It is a strange fact that tourists will not listen to what Rangers tell them to do or not to do. The Government pays men who have spent their lives in such work to
guide and guard strangers when they come into the National Parks. Many visitors resent advice, and are quite ready to cry for help when they get into difficulties or danger by ignoring instructions. And usually they don't appreciate the risks that are taken to rescue them from their own folly.
A young man from New York City, with his companion, walked down the Bright
Angel Trail to the Colorado River. Everybody knows, or should know, that the Colorado River is a most treacherous river. One glance at the sullen, silt-filled current tells that story. It seldom gives up its dead. But the New Yorker swam it, with his shoes and underclothing on. By the time he reached the far side he was
completely exhausted. More than that he was panic-stricken at the undercurrents
and whirlpools that had pulled at him and almost dragged him under. He would
not swim back. His companion signaled and yelled encouragement, but nothing
doing.
Behind him rose a hundred-foot precipice; his clothes and his friend were on the southern bank. The bridge was four miles above, but unscalable walls made it impossible for him to reach that. Furthermore, night was at hand.
When his friend knew that it was hopeless to wait any longer, he left him perched on a rock and started to Headquarters for help. This was a climb over seven miles of trail that gained a mile in altitude in that distance. Disregarding the facts that they had already done their day's work, that it was dark, and that his predicament was of his own making, the rangers went to the rescue.
A canvas boat was lashed on a mule, another mule was led along for the victim
to ride out on, and with four rangers the caravan was off. It was the plan to follow the trail to the Suspension Bridge, cross to the northern bank, follow down the river four miles to the cliff above the spot where the adventurer was roosting let the boat down over the ledge to the river, and, when the New Yorker got in, pull the boat upstream by means of the ropes until they found a safe place
to drag it to shore.
When almost down the trail they met the lad coming up, and he was mad! "Why didn't they come quicker? Why wasn't there a ranger down there to keep him from swimming the river?" And so forth. But no thanks to the men that had gone willingly to his rescue. However, they said they were well paid by the sight of him toiling up the trail in the moonlight, au naturel! They loaded him on a mule and brought him to the top. Then he refused to pay Fred Harvey for the mule. I
might add he paid!
I often wondered why people pay train fare across the continent and then spend
their time poking around in our houses. They would walk in without knocking, pick up and examine baskets, books, or anything that caught their fancy. One woman started to pull a blanket off my couch, saying "What do you want for this?" It was an old story to members of the Park Service, and after being embarrassed a few times we usually remembered to hook the door before taking
a bath.
One day Chief Joe and I were chatting in front of the Hopi House. His Indians
had just completed one of their entertaining dances. As it happened we were discussing a new book that had just been published and I was interested in his view of the subject, Outline of History. All at once an imposing dowager bore down upon us with all sails set.
"Are you a real Indian?"
"Yes, madam," Joe bowed.
"Where do you sleep?"
"In the Hopi House."
"What do you eat?" She eyed him through her lorgnette.
"Most everything, madam," Joe managed to say.
Luckily she departed before we lost control of ourselves. Joe says that he has been asked every question in the category, and then some. I think some of our stage idols and movie stars would be jealous if they could see the number of mash notes Joe receives. He is flattered and sought after and pursued by society ladies galore. The fact that he is married to one of his own people and has a fat, brown baby does not protect him.
The Fred Harvey guides could throw interesting lights on tourist conduct if they wished, but they seldom relate their experiences. Our card club met in the recreation room of the guide quarters, and sometimes I would get a chance to listen in on the conversation of the guides. Their narrations were picturesque to say the least.
"What held you up today, Ed?"
"Well," drawled Ed, "a female dude wouldn't keep her mule movin' and that slowed up the whole shebang. I got tired tellin' her to kick him, so I jest throwed a loop round his neck and hitched 'im to my saddle horn. She kept up then."
"Make her mad?"
"Uh-huh." A pause while he carefully rolled and lighted a cigarette. "I reckon so.
When we topped out an' I went to help her down, she wuz right smart riled."
"Say she wuz goin' to report you to the President of these here United States?"
"Don't know about that. She gimme a cut across the face with her bridle reins."
Another pause. "'Twas real aggravatin'."
Personally, I marveled at his calm.
"What made you late in toppin' out?" Ed asked in his turn.
"Well, we wuz late in startin' back, anyhow, and then I had to stop fer an hour pickin' cactus thorns outta an old-maid female."
"Mule unload her in a patch, or did she sit down on one?" Ed was interested.
