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Preface At some point in her career, every park ranger hears the question: “Do you get to wear the ‘Smokey the Bear Hat’?” It is striking how many family members, friends, acquaintances, and strangers want to know. For many, the familiar Stetson hat is a symbol of a bygone era, of simpler times, of friendly authority figures, maybe of the cartoon rangers who supervised Yogi the Bear in “Jellystone.” There is something about this hat that evokes nostalgia. But nostalgia for what, exactly? And why is it such a powerful symbol? During the course of thirteen summers as a seasonal ranger in Grand Teton National Park—in the midst of hiking the park’s trails and climbing its mountains, directing visitors to the nearest restroom, suggesting activities for tourists, and most recently, writing news releases about park happenings—I began to wonder about these and other related questions. Why is so much of the touring public fascinated by park rangers?1 Why are national parks, famously dubbed “the best idea America ever had,” such popular tourist destinations—both for U.S. citizens and for visitors from other countries (Stegner, “Capsule History” 128)? Exactly what kind of nature do tourists hope to find there? Are park visitors nostalgic for nature? If so, what implications does that nostalgia have for different groups of people and for the more-than-human world? Let me confess that I myself am nostalgic for nature, especially now that my professional adventures (and obligations) have turned those seasons in the Tetons into fond memories. Occasionally in spring I’ll catch a whiff of foliage that—quick as a madeleine—takes me back to x / PREfACE the early-season rushing of Cottonwood Creek, the evocative aromas and sounds that surround the government-issue 1930s-era log cabin at the base of the jagged Teton Range, where I returned each summer to reunite with other “career seasonal” rangers and permanent park employees who share my desire to promote the ethical stewardship of American nature. Even during those idyllic summers when I donned the green and gray uniform (yes, I did wear the “Smokey the Bear Hat,” but only outdoors), I felt a strange longing for the nature I was supposed to help preserve. Perhaps it had to do with the transient lifestyle of seasonal employees and our ever-present awareness that summer would end and that we may or may not make it back next year. But I suspect it was more than that. My longing implied that the park’s nature had somehow already been lost. Although the mountains that tower over Jackson Hole are quite real, even comforting in their apparent stability, there are also ways in which the nature in this and other national parks has been lost. Some losses are tangible, like the shrinking glaciers that belie the mountains’ suggestion of nature’s permanence. Others are more difficult to pinpoint, such as the growing suspicion that visitors increasingly experience the parks from inside vehicles. Camping is less popular. Many of today’s park visitors want to remain plugged in—iPod buds in their ears, cell phones in their hands, and Internet access in their temperature-controlled hotel rooms—more than they want to enjoy time outdoors. Many of the visitors I met did seem to share my nostalgia, though I doubt we longed for exactly the same “nature.” Sometimes I got the feeling that these visitors were actually nostalgic for me—or at least for my ranger identity. During the three seasons of the year when I was not living and working in the park, most people reacted with curiosity, questions , and, often, admiration when I would tell them about my summer job. They would encourage me to stick with it, as if my own satisfaction could somehow be theirs too. During the summers, park visitors treated me like a scientist, a police officer, even a medical doctor (none of which I am) simply because I sported the recognizable National Park Service (NPS) uniform. Tourists I talked with in visitor centers frequently expressed regret—“I wish I’d done something like this when I was your age”—and offered encouragement. “Good for you,” they would say wistfully . “You should do this sort of thing while you still can.” Sometimes tourists would ask to have their picture taken with me, especially when I was wearing the familiar hat. I posed with many a family in front of the Teton Range, and the grins on our faces...

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