Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.
Chapter Eight – Stunned
Arrrrgggggg!!!!!! Maybe the campground really does hate me after all. It’s beginning to seem that way. Each day here brings its own challenges. Today’s is as puzzling to me as getting lost on an out and back single track trail.
My trainer is an experienced Aide. She allowed me to open the kiosk by myself. Surprisingly, it took more than an hour to print the day’s camping lists and slips and update the site maps and lists. I obviously can speed that up and do some steps after opening to the public, but she acknowledged the process can take that long.
All afternoon, there were no issues beyond the usual retrievals of belongings after domestic disputes and radio reports of hiker and biker injuries. There are so many injury calls that our supervisor has invited us to a mock rescue at the infamous Garden of Eden swimming hole/trouble spot off Hwy 9, which will include a helicopter landing.
Supervising Ranger Joe came by and presented me with my very own key to the kingdom. I ran the Graham Hill Trail at lunch successfully. Campers checked in at a manageable rate and all was dandy. Until my trainer left and my new shift partner and I had to manage the kiosk. Still, no big deal; I could handle cash wrap and she could attend to campers. After all, I’d successfully balanced the drawer yesterday afternoon at Day Use and was expected to manage both kiosks by myself in a few days…
But for some reason my brain just could not recall the simplest of procedures. I reprinted and repeated one form three times while cursing and asking the Aide a million questions, all of which she patiently answered. I wouldn’t blame her for thinking I’m a neurotic graceless flop. I was heading down a cold sweaty tunnel of despair grumbling about pay grades and Accounting degrees and rethinking this whole shebang to hide the growing fear I couldn’t cut this job.
Eventually, I calmed down, focused and got through it after, much like a precocious three year old, I finally realized my tantrum wouldn’t solve anything.
An after work run up to the Observation Deck helped, although I swear I passed big orange fire hoses on the trail up and took the same trail back without seeing them. Again, it seems my senses get stunned here at Campground. Maybe Campground doesn’t hate me. Maybe, instead, it’s humbling me and telling me there’s a lot I need to learn here. Or maybe it’s not really about me at all.
Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.
Chapter Six – Lost
I’d determined the campground hated me. My first day working there I got lost on a frontage trail right by Graham Hill Road. Impossible. I’d gone for a mini-run during our 30-minute lunch break and confidently headed out from the kiosk certain I’d have time to spare upon my return.
The path was lovely yet a tad noisy from its proximity to passing cars. I crossed one entrance and picked up the trail again, then went another quarter mile or so. I turned around to return and expected to come upon that same entranceway any second. Nope. Suddenly I was headed down a ravine and across a stream. Suddenly I heard no cars and had only minutes to get back before lunch ended. What a weird feeling. How did I get turned around on a trail with no intersections?!
I finally decided to plunge on towards what should be Graham Hill Road as quickly as possible. I came out near a cross street way north of where I expected. Instead of looking for that nefarious frontage trail again, I just braved it on the “shoulder” of Graham Hill Road next to speeding vehicles. What an embarrassing adventure. Finally, I came upon the campground entrance and made a mad dash for the kiosk, arriving maybe a minute before I would have been late, breathing heavily and feeling sheepish.
The next time I worked the campground, I twisted my ankle on an uneven patch of dirt while scoping out my favorite campsites before my shift. What seemed minor became extremely painful the next day. A week later, it had caused me considerable pain. I even had to take a day off from any running, which was unusual and felt very wrong.
Upon more consideration, I concluded the campground probably didn’t hate me. In fact, I had been running in my uniform when I shouldn’t have been wearing it. I didn’t realize it wasn’t acceptable at the time, but somehow the campground knew, haha.
Chapter Seven – A New Trail
The morning got off to a bad start. No sign of my shift partner and cars were lining up at the day use kiosk at 8:10am. I texted her number, then panicked and texted the Senior Aide explaining I had no key and no partner. In hindsight, I should have waited to call him and tried calling my partner and the campground kiosk first. She pulled up 25 minutes late apologizing she didn’t have my number.
It was a beautiful warm Saturday- perfect weather really. The first half of the shift was an unending line of cars. Again, I couldn’t imagine doing this alone but knew that day was coming soon. Closing cash wrap was another hour of struggling but it made incrementally more sense than the last time I’d tried. Yet I still needed lots of help and prompting.
Taking two days off from training for a prior commitment was inopportune; my learning flow was interrupted during a critical time, I’d asked for time off before even starting and it turns out my commitment was less than committed to me. I’d lost training, confidence and most of a paycheck that week. No good turn…
The ankle was still tender, so I decided on an easy after-work run along a trail I’d never explored: the Zayante Trail, which connects Cowell to Felton. I gingerly ran past lots of families and small children swimming at the usual spots off River Trail. I crossed the main entrance road and found the trailhead.
