ranger here. I guess I'll turn you over to him. Look after her, will you, Chief?” And he washed his hands of me.
In the Was.h.i.+ngton office I had often heard of ”White Mountain” Smith. I recalled him as the Government scout that had seen years of service in Yellowstone before he became Chief Ranger at Grand Canyon. I looked him over rather curiously and decided that I liked him very well. His keen blue eyes were the friendliest I had seen since I left West Virginia. He looked like a typical Western man, and I was surprised that his speech had a ”down East” tone.
”Aren't you a Westerner?”
”No, I'm a Connecticut Yankee,” he smiled. ”But we drift out here from everywhere. I've been in the West many years.”
”Have you ever been in West Virginia?” I blurted. Homesickness had settled all over me.