my worst performance
When I got the call from Chatfield State Park offering me a job as a seasonal Colorado State Park Ranger I’d been looking for work for two years. I let out a whoop! I was past desperate, nearly resigned to full-time retirement, though I couldn’t afford it. I’m 68, in good shape physically, known as a tough old bird. The pay, $9.75 an hour, was low, but the work was outside in a 5,000 acre State Park. I’d be another American “under employed,” but so, what!? I would have a job.
I might not have taken it if I’d known I’d be dealing with people like the woman who picked up piles of dog feces with a ten dollar bill, or the muscular, shirtless, bald young man with tattoos on his head and two huge pit bulls running loose on the steep grassy slope of the reservoir dam.
I had applied for the parks job online, and after waiting a few weeks I drove down to the park to look around, and introduced myself in the business office. Yes, they had received my resume. Could I come down the following week for an interview?
I told ‘em you betcha and in a few days found myself talking with two full-time rangers in their early thirties wearing big gold badges, Glocks with extra clips, handcuffs, batons, canisters of Mace and bulletproof vests. They asked me a bunch of questions designed to get thoughtful answers, like, “What if you’re on foot patrol on the swim beach and a visitor comes to tell you that a boater has just run over his fishing line?”
I supposed I’d radio a Boat ranger out on the lake to chase down the offender if the visitor with the complaint had a description of the boat. I earned some nods along the way in the Q&A session, took a “Thanks for coming, nice to meetcha,” and went home to wait for a call.
I’m an avid outdoorsman. David Putnam Outdoors was on USA Cable Network in the eighties-- a half-hour series. I was the outdoors expert for the South’s largest television station for a year, I’ve hunted and fished and hiked and camped from Oregon to Key West and the Bahamas, and I had an advanced, “100 ton” captain’s license after years of experience on the Atlantic coast. Qualified for a seasonal park ranger job? Oh, yeah!
My wife, Marcia, and I called our three grown sons and friends. Everyone was pleased, hoped I’d get the job, imagined me tending to injured eagles’ wings, teaching groups of kids, lecturing, maybe doing boat patrol or teaching seamanship. Long hikes were part of it, we were sure, and people rescue missions and carrying lonely fawns to shelter. Bedrolls, campfires, nights under the stars. Perfect, we all said!
I’d owned lots of dogs and had a mini-wiener and a combo Yorky/Maltese at our rental home in Denver. People who love dogs must be mostly good folks, I thought. She didn’t have specifics about the job, but I was to come down the following week to meet with my supervisor, and he’d fill me in on the details.
That’s where the devil in the DOLA was, in the details.
On a beautiful, sunny April morning a few days later I drove south to the Park—an hour commute-- to meet and spend a few hours with my supervisor, who turned out to be a soft-spoken 28-year-old full-time ranger. He explained when we got in his police cruiser with its light bar on top and the Parks logo on the side, that I’d be working in the DOLA, patrolling on foot most of the time. I’d make contact with visitors and ask them to show me three required items: their pass for the DOLA, and a leash and waste bag for each dog. Simple.
He explained that the rules were set by the state legislature and the parks board and had been covered in various town-hall-type meetings, in the newspaper and on TV. My job was to have DOLA visitors comply with the laws. Parks all over Colorado and other states were closing, and as of July 1, Chatfield State Park would no longer receive money from Colorado’s “general fund.”
I’d made my living as a straight-commission sales specialist working for high-end real estate developers in Florida for 20 years, where I learned to “qualify” prospects, to ask the right questions early to find out if what I was selling was in their price range. If not, why waste their time and mine? I got to the point, cut to the chase in a friendly way. I figured the DOLA job was like my real estate career. I’d be asking people to “qualify,” to see if they had the right stuff to be in the DOLA.
After four days of training I’d meet the other “seasonal” who had been working in the DOLA for two months. We each had two days off each week and worked weekends. We’d have use of an unmarked pickup the State provided,
The boss drove around the 69 acre off-leash area and showed me the property I’d be patrolling on foot, a wonderful place for dogs and their owners, with ponds, miles of walking trails, picnic areas, plenty of car parking, a river for the dogs to swim in, and bathrooms and water fountains, with trash cans scattered throughout for doggie waste bags. It was the largest in Colorado and I felt lucky to be there.
We visited a “problem area” and talked about it, a bridge across a small river that allows people to walk into the park from a private community parking lot nearby. “Walkins” without dogs and bicyclists don’t pay vehicle parking fees. Signage on the path from the bridge explained that visitors on foot with dogs could purchase $2 DOLA day passes in parking lots on the walking paths in the DOLA.
A one-day vehicle pass is $8. An annual vehicle pass you affix to your windshield to access all areas of the Park is $70. The $2 day pass for the DOLA is available at the park entrances and at the DOLA parking lots—we examined one of the parking lot dispensers and I learned how it’s done—or, visitors can purchase a $20 annual DOLA pass at the entrance gates-- a laminated card to present to me, Ranger Dave, on request.
So, I figured, that’s a $10 savings if you walk in with your dogs and don’t pay $8 for a day parking pass or the DOLA $2 fee. Hmm. A “problem area” indeed. The boss had said with a chuckle that I knew how people are, that some would try to sneak in and not pay. I thought, “There’s probably a line on the bridge to get in free and play avoid-the-ranger.”
I did know about people, having been in the boat sales business in south Florida for five years in the 1970s, a great area for chiselers. I’d run into some pretty pathetic penny-ante scammers, the kind that stole food from the buffet table at restaurants, sweeping hands full of boiled shrimp into their pockets and purses. The dirt paths down near the bridge wound through dense trees along the river that would need extra rangering. One riot, one ranger, right? Ranger Dave. I liked the sound of it.
As we continued our drive through the parking areas and out along the river I asked how many citations I was expected to issue. My boss said, “It’s entirely up to you in the DOLA. You decide. I always try to determine the violation I’ll issue a citation for before I contact a park visitor, then I stick to it and don’t allow my feelings to escalate the fine or change my decision, even if they are jerks. If you decide you’re going to issue for not having a pass and you find someone without one, you can write for that, or for no leash or no poop bags, or for all three. Entirely up to you. You might want to think about giving ‘em only one ticket though they may have more than one violation, which takes out a little of the pain-- $50 rather than $150 if they don’t have all three-- no pass or leashes or poop bags. Just give ‘em a warning on the other violations.”