The Zayante Trail dipped down into a culvert then leveled out and paralleled the San Lorenzo River. About a mile in, the trail intersected a lovely wide flat stretch of sandy white beach with a deep sunny swimming hole.
There’s something archetypal about finding a sunny swimming hole! An almost irresistible urge to jump in came over me. I headed down the sandy beach to the water’s edge and started removing my shoes. I think I would have stripped right on down to my skivvies if I hadn’t heard a noise to my left. I looked over and way at the other end of the swimming hole was another person, the only other person I had seen along the Zayante Trail. Oh well, I waded in knee deep and decided to save the swimming excursion for another day, still excited about finding a new, fairly private spot to take a dip. The week was turning out OK after all.
I opened Betty’s ashes on Mother’s Day. I’d never seen human ashes before and was surprised by their appearance. Mostly sooty grey sand as you’d expect, but occasional dark rocky bits and little irregular cream-colored clumps made clinking sounds as I rotated the jar slowly in my hands.
For whatever reason, feeling the weight of her remains in my palms warmed and soothed me, felt somehow right. Resting. She is resting.
Her son Travis and her partner Richard asked if I’d like to have some of her ashes to sprinkle in the Pacific Ocean. They sent them to me inside a box with the cards I’d sent her while she was sick. There was also a smaller box, carefully taped shut and wrapped with white paper addressed from her to me in bold black type. I couldn’t open it yet. I set her jar of ashes on the end table I’d inherited from my Mom and Dad. Irrationally, I wanted her to have a view.
Of course I readily accepted their offer, but when I considered the details of the endeavor, its practicality was called into question. How do I make sure her ashes scatter in the ocean and don’t blow back onto shore or all over me instead? Should I rent a boat? Walk to the end of a long pier and wait for the wind to change? Regardless, I planned to save a portion of the ashes for any future ceremony her family might plan. And I wanted to keep some here with me.
Meanwhile, Betty’s daughter Torah has been in touch with me, extending gracious access to her feelings and sharing details about her family. She is a writer! She looks a lot like Betty and seems to have many of her qualities and she too is a force of nature. She has three children, all amazing and unique and unfolding into the future.
Travis’s voice sounded so serious and grown up when he left a message letting me know the package was en route. But I knew his heart was breaking; he’d always been very close to his Mom, ever since he was a little boy.
Betty and I played across generations together as kids. She was always considerate and attentive, even protective of me. I was in awe of my older, beautiful, mannered cousin. We were both coming of age in a turbulent world, both only daughters; my Mom was her Dad’s sister. I never knew until after her death the extent to which she had been tortured as a child. But it makes sense of course.
Somewhat later in our lives, we reconnected. She’d had two children by then and they were both quiet and smart. Travis and I enjoyed some of the same activities since I was somewhere between his and his Mom’s age and a bit of a tomboy.
Betty went through a bitter divorce and her personality reflected some of her inner struggle. She combined Southern gentility with formidable feminism. During a certain middle part of her life, she seemed to react forcefully to the poor treatment she’d received from the important men in her life. I think she was grappling with ways to survive in tact. There were also unnamed health issues. She never elaborated.
Mom and Betty had a special bond. After a reconstructive surgery, Betty proudly slid up her blouse to reveal her new cleavage. I remember Mom blushing and smiling at the same time.
For many years after our Dads died, we would make semi-unkind but forgivable jokes during our annual Christmas dinners with The Sisters as they attempted to yell loud enough to hear each other.
When Mom was dying, Betty was right by my side sitting the long hours together in her hospital room hoping she’d rally and thrive but knowing better. When Mom’s sister Armand died, she sat right next to me at the funeral, filling me with strength and support. Afterwards, we drove up to Arrowhead to locate the Hurtt homestead. When the new owner tried to turn us away, Betty persuaded her to let us tour the grounds since this would be our only chance.
Betty explained what the stone-walled canning kitchen was used for, where the fruit trees were planted and the importance of a certain large rock in the front yard. We then drove to the nearby church where she found ancient cemetery markers from her Mom’s family. I cherish the photos, videos and memories of that day. It was one of the best days of my life, thanks to Betty.
A year later, we met for coffee during my annual pilgrimage back to Charlottesville. I snapped a photo of her that she liked. She was wearing a plastic tab on her ring finger and jokingly explained her new fellow had proposed to her but that was all he could afford. But she kept the ring on… She’d just met Richard and she was smitten. Things were tumultuous between them at first. She attempted to confide in me, but I probably was less accessible than I should have been. Through no fault of hers, I often felt less than worthy of her confidence. I always expected we’d have years to get to know each other better.
