When one approaches Grand Canyon from the southeast, one passes through the college town of Flagstaff, Arizona. Sitting aside old Route 66, which was not quite as old as it is today, it is home to Northern Arizona University and forested suburbs that disappear into the pines. I don’t think we even stopped for coffee, I was so excited.
We rolled past San Francisco Peak, that elderly volcanic cone and the best skiing in Arizona, I am told. Almost certainly the only skiing in Arizona. San Francisco Peak is one of the Navajo sacred mountains, guarding the western edge of the Dinétah, the land of the People.* It is also known as Dook’o’oosłííd, “the summit which never melts” or “abalone shell mountain.” For me it was just a mile marker on the final leg of our trip to the Canyon.
* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Francisco_Peaks
We also whizzed past the Museum of Northern Arizona, home to a fascinating collection I had discovered on my first trip to the area. I barely glanced.
Finally, near the town of Williams, we turned north. Nothing about the landscape gave a clue as to what lay ahead. A few buttes – an isolated homestead or two. Mesquite, and jackrabbits. Sage always. Past a collection of giant Flintstone characters beckoning us to stop at their family-friendly campground. And then, we came to the National Park entrance. My heart was racing as we drove up to the employee entrance and I explained my business. Was it real?
It was. We were handed a small sticker to place on the windshield, designating us residents, not just tourists passing through. We drove on past the entry station, eventually turning to the west while the tourist flow took the east fork. We had arrived!
Our first stop was back at Albright Training Center, which also doubled as the research housing. I checked in and we took temporary possession of one of those small apartments I had stayed at before. My wife was not terribly impressed, as I recall, but we unloaded the car and settled in.
That evening, we strolled down to the rim of the Canyon, a ritual we figured we would observe for the next six months. The setting sun cast long shadows, creeping over buttes and jagged ridges, reducing canyon colors to lovely shades of reddish gray. We had arrived!
The next morning, bright and too early, I headed over to the Resource Management Division, eager to get to work. I think I wore my only suit to start off things on the right foot. The heat soon convinced me that was a mistake, confirmed when I saw the staff dressed casually. Unlike the uniformed Rangers, the Resource Management Division was pretty laid back.
Now, this Division was not located down with the other Park Offices at the time. It occupied over half of a substantial medical clinic that was built based on the notion that medical traffic at the Park could only increase. I don’t believe the medical staff occupied more than 30% of the building. The rest had been turned over to a crew of specialists in archaeology, fire management, river management, wilderness management, historic structures and in general any other specialties that someone in the Park Service believed needed management. I asked for John.
John was a veteran of Vietnam and the Peace Corp, and a Park Ranger with a big smile and infectious laugh. He had joined a special team of trainees to become a Wilderness Resource Manager. He was a charismatic soul, and was seemingly interested in anything and everything. John had set up the research proposal I was working on, and as part of that training program had connected with my professor, the Doctor not Bob.
His enthusiasm was contagious. He led me around the office, introducing me to the various specialists who were NOT out in the field. I was yearning to get under way. I had thought a good deal about the survey I was to conduct, and had taken advantage of Texas A&M word processors (think Dark Ages) to put something together. John looked at it and said “Well, maybe. First I have to take you down to meet the Superintendent.”
In a Park, the Superintendent is second only to God and the Department of Interior. He leads the ranks of Rangers, who are the armed yeomen of the operation. The clear pecking order of the Park placed Resource Management types on a slightly lower level with Interpreters, those folks that wander around enthusing tourists with the wonders of the local history, flora and fauna. Below that were the gate-keepers, working the entrances and taking the entry fees, followed by maintenance teams and the contract employees who work the hotels, making beds and serving Rocky Mountain Oysters to an appreciative gaggle of tourists. I did hear the Park visitors referred to as “tourons” once in a while, and they seemed to exist primarily to provide Park staff with an endless series of amusing anecdotes.
A special place was reserved for the trail crew. Mostly massive Navajo, these folks labored with rock and log to maintain the tenuous trails down into the Canyon. I was amused to later learn that their preferred insect repellent was Avon “Skin So Soft.” I purchased several bottles on that recommendation alone.
That was the class structure of South Rim Village, but first I was to ascend to the pinnacle.
The Superintendent proved a great disappointment. He seemed very worried about something that was not quite addressed. He welcomed me and we discussed some of the issues surrounding air traffic, but he seemed distracted and the discussion was scattershot. Perhaps he was concerned that he had employed a graduate student at laundry worker wages (GS-1) to conduct a major survey with policy implications? I left the office after our brief encounter, grateful that he was not my immediate supervisor.
