The higher-mountain autumn air came early with a bite. We made our stop at the ranger station cabin for the night.
The ranger’s old-time Franklin stove was ready for a fire. We chopped some kindling, lit a match, and watched the flames grow higher.
We warmed our hands, then held our boots up to the stove for heat. I finally rubbed some circulation back to my cold feet.
The rustic old guard station was now feeling toasty warm. We’d stay here for the night and weather out the mountain storm.
Our Coleman propane lantern gave the needed light to see. It must have been nostalgia, at least a feeling over me.
I gazed around the quarters, not a plug-in on the wall. No Internet to check on and no cellphone use at all.
I only could imagine ‘bout this cabin long ago. Two rangers eating biscuits, prob’ly made from sourdough.
One ranger was much older. He was tall and extra lean. His face was weather-chiseled, didn’t show an ounce of mean.
The other ranger, young in years, was smart enough to know he would learn more while he listened than a big mouth just for show.
Were they eating steaks of venison or rations from canned beef? Did the younger get a sip of gin that later caused him grief?
Did they talk about their lives out in the vastness all alone? The older ranger said this was the only life he’d known.
I’m sure he told the young buck, “Just keep thinkin’ ‘bout your work. Those gals are mighty pretty, but they’ll drive you plumb berserk!”
They finished eating supper. The older rolled a Bull Durham smoke. The younger ranger moved on back. The tobacco made him choke.
They finished washing dishes. Dumped the coffee from the pot. Then they turned in for the evening, sleeping bag and army cot.
The rangers used the cabin for their safety and for rest. Now it’s used for recreation. Did the rangers ever guess?
Has the cabin seen life’s changes from the day that it was new? Does the cabin miss the rangers over men like me and you?
— Bryce Angell
