Evil thing that I am, I take great glee in what's happening out there right now. Typical of Memorial Day weekend in the Pacific Northwe't, it's raining. All those tourists are waking up in their tents to the sound of pitter-patter, pitter-patter on ripstop nylon, getting just a wee small taste of what Life In The Great Outdoors is *really* all about.

When I was working for the Park, one Memorial Day saw Ipsut Campground packed to overflowing despite a forecast for bad weather. There were tents pitched in the picnic area (not allowed), maniacs with axes hacking branches off living trees to build their fires (also not allowed), people camped illegally in the backcountry zones (obviously in contravention of the rules), and a handful of resigned rangers going dutifully about their business of smiling at all of them and trying to make the best of a Bad Thing.

Before Sunday was over, I'd been hailed on by end-of-thumb sized hailstones, drenched to the hide even through my Goretex (working hard and sweating underneath it in the Carbon River rainforest). I'd routed dogs off the trail, assigned illegal campers to more eco-friendly backcountry overflow sites, been menaced by a couple of drunks who didn't like me telling them they couldn't cut down trees.

And then the windstorm came on Monday and dropped a huge cedar across the dead-end road, penning all the campers on the wrong side of it.

I remember so clearly running past the gathering line of cars, sprinting up to Ipsut to retrieve the three-foot chainsaw which was stored in the shed behind the ranger cabin, three miles from the fallen tree. I remember even more clearly running back down the road at the best lope I could manage, carting the beast which was almost as big as I was. As I began the last mile, a visitor in a very small car shouted out his window at me to say that he'd give me a ride as far as his little vehicle could travel beside the rest of the hordes stuck behind the tree, and we made about half a mile before coming to a tight place that he couldn't pass. I sprinted the remainder, handed the chainsaw off to trail crew, and in another hour or so, they'd managed to section the tree and haul away the parts so that even the grotesque Winnebagos could pass through.

I went back to housing, took a long, hot shower and my supervisor told me I could take the rest of the day off. Instead, I sat around the office writing reports (one of my favorite things to do).

Gosh, that was a fun Memorial Day! And some poor ranger bugger up there this morning is going through much the same thing: gathering a memory that will become fonder and fonder the farther away he gets from the time of the actual event.