The next time I heard from her, she had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. For a brief, Betty-esque moment, she beat it-the only known survivor. We made plans to see each other. She tried to drive up to Charlottesville last summer to see me but was too weak to complete the trip. I offered to visit her, but it didn’t happen. I never saw her again.
The cancer returned with a vengeance. She fought until it made sense to stop. With Richard’s help, she arranged our final phone conversation. I was nervous and self-conscious and didn’t really say what I wanted to say. On top of everything, I actually asked a favor of a dying woman. Gracious to the very end, Betty said of course. I asked her to send me a sign if there is something on the other side. She said she’d do her best.
Two stars- Castor and Pollex lined up side by side low in the sky the night I buried my Mom. I saw them again the night Betty died.
Her two children are in touch with me and we are reconnecting after her death, sharing our grief. Maybe Betty has sent me a sign after all!
In our family, there was a minister, a policeman, a realtor, a boy scout leader, a DJ, an engraver, a luthier, a winemaker and a folk singer. And his name was Walter Gragg Chaffin… He was all that and so much more. He was my first cousin and I loved him dearly.
Growing up in Charlottesville during the 60s, Gragg played in coffee shops around the University corner’s burgeoning folk music scene and entertained our every family gathering with his humor and musicianship. He was the life of the party. And now our Gragg is gone. But his legacy will endure.
Although a handsome and personable youth, he never enjoyed good health. Early in life, he suffered from debilitating spells of asthma and later diabetes as well as a tragically undiagnosed case of Lyme disease which rendered his fingers useless for his most cherished endeavor – playing music.
Gragg was the son of a telephone operator and a career Naval officer. His Mom, June Mawyer Chaffin was born in the Blue Ridge Mountains and grew up near the writer Earl Hamner Jr. She was something of a writer herself in her later years, authoring her childhood memoirs and a beautiful poem about a mustard seed. Gragg’s Dad, Tip, was an official Navy photographer and later a golf pro at Keswick before working for the Post Office. Gragg was born while Tip was stationed in San Diego but spent the rest of his life in Charlottesville, Meherrin and Halifax with his beloved fiancé Emily. He loved to camp and fish and sit around a fire with friends swapping stories, sippin’, pickin’ and grinnin’.
Gragg had a real soft spot for animals in addition to his love of the outdoors; he loved his feral and pet cats as much as any one I’ve ever known. He started feeding one or two stray cats and soon a whole litter was showing up daily at his door. But Gragg had the biggest soft spot of all for his own family. He never missed a hospital visit to a sick relative or a phone call to check in with a loved one even when he was barely able to get around due to neuropathy. We would chat across the miles about everything from synthesizers to steam trains and he was always remarkably well informed with astute observations. He gave me my first guitar, an Irish penny whistle, a gorgeous Oscar Schmidt electric autoharp that he modified himself with special minor chords and he inspired my lifelong love of music. Thank you Gragg!
Few people knew that Gragg was also a devoted father who loved his only son Gene very much, despite being estranged from him for many years.
Gragg Chaffin and son Gene fishing in happier daysGragg Chaffin poses with Roy Clark in Meherrin Virginia
For some reason, our family song became “Your Cheatin’ Heart” by Hank Williams and Gragg would lead us in renditions during countless cookouts and holiday parties over the years. He taught me the chords and I would try strumming along but couldn’t hold a candle to his singing and playing. Nonetheless, we all gave our rousing best efforts lifting our voices together to celebrate music, life and family, thanks to Gragg. Cheers, dear cousin. You are gone but will never be forgotten. May you sing with the choir of angels.
Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.
Chapter One – New Hire
Fog levitated above the grassy lowlands, hiding the distant hills like a half-raised shade. Occasionally a blue hole of sky poked through the tall trees.
I was alone on Hwy 9 driving from my Westside Santa Cruz home to my first day of work as a Park Service Aide in Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park. Felton was only six linear miles away, but Hwy 9 was hardly linear! A single lane coiled gracefully up the hill as the ground cover shifted from sand to pine needles. The sun sputtered between unendingly high, beanstalk trunks while I carefully navigated the tight turns. As Felton approached, the fog lifted, illuminating entire sections of brilliant blue and green. I turned into the entrance and instantly relaxed into the park.
The day use entrance to Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park is one of the loveliest half miles I’ve ever driven. Surrounded by meadows and majestic redwoods, the road promises surprises, more enticing with every turn.
I parked by the little kiosk and surveyed my new office. The windows on all three sides were covered with instructions, rates, maps, notices and policies. The wooden kiosk itself was constructed in that iconic state park style, painted familiar brown and white, chipping and in slight disrepair. For some reason it had a little covered patio behind it and the only door opened onto it. Both sides of the kiosk had sliding windows for visitors to approach by car or on foot.
