Chapt. 2 Meeting a Range of Rangers: We get some swell swag and lots of keys

First of all – park rangers are every bit as great as you think they are. More on this later, but one of my first impressions as we sat in orientation on day one was that our ranger-boss was passionate about her park and compassionate toward its guests. That would be reinforced many times throughout the month we spent with her.

They also come in lots of different sizes and shapes (not too many different colors in our park, but in fairness, Oregon outside of the Portland metro is quite white). Some fit the stereotype you’d most expect – the uber-fit young-ish outdoorsy savant who kayaks to work every day and could wrestle a bear while hiking 20 miles on her lunch hour. Others . . . well, let’s just say that if you saw them in their civvies in a grocery store, you wouldn’t necessarily think park ranger.

We couldn’t avoid eavesdropping on a book discussion one of the rangers had over Zoom in the hospitality center one of the days we were working. The book was The Divine Comedy. “I feel chaos in Dante’s approach,” the ranger asserted. And proceeded to offer heaps of theological and literary references to support his claim.

“I’ll be glad to get out of Purgatory,” he remarked to his class. Chatting before the class, Randy learned that he’s working on an MFA in literature. His break over, he headed back to work, which was likely cleaning a restroom, untangling some camper’s reservation problem, or moving a load of firewood with the forklift.

On orientation day, we received dandy Oregon State Park volunteer vests, and soon after received our envy-inducing “OSP Smokey Bear” hats that we could have sold 60 times in the camp store. No way. Those things are the shit.

We also received key rings that contained at least 17 keys that we never needed, but just the idea of wielding that much power and access was intoxicating. Toilet paper dispensers – total access. Tool shed – ours to explore. Golf carts – (OK, bombing around in those was fun, I’m not gonna’ lie. Although there’s a Golf Cart Hierarchy. More on that later).

And the trash compactor. “Be sure you open it and call out before you compact the trash,” our ranger-boss advised. Its behemoth size means that houseless folks might climb inside to get out of the rain or cold.

Ditto the super-sized recycling bins. “A guy popped out of one of those when I was moving it and I nearly had a heart attack,” a more seasoned camp host told us. We saw yet another side of our nation’s inability to address our housing crisis while in the park. And we saw nothing but compassion from the staff and volunteers. More on that later, too.

We are cautioned in orientation about avoiding any political discussions, engaging with guests whose opinions might be different than our own. That turned out to be not as difficult as we feared it might be. People who appreciate and use the parks are for the most part . . . appreciative. Aside from a couple of T-shirt messages that made me want to vomit and/or commit murder, we were able to engage with guests with no problem.

Rangers have to be the ultimate diplomats. I’m amazed and humbled by the grace and patience each of them we met displayed in their work. I gather they get a lot of training for this.

One young ranger had come from the Santiam Canyon, where a wildfire burned 400,000 acres in 2020. We commiserated about climate change, and its devastation on our state’s gorgeous landscape. “We don’t seem willing to stop it,” I remarked. “Nope,” was her only response. And she returned to weed whacking.

As a volunteer, you’re told clearly that you inform about – not enforce – park rules. The most frequently occurring violation is, apparently, dogs off leashes. “Just let the guest know the dog should be on a leash no longer than six feet,” Our ranger advised. “If that doesn’t happen, or you get resistance, let us know.”

Occasionally there can be more serious infractions. We heard the story of the host who found a gun while cleaning a yurt. And we learned what to do if someone has a visible firearm in their campsite. Because evidently even while camping in a state campground some people just can’t function without their substitute dick. I suppose I should feel pity for those who are either so angry or so frightened, but . . . I haven’t had ranger training, so I just think they’re dangerous, selfish idiots. Fortunately, nothing even close to this level of severity occurred on our watch.

Another topic in our orientation was how to react to a tsunami. “If it’s far away, help with evacuation,” our ranger-boss explained. “If you feel an earthquake – save yourself.” That’s easier said than done, since the part of the coast we were on was pretty flat, and our park was immediately adjacent to Hwy 101, the main evacuation route for the entire Oregon coast. We mapped out a plan, which involved us being able to drive, run, climb about .6 of a mile from where our trailer was parked, with two cat carriers and who knows how many other people scrambling around us. We were willing to give it our best shot, but I’m grateful we didn’t have to test it.

Oregon is woefully unprepared for a major earthquake/tsunami. We’ve pretty much decided that if it happens, we’re likely toast on the coast. At home in Beaverton/Portland we have a better chance. And yes, we’re completely willing to take the risk in order to live in this astoundingly beautiful place.

And so, dutifully oriented, outfitted adorably and empowered with keys in hand, we begin to learn what camp hosting is all about.

NOTE: I use quotations here for stylistic effect. I did not take contemporaneous notes during these conversations, so quotations should really be considered paraphrases. I make every attempt to represent the content and intent accurately.

This is a view of part of the beach at the park where we were posted in June. As you can see, it doesn't really suck at all.