In the summer of 1979 I had a job as a park aide at a state park in Washington state. The job was offered through the CETA program, which was a federal jobs program designed to provide jobs to minorities. However at that time there were no minorities in the county where I lived so they gave the jobs to the local hippies, who happened to be me and my landlord. It was a minimum wage entry level job intended to teach the individual marketable job skills for use in the real world. And so it was here that I apprenticed in the finer points of cleaning public restrooms and picking up cigarette butts, among others.

The Head Ranger was an older gent we called “The Colonel” behind his back. The Colonel had spent a career in the Parks Service. Now, nearing retirement, he spent most of his time practicing up for it. This left most of the day to day operation of the park to the Assistant Ranger, Ranger Rick. In contrast to the Colonel, Rick was a man of action. In addition to park ranger he was also a state trooper, complete with a gun and badge that he was fond of show anyone and everyone. With the Colonel’s retirement imminent Rick, the heir apparent, busied himself building his soon to be empire in this back woods outpost at the foot of Mt. St. Helens.

Not that Rick was all business. Indeed he would find time in his busy schedule a couple of days a week to hold bonding exercises with the other two park aides, a redheaded coed from California and a local kid who’s family owned a ski boat. Rick embraced life with enthusiasm that at times exceeded the bounds of good judgement. He had risen quickly to a position of authority yet barely in his thirties and the maturing process was still very much a work in progress.

So it’s Fourth of July weekend and Rick and the local kid are driving through the campground on patrol. Fireworks are illegal in the park and there are “NO FIREWORKS” signs all over the campground. As they are cruising they come across a boy and girl running with lit sparklers, running across the road and into a campsite. Getting out of the truck Rick walks into the campsite, where he finds the parents sitting around the campfire drinking beer. A box of sparklers sat on the end of the picnic table.

Puffing himself up, Rick pointed to the box of sparklers and in his most official tone asked, “Are those yours?”, to which the couple nodded sheepishly.

“Well I’ll tell you what we do with those around here”, he said, grabbing the box of sparklers and tossing it into the campfire. I at this point assume that most of my readers have gotten to where I am going and are already picturing the roaring pillar of flames that somehow Rick didn’t see coming. As the campers scrambled to safety they must have wondered what sort of madman the State Parks had unleashed on them. For on that day Ranger Rick was neither safe nor sane.