would have turned mountain meadows into dirt fields. Other areas, the Rae Lakes in particular, had been so heavily used by campers that dead and down wood that could be burned as firewood was almost depleted. In cases such as this, camping and grazing of stock was limited to one night, and a recent invention for cookingâthe backpacker stoveâwas encouraged. Without these and other controls, it was predicted, the High Sierra wilderness would never recover.
Referencing a range of ecological studies, the parksâ scientists compiled a backcountry management plan in 1960 that outlined ever-increasing populations. They proposed a set of experimental rules and regulations that, if adhered to, would theoretically save the backcountry from becoming another frontcountry.
Randy represented a new generation of clean-shaven and uniformed rangers with military-cropped haircuts who, like military grunts, were stationed on the front lines but, as seasonal employees, held the lowest rank. Their challenge was to introduce this way of thinking to a cast of backpackers, fishermen, horsemen, and climbers, who werenât always receptive to new ideas.
In young Ranger Randy, the Park Service had been delivered the perfect foot soldier, though his gentle nature made him more of an archangel crusading in a green uniform. He already considered the High Sierra his church; the backcountry management plan became his bible. The report read like scripture to Randy, warning of an impending doomsday and often citing his childhood home, Yosemite, as an example of what could occur. Here, in the backcountry of Sequoia and Kings Canyon, manâs presence had not yet dismembered Mother Wildernessâbut she was barely holding on.
Armageddon was upon them.
Besides his academic knowledge of that report and a genuine desire to protect his beloved wilderness from the proverbial fires of hell, Randy had brought with him an innate love and enthusiasm for the Sierra as well as the ability to survive in its wilds. The plants and the animals were his kindred spirits; the geology and waterways were his temples. But he didnât know first aid or CPR. He wore no sidearm,carried no handcuffs. Disarming, much less defending himself from, an armed suspect was the stuff of movies, not his reality. The skills required to lower an injured climber off a precarious cliff or rescue a drowning hiker from swift whitewater had not been taught in ranger training because there was no formal training for seasonal backcountry rangers at Sequoia and Kings Canyon.
His job was to hike the trails and âspread the gospelâ to as many visitors as possible. He issued fire permits, picked up trash, hung Mountain Manners signs, naturalized campsites, and if there was an emergencyâmedical, forest fire, whateverâhe was to tend to the situation as best he could and radio for assistance. In 1965, he knew none of the skills that would become second nature as he traveled down the high and lonely path of these parksâ most trainedâsome would call them eliteâbackcountry rangers.
Despite his fit, but certainly not commanding, 5-foot-8-inch, 140-pound frame, Randy was, in these parts, the law of the land. Add youth to his stature, however, and the National Park Service patch on his shoulder and silver badge on his chest gave him little more law enforcement presence than an Eagle Scout at a bank robbery. But that didnât mean he didnât take the rangersâ motto seriously. Each morning he pinned the National Park Ranger badge above his left chest pocket; he was prepared to âprotect the people from the park, and the park from the people.â It was his mantra.
He soon learned, however, that his main duty that summer was to collect garbageâgunnysacks full of it. The second-most-prevalent chore was cleaning up âimproved campsites,â which meant tearing down the log-and-granite dining tables and kitchen areas sheltered
Referencing a range of ecological studies, the parksâ scientists compiled a backcountry management plan in 1960 that outlined ever-increasing populations. They proposed a set of experimental rules and regulations that, if adhered to, would theoretically save the backcountry from becoming another frontcountry.
Randy represented a new generation of clean-shaven and uniformed rangers with military-cropped haircuts who, like military grunts, were stationed on the front lines but, as seasonal employees, held the lowest rank. Their challenge was to introduce this way of thinking to a cast of backpackers, fishermen, horsemen, and climbers, who werenât always receptive to new ideas.
In young Ranger Randy, the Park Service had been delivered the perfect foot soldier, though his gentle nature made him more of an archangel crusading in a green uniform. He already considered the High Sierra his church; the backcountry management plan became his bible. The report read like scripture to Randy, warning of an impending doomsday and often citing his childhood home, Yosemite, as an example of what could occur. Here, in the backcountry of Sequoia and Kings Canyon, manâs presence had not yet dismembered Mother Wildernessâbut she was barely holding on.
Armageddon was upon them.
Besides his academic knowledge of that report and a genuine desire to protect his beloved wilderness from the proverbial fires of hell, Randy had brought with him an innate love and enthusiasm for the Sierra as well as the ability to survive in its wilds. The plants and the animals were his kindred spirits; the geology and waterways were his temples. But he didnât know first aid or CPR. He wore no sidearm,carried no handcuffs. Disarming, much less defending himself from, an armed suspect was the stuff of movies, not his reality. The skills required to lower an injured climber off a precarious cliff or rescue a drowning hiker from swift whitewater had not been taught in ranger training because there was no formal training for seasonal backcountry rangers at Sequoia and Kings Canyon.
His job was to hike the trails and âspread the gospelâ to as many visitors as possible. He issued fire permits, picked up trash, hung Mountain Manners signs, naturalized campsites, and if there was an emergencyâmedical, forest fire, whateverâhe was to tend to the situation as best he could and radio for assistance. In 1965, he knew none of the skills that would become second nature as he traveled down the high and lonely path of these parksâ most trainedâsome would call them eliteâbackcountry rangers.
Despite his fit, but certainly not commanding, 5-foot-8-inch, 140-pound frame, Randy was, in these parts, the law of the land. Add youth to his stature, however, and the National Park Service patch on his shoulder and silver badge on his chest gave him little more law enforcement presence than an Eagle Scout at a bank robbery. But that didnât mean he didnât take the rangersâ motto seriously. Each morning he pinned the National Park Ranger badge above his left chest pocket; he was prepared to âprotect the people from the park, and the park from the people.â It was his mantra.
He soon learned, however, that his main duty that summer was to collect garbageâgunnysacks full of it. The second-most-prevalent chore was cleaning up âimproved campsites,â which meant tearing down the log-and-granite dining tables and kitchen areas sheltered
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