Several years later, I heard one of the funniest comments I think I have encountered in my government career. We were discussing the subject of retirement in another Federal office, and one of the ladies said that her plan was to work so long they would have to hire a GS-1 to wipe the drool off of her chin. Fortunately, things never came to that pass, and I was able to attend her retirement celebration.
Working for the Federal government was a new and unique experience. There was a form for everything, including job applications – the dreaded Standard Form 171, or SF-171 once you got acquainted. I learned there was even a form for taking a message (SF-63).
Back at the clinic, John and I discussed the survey. I had worked hard to be subtle about it, weaving the aircraft questions in with others about mules, the number of other visitors, campsites – things I thought the backcountry users might have an opinion on, based on my limited experience.
John was not so subtle. I’m not sure it was even in his lexicon. Despite my concerns, he wanted the survey rewritten to go at aircraft head-on. While John had a definite viewpoint, I did my best to keep the questions neutral and unbiased. I also pushed for inclusion of other questions, at least at the beginning, to provide some cover. The drafts came and went.
Finally, a set of questions went around the clinic office without amendment, and then promptly disappeared again, out for review by a number of sociologists to make sure the questions were unbiased.
As John put it recently, “The questions for the sociological survey were not really reviewed by Resources Management staff (as such), but were sent to four sociologists (from four different universities) to review the questions and arrive at a ‘non-biased conclusion.’ It took me three to four times of rewriting the questions (and many phone calls) before all four agreed that the questions were ‘unbiased.’ The reason for this was that when the noise issue went to court (which we assumed it would), the NPS would have to prove that the questionnaire was “unbiased.”
He also commented “All four sociologists said that the questionnaire was way too long and that, they thought, no one would answer all the questions. I disagreed with them (thinking aircraft noise was such a problem that the hikers would want to have their opinions known) and we went with it. And, to my relief, the hikers did answer them.”
At last, we were awaiting the final hurdle: the Superintendent’s approval. We waited nervously for that final signature. John suggested my wife and I should hike up and down Bright Angel Trail for a week or so to get our Canyon legs. I was not much interested in that exercise.
Eventually the survey came back with the Superintendent’s blessing and initials. Subtle it was not, but we were in business!
I went to the Park Archives, hunting for a small image to give the survey some life. I finally found a small black and white drawing I liked that was purported to be from the 1869 Powell expedition. I stuck it at the top of the survey, and hit the copiers before anyone could change their mind.
Much of the survey was to be done by mail, and for that I needed addresses. I went over to the Backcountry Ranger Station where the camping permits were issued. The Rangers had been waiting for me, and produced a series of dusty boxes, stuffed with the pink “Department Copy” of the permits that had been issued recently. I was told to guard them with extreme care, and not to mix them up! Mostly readable, we took them back to the clinic and started sorting through them.
At the outset, we excluded the groups that hiked the main corridor of Bright Angel Trail. It was hypothesized that their experience was already lessened by the large groups, mules, and general hubbub of the main trail. We were looking for those seeking a backcountry experience, with a more remote location and desire to “get away from it all” – or at least a bit more of it.
Once that was organized, my wife and I began copying the camper’s addresses onto official government franked envelopes – a massive supply – that could leave a fierce paper cut. We used one to mail the survey out, and another was enclosed for the return.
There was a significant discussion about whether we should try to keep the survey anonymous, or try to connect the responses with particular individuals. I preferred the anonymous approach, wanting to maintain a good response rate. Folks were more likely to be frank if they felt their answers could not be traced back to them. The team at the Park Service had other ideas.
Finally, a compromise was reached. We took the stack of surveys over to an elderly IBM Selectric Typewriter (there was a significant local supply) and began rolling them through. “1” reload “2” reload “3”… tap tap tap – a new number at the bottom of each survey’s last page. All I can say of this exercise was that it was extremely tedious. Interestingly, a few respondents ultimately noticed the number at the end of their survey and tore it off, but we were able to connect most of the responses. I really did not want the connection, and ultimately we did not try to track down who said what.
The clinic was a crowded busy place, but I was set up with a folding table along one of the alcoves. Our dusty boxes, stacks of surveys and franked envelopes, and mounds of Backcountry Permits littered the desk, surrounding the typewriter. It was a relief to stuff the last envelope each day and deliver the lot over to the Park Post Office. I soon tired of sitting in the office; I wanted to be in the Canyon! Maybe those practice hikes were a good idea after all.
Mi Mayan Hamaca 