Short story by Haylan Teel
As a seasonal ranger, I always get asked about how I came into this field, what my story was, and people are often surprised to hear that it keeps me away from my husband for months at a time. I hear things like, “Your husband lets you do this?” and of course there are men that won’t stop being pushy, too aggressively asking which campsite I’m in while I’m just trying to eat an ice cream cone.
Although this wasn’t my first season away, it was the longest yet. While I put my husband through university, he was first to spend time away as a wilderness ranger and wildland firefighter in New Mexico. Then it was my turn, spending blocks of time in Hawai’i for several years until this position in Wyoming. The truth is, we miss each other deeply every day and if our bond wasn’t so strong, these stints wouldn’t be possible. We met the first day of 8th grade, in Mrs. Kammenzind’s history class. I was a strange one; the whole day at this new school, he was the only kid who talked to me. I like to think it was the best decision he ever made. Friends from then on, we started dating at 19, and as I write this, that’s 23 years down.
While away for the season, we always did something special in order to see each other off and to make our time apart bring us together. One year I left a scavenger hunt for him; riddles to be solved leading from place to place. For me, he has grown increasingly romantic; once he set up a fake subscription service with hilarious letters, including useful items for camping and self care. Another year he drew and hand-embroidered patches I earned for completing adventures and achievements. This particular year in Wyoming he wrote what had to be more than 40 notes and hid them throughout my belongings before I left. I found the first one the night I left and it brought me to tears. By the time I was settled in at the staff housing of the National Forest, my unpacking seemed to have ferreted them all out, so I lovingly taped them to my wall with the photos I had brought along. The baby blue index cards woke me every morning and put me to sleep every night, with a hug and smile.
Wyoming exceeded my expectations with beautiful, unrelenting landscapes, and two months in I had explored my million-acre forest as fast as the snow had melted. I took my two-wheel-drive hatchback places it was never meant to see. But part of why these seasonal jobs are fun is that they offer an opportunity for extended travel that otherwise I couldn’t afford. The only thing missing was him.
At that time, up in the Big Horns there was no internet, no phone service, no landlines. Contact with your loved ones is limited to when you drive far enough to get service. I’d spend time under the blue notes taped to my wall writing letters and emails that wouldn’t be sent anytime soon. I finished my entry for the day, closed my computer, and prepared a backpack for a hike I had been excited to do, but had, until now, been snowed under. I couldn’t wait to see Bucking Mule Falls for myself.
I strapped my bag on, clipped on bear spray, and headed out on my own. Each time I hike I remind myself that I’m breaking a cardinal rule of the outdoors by hiking alone, and never would recommend such a thing to the visitors I talk to everyday, but if I didn’t take the risk to travel alone I wouldn’t get to see or do anything, and I certainly would never get to know this forest enough to effectively help other people. Instead, I prepared the best I could and always let my housemate know where I was going and when I’d be back—I didn’t want to end any trip by having to chop my arm off with a multi-tool, although I was always prepared with a multi-tool.
The trail was quiet and I was alone; just how I liked it. Lodgepole pine dominates this forest, standing tall and creaking in the slight breeze. Several times the trail opened up to nice views of forested hills and rolling hillsides of wildflowers. I took my time at these viewpoints, enjoying the mild sunshine, getting photos of each kind of flower and spotted a round, ambling bumble bee clambering on a radically vibrant penstemon.
At one point the trees crowed the trail so heavily it became a solo hiker’s nightmare. Knowing it’s much harder to keep your wits about you in areas with little visibility, (it’s much harder to be aware of any moose, bear, or people in the distance) my senses heightened to the wind, unfamiliar sounds, and blind curves. Looking ahead I saw something white next to the path and I immediately knew it was some sort of skeleton. It flashed through my mind that it could be a fresh bear or cougar kill; unlikely, but possible. As I approached it, I saw the oversized vertebrae of an elk with the pelvis and a few ribs still clinging tight. It was definitely not fresh enough to be worried about, so I continued on my journey.
A large crash and crack; something was rushing through the woods towards me at a high rate of speed. My hand swept to my bear spray and I spun around—there was a thin and decrepit lodgepole falling from its century long sentinel to the forest floor, well enough away to be of no concern. That certainly is one way to get your pulse up on a hike.
I finally made it to the relatively undeclared destination, only marked by a few old Forest Service fence posts. A steep, short climb to the west, and I broke through the tree line onto a rocky precipice; the wind kicked up, the air dropped temperature, and the horizon opened up all around. Crystal clear views down Devil’s Canyon and on towards the Absaroka Range, and if visibility was clear, to Yellowstone country. Sheer drops in every direction, it was a little scary for it to be so windy. I unclipped and eased my backpack off my shoulders, finding it a gentle nook between rocks. The sweat that had gathered between my back and the bag became assaulting, sending a chill straight through me. I’ve never been one to handle cold well as a Texas popsicle, so I slipped my fleece off the front of my bag and put it on as I turned to look for the falls. I was already enamored by the grand view, but looking down, the falls were there pumping out a wide and glorious stream of water from a craggy and wicked V-shaped valley at least 600-feet below. I was overcome by that feeling of majesty and magic that I get in nature, where I feel supremely lucky to be having the experience in that very moment. Now it morphed, as it often does, into a longing that my husband is not there to see it with me.
I stared at the falls, watching the cascading water dwarfing the trees above it, thinking about how much he would have loved this view. The wind tossed my hair about and my fingers were growing cold. Sticking them in the pockets of my fleece, I felt the crinkle of paper and wondered what park pamphlet or hiking guide I had forgotten inside. I pulled it out and found it was neither; rather, it was a baby blue index card folded in half. Inside were the all-caps, chicken-scratch handwriting I had grown to love so much:
HAYLAN, YOU ARE SO AMAZING!
I stared at it a moment, while a million questions ran through my head. How did I miss this for the last month? What tomfoolery is this? My eyes welled up when I realized I was almost always wearing my work coat, and this was probably the first time I had worn this jacket at all. It was there the whole time, and just as he was with me in my bunk, greeting me good morning and goodnight with every sunset and sunrise, he was with me right now, standing on this howling precipice, looking at the picturesque falls. We were never truly apart; there was only distance on a map between us.
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