After my introductory tour with the boss he dropped me off at the seasonal ranger room to meet a ranger returning for his third summer who showed me computer procedures for various reports and citations. A pleasant, earnest young man in his twenties, he said he issued six citations over the last summer. I relaxed a little with that news. Only six all summer.
Four days of training was the next week, then I’d be on my own in the DOLA. Radio protocol, I figured…ten-four, affirmative, copy that, Victor Zulu, what’s your 20? I’d have a belt radio and a microphone wound through my uniform shoulder epaulette, pinned to the front of my shirt so I could pinch it and talk into it like all policemen do. I heard training would cover 1st Aid, Chatfield policies and rules and training in ANS-- Aquatic Nuisance Species-- so I could help out with boat inspections if needed.
Before heading home I drove back out to the DOLA to walk around, to get oriented. I introduced myself to one of the Park maintenance men as he was changing out large green garbage bags full of dog excrement in the trash cans. I told him I’d be starting at the DOLA in a few days. He was friendly, told me his name, then added with a rueful laugh, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t take that job for nothin’! They’s some bad people down here. Good luck to you, Brother.” He felt genuinely sorry for me, I could tell. He probably didn’t want a pay cut, I thought. He went on to say, offering me encouragement, that the DOLA bathrooms, in two separate concrete shelters, are the cleanest in the park for reasons he didn’t understand, not like the ones he maintained at another area, where people sometimes crapped on the floor, and there was puke, diapers and worse to clean up on the weekends. “At least here,” he said, “there’s running water I can clean up with.” I took that as a good sign, having water, figured that people were busy walking, probably not eating much. Drunks and addicts wouldn’t come all this way to walk their dogs. Probably not many teens or kids. I asked where all the dog excrement in the plastic bags was taken for disposal. “To the dump,” he said, “like everything else.”
Training included getting sprayed in the face with pepper spray. It was to be the only protection device we seasonals were allowed to carry. No batons, no guns. It hurt like a bitch, but with plenty of cool water from a hose, if you didn’t panic and try to wipe it off, the pain went away in fifteen minutes. Savage stuff, pepper spray. It stops angry, biting dogs quickly, we were told, but they recover faster than humans. Maybe give you time to get away. Something to do with their lack of tear ducts. Biting dogs? I hadn’t really thought about dog bites. When would we get our spray canisters? Nobody knew, but thought it would be soon. It would be my only form of protection and it would add a touch of menace to my belt.
After various written tests, the other six seasonals and I were awarded our Seasonal Ranger Achievement Awards. I noticed that the others were in their twenties. I was probably twenty years older than their daddies. Two were young women. I was confident, but being that much older I wondered why I was hired.
Much was made in training of the “respect for the uniform” concept of police work, which I understood meant all the gear that indicates to the public that a ranger is a ranger, an officer of the law… the badge on the shirt and embroidered on the ball cap, shoulder patches, radio, belt-worn pistol, bullets, MACE, baton and handcuffs, and the flashing lights and sirens on the patrol cars with state logos. All those things let the public know that a Colorado State Park Ranger is on the scene. Stand easy, now, folks.
I was given two worn tan uniform shirts with frayed collars, both of which might be described over the ranger radio as, “tan in color”. One had a small hole in the front. Both had little slots for a pen in the left front pocket. I was given an old, smelly black ball-cap with an embroidered Colorado State Parks emblem on it, a gold badge for my shirt about the size of a silver dollar, and was told where I could buy black pants and shoes. Some of the seasonals had spiffy black jackets with logos, but none were left when I searched the supply closet. “Buy push-button ball point pens so you don’t mark your shirt when you put your pen back in your shirt pocket,” was a tip I wrote down. (I didn’t realize at the time that I’d be using my pen hundreds of times a day to record each contact for the park’s statistical analysis of the number of visitor violations, and to issue citations. At day’s end I tallied ‘em up…X number without passes, X without leashes, etc.)
Looking back on my experience in the DOLA, I think things might have gone better if I’d been outfitted all in black like a SWAT TEAM member.
During training various life-like scenarios were created for us work through. In one of them I came across a fisherman sitting on a bucket, his tackle box by his side. (The fisherman was another ranger in a room off the training room, with his fishing line on the floor.) I introduced myself, told him my reason for contacting him, and checked his fishing license, which was valid. I made fishing small–talk, gave him back his license, thanked him for his cooperation and walked away.
Someone said, “Stop!” in a loud voice. It was a fulltime ranger observer—a .45 on his hip-- who said, “Didn’t you see the big sheath knife in his open tackle box right by his side!? Pay attention when you’re making a contact. Have him close the box! He could be a violent felon! Officer safety is our first concern. It could be some minutes before we can get help to you. And, some of you—he looked at me—didn’t call on the radio to give your location prior to the contact. If something happens out there, how are we going to find you if you don’t tell us where you are? Always call in your location and what you’re doing.”
I knew I’d be making a lot of contacts every day at the DOLA, and I asked if I should call in each time. “Oh, no. Not in the DOLA. Just call if you have a problem. Just keep in touch with dispatch to let us know you’re ok. Officer safety comes first! We all want to go home at night.” Nods all around the room, just like on a TV cop show.
How could I have known that my radio would only work part-time?
More than once during training when the DOLA was mentioned, other rangers smiled and shook their heads. “You’ve got your work cut out for you down there, Dave,” they’d say. I was never quite sure what they meant. I worked hard and paid attention in training. It was all very new to me.
On my first day at the DOLA I accompanied the other seasonal, a quiet, tall, no-nonsense, hearty woman I came to respect and appreciate—a former officer in the military in her late thirties. As we approached people and their dogs on the paved paths she’d stop them and say, “Hello, folks! Can I see your pass please?” Sometimes they had them on display on a lanyard or attached to the dog’s leash, and they’d wave it at us and keep walking. “How about a leash for each of your dogs and a poop bag?” she’d call after them. Less than half had the full complement. Many were rude, annoyed to be questioned at all. She handled it all in stride, lectured them briefly about the DOLA rules, explained where passes could be purchased and sent one or two off to buy a $2 pass on their own. She issued a handful of written warnings and admonished visitors to be better prepared next time or get a $50 fine.
