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.

"One-armed Crow, meet extension ladder."

"Extension ladder, meet One-armed Crow."

I can see right now that we're not going to hit it off. The wisteria wants pruning and half the ladder won't reach the nearest beam even when stood vertically. There are serious Issues here, and the Crow is accustomed to winning arguments.

The second half of the ladder had not seen the light of day since the house was painted, and that pre-dated the application of siding by a good ten years. Assembly required a bit of logic which no doubt provided the neighbours with some amusement as I stood glowering over the hooks with their diabolical gates, talking to myself volubly as is my customary wont when faced with a dilemma. I am not ashamed to admit this habit; it often serves to focus clinical observations. Yes, the problem yielded to several well-placed and deeply tinted words. The ladder's parts slid neatly and securely together and the next challenge of the project was ready to be met.

You may recall that a year and a half ago, I suffered a serious injury to my shoulder. Five and a half months of physical therapy restored 90 percent of its mobility, but muscles had atrophied and strength was not to be regained.

The first maneuver with intent to erect the ladder was awkward and I'd misjudged the center of balance by a clear foot or so. My five-foot height provided the fulcrum for a teeter-totter, and my head passed neatly between two rungs as the weight of the aluminum uprights crashed down on either side of my collarbone. The second try placed the top of the ladder in a mesh of braided wisteria vine. Progress! Jostling, tugging, shoving and twisting brought the frame to rest on the timbers of the carport and I made a preliminary ascent, lopping shears in hand. Bits of wisteria scattered to the ground under my careful ministrations as the ladder wobbled on the uneven surface which scarcely qualifies as a lawn. The larger stems felt tearing bites from the blades, too tough and woody for my weakened arm to sever with a single snip. The pile of trimmings grew, and the ladder's position had reached the end of its tenure. I guided it in a side-step to a better vantage point, up and down, back and forth, up and down until at last the task was done.

The ladder has been disassembled, replaced in its nest atop the rails of the garage door. The wisteria has room to breathe and grow and its scruffy dross has been piled to burn. It is with great satisfaction that I look out the window past its tidy stems, again victorious over that distasteful word, "can't."

Descartes walked into a bar one day and sat down at a table to do some serious philosophizing. The bartender approached him and asked if he'd like a beer.

"I think not," he said...

...and disappeared.