I was the first to arrive so I jogged to the Redwood Grove nature trail, scoping out the ubiquitous Gift Shop along the way.
The Grove is a legend unto itself and deserves entire treatises instead of a brief description. Sublime… As I finished the mile loop through the tallest and oldest redwoods on the coast, a rare blush of euphoria flashed over me; I was suspended in happiness. Was this bliss?
Chapter Two – Day Use
The line of cars slithered as far as I could see. A shimmer of viscous exhaust surrounded it like a snake’s halo. “Day use is $10.00. Please park at the top of the hill to the right. Be sure to walk through our Redwood Grove.” Repeat. “This is nothing.” my shift partner said. “Wait until after Memorial Day.”
My first day at Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park day use kiosk as a State Park Visitor Service Aide.
The routine was fairly straightforward and within a few minutes, I was able to jump in and start helping. By the end of the shift, I felt like a seasoned pro. Until it came time for the cash wrap. A solid hour later, I emerged from the park office dazed and confused until a run along the San Lorenzo River re-charged me. I drove back to Santa Cruz along a now sunny Hwy 9 feeling on top of the world. After all, I’d just spent an entire day in the redwoods and gotten paid for it.
Chapter Three – Campground
Head State Park Ranger Joe pulled up to the kiosk window and smiled. “Thanks for your quick action today Ladies. You might have helped save a life.” What had transpired was just another day in the life of a State Park Peace Officer but it had deeply affected me. I felt a sense of pride and purpose approached only by my volunteer work with sea otters.
Weekdays in Henry Cowell Redwood State Park Campground are pretty mellow. There are usually empty campsites and folks drive (or ride) up to book a night’s stay or check in to their pre-reserved spots. The volume is manageable so it fairly easy to catch on to most procedures. Mid morning, a hiker approached the kiosk with a cell phone and announced: “There’s a teepee in the park.” I looked at the woman, not sure why she was telling us about it.
She proceeded to show us a photo on her phone. Indeed it was a teepee of sorts, more of a tarp on a clothesline. And it was obviously not at a campsite. Someone was illegally camping on State Park property. My seasoned shift partner helped the woman determine its location on a camp map. Meanwhile, Joe drove up to make his morning camp site check. I handed him the clipboard with the list of who was due out for the day. I also gave him the map and told him of the hiker’s report.
A few minutes later Joe pulls up again and returns our campsite list. I ask if he’s found the teepee yet and he said he was heading there next.
Within minutes, we hear the emergency dispatch radio crackle to life. Joe is summoning emergency medical help for a severely dehydrated semi conscious 50 year old male. Within minutes, an ambulance pulls up to the kiosk while we listen to details of the rescue unfolding over the dispatch. We watch the EMTs load a person and take off. That’s when Joe pulls up to the window. Turns out the gentleman had been reported missing for weeks. He went into the woods to die, found the tarp in the trash and hadn’t eaten for weeks. But he wanted to live and wanted help.
Chapter Four – Nightshift
Noises at night in a redwood forest sound different. Or, more likely, I hear noises differently when I am in a redwood forest at night. Silence suddenly becomes a thud or a bump or scratch. A car door thunk, an engine rev or ignition all sound full of menace and ill intention. No sound is friendly. Even silence is menacing in it’s uncertainty. The mind could really spin out.
But I am lucky. I am training with another seasoned Aide, who’s done this for a while and is very helpful and unflappable. Yay. The day starts at 1500 and will go to 2100. There is quite a rush of campers checking in and joining groups and swapping sites and looking for other campgrounds and buying wood. Wow. All sides. I gasp at the thought of doing this alone. But the hours pass quickly and soon it’s time to walk across the parking lot in total darkness to my car. Challenging shift… Not feeling quite as warm and fuzzy now.
Chapter Five – Working with the State
Three days into the season, I’m happy as a clam running some of the loveliest and most challenging trails in the park after work each day and generally handling the job with ease. Staff members are typically very helpful and friendly. They’ve been quite attentive to the needs of the new seasonal hires and have even responded to my request for two days off my second week of work to honor a previous commitment.
Yet, I bristle on the fourth day when one of the Senior Park Aides requests that I wear a non-uniform shirt on my pre-work mini run. The request makes sense. Yet I expect the smiling thumbs up of the other rangers as I run by, not scrutiny. I realize it doesn’t take much to stack another chip on my shoulder. After forty-five years of working, I still need constant positive reinforcement from my coworkers and employers and a perfect work schedule. It’s unrealistic to say the least. So I have a few techniques to talk myself down; I just need to remember to use them.
I find it helpful to consider this summer as State Park boot camp. I’ll be given the worst shifts, the lowest wages and the least help. Anything better will be bonus. Yet, it will end before I’m ready and I’ll look back with nostalgic affection on my State Park Summer.