I was startled at the lack of compliance and the disrespect most people showed. Once after she’d given a man a warning and he was walking away, I called after him to be friendly and said, “That’s a great-looking dog you’ve got there!” Barely slowing his walk, he looked over his shoulder at me and said, “Go fuck yourself!”
“Welcome to the DOLA,” my ranger pal said to me, laughing. “You could give out fifty fines a day down here! I’ve been keeping track for weeks, graphing the contacts and compliance. About half of the people refuse to comply with the rules despite months of foot patrol in the DOLA, newspaper articles, signs everywhere, public meetings, and a website. They just don’t seem to care.” She was exasperated but still smiling at the end of the day, having made fifty contacts, an average day, she said. She was pleased that she hadn’t had to deal with anyone really difficult. Wow! A full day being insulted by more than half the people we met. Was every day like that? She’d been bitten on the hand by a dog a few weeks before, but the bite had healed nicely. “Don’t pet the dogs,” she advised with a smile.
My overwhelming first impression was that these visitors shared a royal sense of entitlement. They acted as though their $2 pass entitled them to be off leash like their dogs, completely free to ignore the practical, simple, basic regulations. Why would they bring dogs without poop bags? They actually seemed to think that their poop didn’t stink. What was up?
My first day alone I discovered what I came to know as a regular type of violator, a person who pretended to look the other way so he could avoid cleaning up after his dogs.(Some busied themselves on cellphones or talked in groups as they walked, ignoring their dogs.) This guy, around sixty, balding, wearing a fancy orange bird-hunting vest, parked his newish SUV fifty feet from the information sign and let three pointers out to run, which they did, taking off across the crowded parking lot into the bushes twenty yards away and off down the trail, smelling and chasing each other, getting loose after being cooped up in the car.
There was always a circus clown-car effect when visitors pulled up, opened their car doors and out popped a bunch of people and dogs.
The dogs’ owner reorganized the back of his car while the dogs ran. He knew they’d want to take a dump soon once they started running and enjoying all the other dogs’ scent, so he took five or ten minutes before closing the car and heading out to find his dogs, which came running when they saw him, across the parking lot, with cars, other dogs, people and bicycles coming and going. I was watching closely. When he got to the edge of the parking lot I walked over and greeted him: Good morning, sir! Good looking dogs you’ve got there. Do you get to hunt ‘em much?... I see. They look like they know this place pretty well. Oh, you’ve been coming here for years. I see. Me? This is my first day. He mumbled something my way, then turned, ignoring me and walked off towards the paved DOLA path nearby. I called after him in a friendly tone: Sir, stop please! One of your dogs just left a big ol’ bluefly buncher over there while you were looking around in your car. Yessir, I’m quite positive. I watched him. Bring a poop bag and I’ll show it to you….What, you don’t have a poop bag? That’s not good at all, sir. Three dogs in a State Park and you don’t have a waste bag for each dog? That carries a $50 fine....Nossir, I just looked and there aren’t any in the bag holder, but here, I have one in my pocket someone gave me a while ago. You can use that…_Nossir, the State of Colorado doesn’t supply poop bags for your dogs. Sometimes volunteers put bags out….I’ll put in my report that you’re angry there aren’t any bags, that you want to know—let me get you quoted right, quote, ‘just what the fucking State does do out here.’ Is that correct? (He was pissed off, but notice that he was blaming the State, not himself.) Ok. My job? I’m a seasonal Colorado State Park Ranger. Yeah, that’s why I don’t have a gun. Just through the summer. I’m supposed to get visitors to the Dog Off Leash Area of the Park in compliance with those laws you see on the sign right there in front of you…I pointed my finger to indicate the rules on the sign, which he glanced at dismissively. He walked with me and picked up his dog’s feces with the bag I handed him and dropped it into the dumpster. Meanwhile his other two dogs were back in the bushes exploring, peeing, greeting other dogs, having a good ol’ time.
By the way, sir, do you have a leash for each of your three dogs and a pass to be here in the Dog Off Leash Area ? I noticed that you let ‘em out of the car without leashes. No bags, no leashes either? I see that you’ve got a vehicle pass on your windshield, but you also need a $2 pass to be in the DOLA….No, you don’t have a pass? That’s another $50 fine, sir…No, I’m not responsible for what you don’t know about Park rules, sir. Have you ever asked at the gate or asked a ranger or gone online or called the Park office about the regulations? There they are, right in front of you on the sign. When did the $2 fee start? In January of this year, 2011. It’s been Colorado State law for years that you have a six foot leash for any dog not on private property. It’s all right here, sir. See? I indicated the sign again. (I’ll quote you on that too, if you like. Quote, ‘it’s all a goddamned scam by the government to get our money!’) Sir, you give me no choice but to ask you to put your dogs back in your car. No poop bags. No leashes. No pass. I can’t let you take your dogs out on park property. You could buy a $2 pass at that box over there next to the sign, but you’d still be without waste bags and leashes….Well, I suppose you’re right. I am throwing you out of the park, asking you to leave. I am authorized to do that, yessir. I may be a goddamned rent-a-cop, sir, but I can call in one of the fulltime Rangers in a minute if I need to. You don’t want me to do that. I’m letting you leave without fining you $200, which I could still do….I’m sorry you feel that way. I can see you’re upset… I hope you come back again with the right pass and equipment…. Yeah, I suppose it will be a cold day in Hell. No, I won’t stick the radio up my ass…goodbye, sir. (He loaded the dogs and left in a squeal of tires, waving his hand in an unfriendly gesture.) A few minutes before, out of the corner of my eye, while all this was going on, I thought I saw one of his other dogs taking a dump back in the bushes…
I was worn out, my hands were shaking. For a minute there I’d let him get too close to me, close enough to take a swing. Officer Safety! I should have radioed for backup earlier when I saw that he was getting upset. What was I feeling, under attack? I wasn’t physically afraid of the guy, but adrenalin was really flowing. All he’d done was get loud and say some rude things. What did I do wrong? I really screwed that up. No! Wait a minute, Ranger Dave! You didn’t do anything wrong.
At first he’d seemed like a good man with hunting dogs, a person I’d like to get to know, someone I might become friends with, go hunting with. No, he’s just a violator, David. Don’t take it personally. He was a real creep!
How could anyone bring three dogs to the DOLA and not have poop bags and leashes? He knew the $2 pass was required, he just didn’t want to pay. I let him bully me with all his cussing and bluster! I should have fined his ass! I screwed that up!
I walked through the parking lot for a few minutes checking car windshields for $70 annual parking passes or paper day passes left on the dashboard, getting myself back under control, then I headed out to the path to meet more visitors and their dogs, ready to put a smile on my face.
I’d spent an hour with my supervisor learning how to complete citations, a book of which I carried in my hand in a stainless steel “ticket box,” the kind you’ve seen police officers carry. I had a list of coded violations to put on the tickets, and a sheet showing the location of the courts where cases would be heard if violators chose not to pay the mail-in fine. I practiced taking out the citation book and writing a ticket while standing. In the wind, on the path with people and dogs walking by, it wasn’t easy to keep track of things. Papers blew away and I hustled to pick them up. I was not looking forward to writing my first citation, but I resolved not to be bullied again by someone’s abusive language and tone of voice.
I owned four boat sales businesses in south Florida during the 1970s, and had a staff of salesmen. When they wanted something from me and started selling me, warming me up to the idea, they called it, “peeing on my leg,” an old car sales term. I heard the technique many times in the DOLA from people who didn’t want me to issue them a citation. Once I followed woman back to her car to get her leash, pass and bag, and she lied and said flattering things, peeing on my leg all the way to her car door, where she finally said, “Ok, you got me! I don’t have none of those things.” I gave her a warning and sent her on her way. Had her peeing worked?
On one of my first days, on a dirt path near the east end of the Park, I came across an attractive fiftyish woman with a big smile and six dogs and a couple of leashes around her neck. The law allows a person to have 3 dogs. She had one waste bag. She’d forgotten and left her DOLA pass in her car in the parking lot. She was so sorry! How dumb of her, yada yada. She seemed overwhelmed. The dogs, a mixed lot, twisted around us as I listened to her explanation. She’d driven out with her friend, owner of three of the dogs, who was back in ladies’ room with terrible diarrhea and she was holding the dogs until the friend returned…any minute now. The friend had the poop bags-- always carried a bunch--and she had leashes. She was terribly sorry if that presented a problem. What should she do?
Ranger Dave’s solution was for her to head immediately back to her car with the six dogs, get her pass, hook up with the friend, get the poop bags and return to the area where I was walking so I could issue her a warning on the pass and bag violations, each of which, I explained, was a $50 fine in addition to one for having more than three dogs. Just a warning this time. She was very appreciative, promised to follow my directions implicitly, and headed off in the direction of the distant parking lot, concerned to check on her friend. I handed her a poop bag I had in my pocket it case she needed it on the walk back.
I felt like I had resolved those issues pretty well, helped the lady out in a tough spot. Not a bad looking older broad, charming. Good rangering.
Twenty minutes later I was walking near the lot where she had said she was parked, and I watched from a hundred yards away as she loaded the last of the six dogs in her Chevy Suburban, a newer model. She went around to the driver’s side, got in and started the engine. There was no sick friend in the car!
As she drove quickly out of the lot she saw me, gave me a slow, side-to-side wobble-head wave and kept going. I couldn’t be sure, but there didn’t appear to be a vehicle parking pass in the windshield. Sick friend my arse! She’d peed all over me!
Over the next few months I found that most people lied about having left things back in the car: The pass for the DOLA wasn’t there after all when we got to their car. Didn’t I mean the day vehicle pass? Oh, they must have misunderstood. They didn’t know there was a $2 pass for the DOLA. Nobody had told them about that. Oh, sure, they’d buy a pass at the dispenser right now. So sorry, so sorry. Darn, they must have left their leashes at home by accident…they ALWAYS bring their leashes. Oh, here’s my leash? Only one leash for three dogs? Oh, I thought you just had to have one leash. Poop bags are here somewhere….we always pick up extra poop when we come here. Oops, my husband must have them in our other car. I’m so sorry, Officer.
Knowing they were lying, having lots more contacts to make, I would say something like, “Oh, that’s too bad. Everyone forgets sometimes. I tell you what, you head back to your car now and get your leash/pass/bag and I’ll meet you over there in a few minutes. That way you avoid a $50 fine. Sound fair?” Then the whining and complaining would start: Walk all the way back over there? What!? I’ve been coming here for years and I’ve never been asked for a leash! What do you mean stopping me! Who is your supervisor? I don’t like your attitude! I’m going to call Channel 7! This is ridiculous! I just told you the leash/pass/bag is in the car! Are you accusing me of lying?
Or, I’d send them to a pay station if they promised to buy a pass right then to avoid a citation, only to find them an hour later in another part of the DOLA, still without the pass. Reminding them of their promise pushed out another set of lies like, I was going to buy it on the way out, Officer, or, I only had a $20 bill, or, I’m going to buy an annual pass at the gate when I leave or, my wife is on her way with some cash. All I have is a credit card. It was Ranger Dave’s fault that I couldn’t make change or take their credit card.
Most of the regular, responsible visitors had ways of displaying their annual $20 laminated DOLA pass by wearing it around their neck on a lanyard, or pinning it to their shirt, shorts or backpack so it was easy for rangers to see. A leash for each dog strung around their neck or waist with a few poop bags tied to it completed the good DOLA visitor’s outfit. Rangers didn’t interrupt their walk. These “good” visitors were usually happy to let a ranger see that they were in compliance.
The early morning crowd was mostly older folks who knew the drill and brought their gear. Most appreciated the work we were doing to enforce the rules. They saw the law breakers-- owners walking away from feces and people sneaking in from across the bridge-- and knew it was best to arrive early and leave before the younger crowd, with their baggy shorts, flip-flops and Starbucks arrived in the late morning.
I preferred working the early shift, from 7Am until 3PM, though it required getting up at five in the morning to get in early to finish paperwork, pick up my radio and report sheets, check the truck and get it ready for the day. At 7AM I was on my way to the DOLA. Colorado mornings are fine!
The previous evening’s crowd usually left me a few presents, plastic bags of dog poop. Nice of ‘em , wasn’t it? Rather than taking their dogs’ excrement to the trash cans they left ‘em on the side of the trail so someone else would clean up after them.
On a misty, cool morning as I was walking near the ‘problem area’ near the bridge, a woman took a path away from me as she noticed I was approaching, a common avoid-the-ranger response by some visitors. I called a friendly greeting to her and asked to see her pass, leashes and poop bags. She looked over her shoulder at me with a nasty expression and said, “Fuck you! Sig Heil! I’m an American, goddamn it!” With that she stomped away down into the dense woods by the river with her dogs. I didn’t follow.
Officer safety was stressed in training, remember, Dave? I was shocked! What was that all about!? (For the first time the thought popped in my mind: For $9.75 an hour?) What had I done to upset her? Nothing, just my usual simple questions in a friendly tone. She was crazy as a sprayed roach, as the ol’ southern saying goes. About 5’6”, medium stout, reddish hair, fifty years old, two or three mutts. I was sure I’d be calling for backup from an armed ranger if I ran into her again back near the river, though it would take fifteen minutes for help to reach me, an eon in a knife fight.
I’d bet she had a knife or a gun. Lots of folks have “carry permits” these days. During my juijitsu training—I’d earned a hard-fought Black Belt in my late forties-- I learned ways to disarm a person with a knife, but I knew I could expect to get cut in the process. Guns? Oh, well… I figured I could put up with being verbally “cut”—insulted. I’d learn to deal with it, but damned if I was going to follow some whacko into the bushes by myself, completely unarmed.
A few minutes later, when I was away from that contact, I sat down at a park bench and thought about it. I had remained in control, calm, but she had upset me like the man I’d sent out of the Park on one of my first days. My hands were shaking. She had tried to shame me, I reckoned, and it had partly worked. Why did I “pick on her?” Had I been unfair? Ideally, she would have been enjoying the DOLA in total compliance and we would have shared pleasantries about dogs and kids. She’d made me feel like Parents often feel-- not loved, on the outside looking in, friendless. Get a grip, Ranger Dave. It’s not about you, it’s about her awful behavior. Why was I having to reason with myself? The woman was a complete jerk.
Two months later in a different part of the DOLA I had a brief verbal exchange with an awful, big man, that I knew was going to get bloody, but ended with him walking off muttering to himself. He’d been walking his dogs off leash in a dangerous area marked with two DANGER signs and two that said, END OF DOG OFF LEASH AREA. I didn’t follow him either.
The more contacts I made over the months, the clearer it became: It was all about feelings of entitlement at the DOLA. How many Americans are on welfare, getting food stamps, unemployed, some receiving government money after 99 weeks? People are scrambling for some sense of worth. They can’t find even crummy jobs. Their boring lives and debt—lots of debt--are driving ‘em nuts, and you could feel the bad marriages, recognize the lame attempt at ‘spending time together’ recommended by their counselors. Fuck authority! Do what you want! Get a tattoo on your forehead …it’s your head. Do whatever it takes to be noticed, to be part of something, a group. Get a dog! Great idea! A dog loves you, man! Go out and be free with your dog running wild in a beautiful park. Fuck regulations, man. Be free!
And there I was, in front of all that, feeling entitled to respectful treatment because I was a uniformed state park ranger. Lotsa luck, Ranger Dave!
According to one Parks expert with many years on the job, it all started about 1992, during “the Clinton years.” The notion of entitlement came alive. “People don’t read signs,” he told me. “Signs just create a need for more enforcement. If you don’t want people to park somewhere don’t bother with a NO PARKING sign. Putting a big boulder where you don’t want parking will work, not much else. People today think they can do anything they want.”
Half of my contacts in the DOLA broke various state and parks laws. How was a seasonal ranger with a few days training going to make a difference? How could I feel half-way good about the job I was doing? If I enforced the laws I’d be writing citations and getting into arguments all day every day. And if the management wanted the rules upheld, why weren’t the full-time rangers—“FTEs”-- working in the DOLA? Everyone on staff knew it was the most problematic area in all of Colorado State Parks. The answer was that no self-respecting FTE wanted to be associated with all the stress and aggravation.
On the weekends the two of us DOLA rangers often made 125 contacts a day, many of them contentious, which was more than all the other seasonal rangers in the park combined. And their usual contacts were of the informational variety, supplying answers, giving directions, not confronting visitors. Other seasonals worked what’s called, “capacity,” closing off filled parking lots, estimating how many spaces were left at any given time, picking up and delivering money and receipts from various Park cash boxes, and running errands for the “FTEs”, the fulltime rangers. Seasonals also worked on boat patrol and at the boat ramps inspecting boats for aquatic nuisance species.
Over a million-and-a-half people visit Chatfield every year and most of them have a wonderful time. It’s all fun…hot air balloons, boats, fishing, hiking, bird watching, camping and dog walking. Two hundred and forty seven thousand people were projected to use the DOLA in 2010, and thousands more would enjoy their dogs on leashes throughout the Park. 247,000 visitors X an average of two dogs each…494,000 dogs with their leashes…hopefully, more than 494,000 poop bags. (Hones dog owners told me that their dogs frequently defecated more than once at the DOLA.)
Radio “traffic” on a busy weekend would cover dozens of issues for the FTEs; arrests for boating while intoxicated and DUIs, citations for speed and wake violations on the Lake, swimmers in the wrong places, dogs off leash in the wrong areas of the park, problems with campers drinking in public and peeing outside, off-road driving and parking, horses loose with a thrown rider on the ground somewhere waiting for the EMTs , people fishing without licenses, marital scuffles and the occasional felony arrest.
Top managers at the park are rangers devoted to the smooth management of Chatfield and having happy visitors. They still carry side-arms and other safety gear, and wear ranger uniforms and badges. They’ve seen and heard it all. They respond to other rangers’ calls for backup, help out wherever they can, and are not above picking up trash when they see it. Good guys! Twice the #2 man at the park came to help me with issuance of a citation in a difficult situation.
Every day I had numerous waste bag violators. Here’s a typical exchange.
“Oh, I had a poop bag, but I used it already.” Ranger Dave: “Thanks for bringing a bag and cleaning up, ma’am. But now, here you are in a State Park with three dogs and zero bags, and here I am, the enforcement officer.” Visitor, indignant now, pissed at me for not ‘getting it’: “No! I told you! I already used it! It’s in a trash can on the other side of the pond. I can prove it! I’ll show it to you! I always bring a poop bag. I even pick up after others.”
(Right! Sure you do. What is it that made people think that they could ‘prove’ a poop bag full of excrement in a trash can with dozens of others belonged to them? They’d sort through 100 bags until they found theirs? ‘No, it’s not that leaky white one, it’s a blue bag…we’ll find it. Let’s just keep looking, Ranger Dave.’ They didn’t get it. You either had a bag for your dogs or you didn’t.)
Ranger Dave: “Well, ma’am, what if one of your other dogs defecates now? What will you do? You can’t just leave a pile of dog feces and walk away.” Visitor, still adamant she’s done no wrong: “Oh, I know my dogs. They won’t poop. But, if one of ‘em did I’d walk back to one of those plastic holder things and get a bag and come back and pick it up.” There! That should settle it, right? Ranger Dave: “Unfortunately, many times there aren’t any bags in the plastic holders. The State doesn’t supply poop bags. You’re telling me that you’d leave a pile of stinking dog excrement, walk a ¼ mile, try to find a bag and walk back to pick it up if there was a bag. What about the other two dogs in the meantime? It’s against Colorado State statutes and Parks Board rules not to have a bag for your dogs when you’re in the park. It’s against another law not to clean up after your dog immediately. You can’t just walk off down the trail and leave it. If one of your dogs took a dump, you’d breaking both those laws.”
Doo-doo bag law breakers get angry when they don’t get credit for being good little boys and girls. They want a little gold star for being able to tell a park ranger that they brought a bag and used it. Such good boys and girls! Ranger Dave is sooo proud of you. Thank you sooo much!
Owners say that they know their dog, suggesting that they know when their dog will take a dump, which maybe they do when the dog is in its home routine, but when it’s pointed out to them that when dogs come to the DOLA they have a wonderful time smelling all the other dog feces, and that they usually want to leave at least one smelly sign that they were there, dog owners don’t like it. Their dog is different! Yeah, but, I’d say to them, at the DOLA they swim and drink pond water and run like crazy and socialize with dozens of other dogs. It’s what dogs do, of all breeds and sizes. (Rarely were there dog fights, and I never saw a serious one.)
Frequently as I was talking to a dog owner about their dogs’ habits and their violations one of their dogs would take a dump within a few feet of us, seeming to stop and let go because we had stopped and were talking about them, to show that they were housebroken. The dogs wanted to say, See? That’s over with. Nice big one! Nothing on the carpet. Let me scratch a little dirt over it…there now, let’s go!
It never occurred to me when I took the ranger job that visitors would routinely leave feces on the ground in the park if they thought they could get away with it. I was always a little amazed to see it. What kind of people are these, I’d think. What is so difficult about bringing, say, six bags for three dogs? Pet stores sell for a few dollars rolls of bio-degradable bags on small rollers that attach to a leash or fit in a pocket. Don’t we all have a disposal problem at home due to the excess number of plastic bags that come with groceries and other retail purchases? Why do only a few DOLA visitors bring extra bags to stuff in the park-supplied holders? I came to understand that it’s all part of the great entitlement attitude: someone should supply bags for me because I’m special, and I paid two dollars to be here!
A few dog owners used another ploy: Their big dog would poop fifty feet back in the bushes. Ceremoniously-- making sure they were seen—they’d walk with their bag in hand a few steps off the trail in the direction of their dog’s fresh, smelly pile, look around for a bit, then pick up a much smaller, desiccated clump left by another dog the previous week. Oh, so clever, weren’t they?
Here’s a variation of a leash law violation, said dismissively, as though it’s not important at all, often with the violator turning to walk away: “Oh, so sorry. I forgot. My leash is in the car.” They really are good citizens and I’d just have to bear with them and understand that they’re cool with it. It’s in the fucking car, officer, like I said! Just chill!
Ranger Dave: “Well, that’s a bummer. It’s against the law, a $50 fine to be in the DOLA without a leash to control each of your dogs. It doesn’t do you much good if it’s in the car, does it? (For some reason that question seemed to piss ‘em off big-time. I learned to avoid it.) What if you hurt yourself, have a stroke or heart attack and we have to leash your dogs while the EMTs take care of you? You don’t want to lose ‘em, do you? What if another dog attacks yours? How could you get control of your dog? When you go to and from the parking lot, with all the bicycles, people and cars, you want to leash your dogs, right? You don’t want them running into traffic… do you?” (Most visitors turn their dogs loose in the parking lot, despite the obvious dangers. Ranger Dave sometimes wore himself and the visitor out detailing the reasons why leashes were important. Owners related their leash use to their home habits, leashing Fido for the walk around the block in the morning. They didn’t give one damn about having a leash. The law might as well be abandoned.)
Here’s the most common dog owner dodge at that point, spoken with anger, blaming Parks: “Oh, well, I didn’t know I had to have a leash! The woman at the gate didn’t tell me. She saw my dogs, must have known I was coming here. She should have told me. (NOT their responsibility!) I thought this was a dog off leash area, that I didn’t need to have a leash.” Ranger Dave was an idiot to think that a leash was required. They had me on the ropes now. What, was I joking? Ha, ha. Ranger Dave: “Did you ask what the rules are in the DOLA? It’s your responsibility to comply with Park regulations, not the gate attendant’s. The gate folks can’t take time to inform visitors about all the areas of the park. We have a million and a half visitors a year. If they see your dogs, which they may not, they assume you have leashes or you wouldn’t come to the park. Lots of visitors take their dogs on leashes to other areas, camping, out on a boat, for a hike. There are signs in the parking lots, online and in various Park brochures. If you live in Colorado you’re required to have your dog on a leash outside. And, when you think about it for a second, you’ve got to have a leash in your possession before you can take your dog off leash, right?”
The “I didn’t know,” excuse is the most common, applied by violators to all the rules. Feeling entitled to completely free run of the DOLA, they also felt entitled to have someone explain all the regulations. They implied that signs should have been read to them, that someone should hand them poop bags and remind them to have a leash for each dog. If they didn’t have the required items it was really ok because they’re a good person and will do better next time…promise. After all, they came out here to have a good time, and they certainly didn’t expect to be hassled by some ranger. Jesus! Maybe, if the Ranger would hurry—they want to keep walking-- they’d accept a written warning, but surely not a $50 citation. “No way, officer! You can’t do that! That is not acceptable! I do not deserve that! You’re picking on me!” They became wee children, little brats!
The strangest encounter I had with a dog owner was with a woman of around thirty-five, alone with two dogs on a busy, warm June afternoon. When I contacted her to ask if she had poop bags she’d said no, that she’d brought a bag but already used it, that she knew her dogs and that they’d already defecated at home and wouldn’t be going again. No problem, officer, nothing to worry about. I explained that she was in violation of state and parks laws requiring visitors to have bags. I could give her a $50 fine. At that precise time one of her dogs began taking a dump about ten feet from us. Now what, I asked? She said that she didn’t know what to do. She was flustered, in distress. It was obvious by her tone of voice that the ball was now in my court, that I had to come up with a solution. She expected me to clean up after her dog. I was the ranger, right, her little helper? I suggested that maybe she could get a bag from one of the folks walking by. I said I’d stand near the dog pile so no one else stepped in it. She tried three different people. No luck, no bag. If they had ‘em they were holding onto ‘em. I said that I couldn’t stand there indefinitely. (At least ten minutes had passed.) Meanwhile, her 2nd dog decided to let go on the other side of the path. Now we had two piles and no bags, with other visitors and their dogs walking by, and her dogs milling around our feet. I discovered too that she didn’t have a leash for each dog or the $2 pass required for her to be in the off-leash area to begin with. She was violating three basic park rules, each with their own $50 fine. (She had only standard lies and excuses.) Now what are you going to do about the poop on the ground, I asked. She wanted to know if it was ok to pick it up with something else other than a bag? Sure, I said, thinking maybe she’d find a clump of grass or sticks or a piece of paper. She really didn’t want the $50 fine, she said, and proceeded to pull some bills out of her fanny pack. Without further ado she held a $10 bill by its ends and tried to scoop up as much of the excrement as she could hold from both piles—they were dogs in the 30-pound range so there was considerable overflow to be ignored --and started walking with a handful of dogshit towards the nearest trash can three hundred yards away, with me, Ranger Dave, close behind. Along the way she found someone on the path who felt sorry for her and gave her a bag, so she dumped the crap in it and we kept walking to the trash can. When we reached the dumpster she dropped in the bag and went into the restroom to clean up. (There was no soap in the bathrooms.) Then I showed her how to purchase a $2 pass at one of the dispensers in the parking lot. I told her I was not going to issue a citation for her violations, and that she’d be ok for the rest of the day without the required leashes. I wasn’t going to fine her for not having poop bags. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Throughout our meeting she had been angry, unhappy with me for insisting that she pick up after her dogs and that I’d suggested she was violating the law by not having a pass and leashes. How was she to know? Nobody’d told her anything about it! I was just being a pain in the butt. Other people left poop all the time and didn’t have some ranger threatening them with fines. Then she said, “I used to like this place when it was a lot chiller, when you didn’t get hassled by rangers.”
I I could only imagine what the walking paths must have looked like back in the good old days before seasonal rangers, before poop bags and $2 use fees and leash laws.
Here’s a passive-aggressive ploy I learned to recognize: I’d start to explain why someone was in violation and deserving of a fine. The lawbreaker would quickly be fed up with me: “Ok, Ranger Dave, ok, ok, just give me whatever you think I deserve. It’s entirely up to you! Just gimme the ticket so I can be on my way. Whatever! Just do it. I don’t want to hear any more about it, ok? I’m out here enjoying my dog and you threaten me with a fine, for God’s sake.” (See the shift, how I was now the violator, guilty of disturbing them for some unfathomable, incredibly stupid reason like not having a poop bag. He was giving me permission!) I was supposed to reconsider and see the reasonable side of the issue, where it was all just a small misunderstanding. No poop bag? What the heck, just between us guys, right? Ranger Dave had gotten a little carried away. No harm done. Buy you a beer after work?
I learned to say, “You’re right, Sir. That’s exactly what I should do. I appreciate your cooperation. Do you have a picture ID with you?” The real complaining would begin at that point.
As a kid I’d grown up in a home where loud drunken voices led to blood, ambulances, doctors in the night and lots of fear. I knew it was my fault. If I’d just been a better boy… My hands still shake when hollering starts. No wonder they shook when I was writing tickets to loudmouthed lawbreakers, men or women. The question became: Ranger Dave, what in the hell are you doing in a job involving so many angry people?
I came to think of myself as becoming frayed, diminished. My radio microphone on a cord had been “borrowed” by a fulltime ranger, so I carried my radio stuffed in my pants pocket. Sometimes I wondered, can’t I do more than fine this insulting asshole? My spirits, like the bottoms of my cheap ranger shoes, were thin.
One afternoon I looked up at the grassy field that makes up the large expanse of real estate on the back side of the park reservoir dam. It’s illegal to be there, where terrorists might do damage to the dam, or so I was warned in training. A man without a shirt, wearing tan surfer-style, long shorts was walking two large dogs off-leash, a Parks violation not tolerated outside the DOLA.
I made an attempt to call for backup, but my radio wasn’t working. He seemed to be climbing to the top of the dam where there is a gravel road, so I hopped in the pickup to head him off up there and issue him a citation. He continued to climb, and as I arrived on top of the dam he started back down. He was a few hundred yards away. Surely he’d seen me in the truck. I called out to him but he continued down the slope. Maybe he couldn’t hear me? Was he trying to get away? Through my binoculars I saw a very fit and muscular young man with a bald head and lots of tattoos. He’d put his dogs, two very large pit bulls, on leashes. I tried my radio again from the top of the dam and got through to a ranger who said he’d proceed in his cruiser to meet the man at the bottom of the dam while I drove back around. I felt relieved having armed backup on the way.
Pit bulls were banned in Denver in 1989. Studies have shown that it wasn’t the dog breed that was the problem, but rather that it was faddish for anti-social criminals who wanted vicious dogs to own pit bulls in the 1980s, so “Pits” had represented a proportionately large number of the dogs responsible for human dog bite fatalities for a few years. They aren’t any worse than many other large dogs, but these were really big ones and this fella sure was acting anti-social. What if he turned the dogs loose on me? Holy shit! I’d stay in my truck until he had his dogs put up in his, which I saw as I approached the man and dogs, was an old pickup. Clearly a tough guy, the young man looked like he’d been pumping iron in prison for a few years. This could get messy. Don’t forget to use your legs, Ranger Dave. Kick low and hard and keep going. Damn, what was I nuts? What was I doing!?
The drama unfolded like this: He was walking the dogs back to his truck when I drove up just ahead of the ranger with the gun in his cruiser and said howdy-do-sir to the guy. Beautiful dogs you got there. Reason I’m contacting you is because you had your dogs off-leash up there on the back of the dam, and you aren’t supposed to be up there at all. It’s against the law.
From there on he set the standards for proper behavior when stopped by a ranger. He was sorry, didn’t realize, didn’t see no signs, didn’t see how he’d done nothin’ wrong, but he was awful sorry. Here, he said, let me put these dogs up. They worry some folks.
The pit bulls were beautiful specimens with flawless ears, completely sweet and docile. He apologized profusely about causing a problem, accepted his citation with barely a squeak though it was clear the $50 was large money to him, and drove off, a country gentleman with some sort of bird tattooed on his head. My, my.
So much for Ranger Dave’s prejudices. The most threatening person I’d run into so far at the DOLA was a small fat woman with reddish hair.
A few days later I saw from a hundred yards away a man in his seventies standing by as his fat, older Beagle took a dump on bare ground a few yards from a parking area. What’s he going to do, I thought to myself, and I was gratified to see him—a friendly-looking old fart out with his sway-backed, grey-muzzled Beagle that probably had been his rabbit hunting dog not many years ago--turn and walk to his nearby car where he opened the door and reached in—for a poop bag, I assumed—and brought out… a cup of coffee from Starbucks, and walked away with his dog directly past where the dog had left his pile. We had a reeducation talk.
Another time an older woman twenty yards down the path from me, a regular DOLA visitor, crooked her finger at me, saying, “Come here!” I crooked my finger back at her indicating that she should come to me, but moved her way. She said, “See that woman there, the big one? Her dog just left a big bunch of poop and she walked right by it.” She had turned to indicate a hefty woman in black stretch pants, holding her cell phone to her ear, talking loudly, walking along ignoring her surroundings. Suddenly she realized that the old gal was talking about her, snapped the phone shut and said, “What?” in a loud whiny tone of voice, meaning, “What are you accusing me of?” The older woman explained that her dog had taken a big dump and she should clean it up. Black pants said, instantly defensive, pissed off, “Why didn’t you tell me! Why did you have to tattle on me? I would have picked it up.” The old lady said, “No, you wouldn’t pick it up. You saw it and walked right past it. I’ve seen you do it before.”(Score one for the old lady.) Black pants asked a passerby who’d stopped to see what was going on if he had a poop bag he could spare, which he did, and she went to pick up the feces, complaining all the while about being tattled on, like a six-year-old. Nobody had told her. She hadn’t seen it. (She’d walked right past it.) She acted personally insulted and was not in any way responsible for leaving a pile of dog shit on the path. She kept saying that she would have picked it up. The old lady walked on down the path, accustomed to such shenanigans.
Dog poop and tattlers and no leashes and no passes and whiners and liars…and the occasional nice person, and lots of fun dogs. Dog poop on one side of the coin, human creeps on the other. Why do it, Ranger Dave? What, are you fuckin’ crazy, nuts!?
I started having nightmares, seeing angry faces, feeling stressed when I woke up. I had signed up for six months as a Seasonal, and there I was at two months, feeling trapped in a work lifestyle of daily lies and aggravation. Same patterns every day. Like the Army, they needed a young recruit. I’d seen too much of human behavior. I was too old, tired of ‘em shittin’ on me.
For dog lovers the DOLA was a paradise, with all sorts and sizes out parading and playing together. Bloodhounds, English Bulldogs, Great Danes and Mastiffs, lots of poodles and labs, mutts of every combination, and a few really nice pointers were part of the daily parade. Big and small, all of ‘em got along fine, smelling a “hello” and moving along with their owners.
I was about wore out—as my pit bull gentleman would have said--getting tired of it all when I ran into my next problem, a 6’4’’, two-hundred-pound white male according to his ID. He’d hopped out of a new Cadillac SUV with his daughter and three Labs. While I was writing him a ticket for not immediately cleaning up after his dog, he demanded that I walk over again and show him the feces I’d seen his dog leave, that I’d watched him witness and walk away from. From less than sixty feet away I had seen him watch his dog defecate. “Get over here right now!” he kept demanding, “and SHOW me the poop! YOU! Get over here NOW!” He was out of control, repeating his demand. Unfortunately, his small daughter of around nine years, was standing nearby, obviously afraid. At his order she had gotten a bag from the park dispenser and picked up the feces I’d pointed out a few minutes before, though he had insisted that it was not from his dog. He wanted me to root around in the bushes and find more excrement so he could say that it had not come from his dog’s bung. He’d thought of a defense: Judge, how could the ranger have known which fecal matter was from my dog?
How owners could pretend to recognize their dog’s feces is still a mystery to me. I tried explaining that I had already indicated one clump to him. (It did look more like a pecan sandy than dog feces, having rolled in the dust when it landed. His retriever shit like a big goat!) His poor little daughter had also watched the dog let go. We’d ALL seen it! He shushed her violently when she tried to show him where she’d seen the dog poop.
I said that the citation had a court date and location on it, and that I’d be there if he wanted to explain to a judge what his dog’s poop did not look like, and how I was wrong. I’d tell my side of the story and he could tell his. As I was filling out the citation at a nearby picnic table—my favorite writing spot--he walked too close to me, clenching and unclenching his fists, and I had to ask him to step back or I’d have to call for other officers.
The last thing he said as he snatched the ticket from my hand was, “You have no idea how much money my family gives every year to Colorado State Parks! You’ll be very sorry for this!” (I always felt waay too close to ‘em at that stage of the citation process, where they’re required to sign it and I’d hand their ID back to them.) He walked off down the path, earnestly explaining to his little daughter what a good guy he was and what a complete jerk and bad ranger I was. Learning at Daddy’s knee. She’ll be discussing that with a shrink one day. Couldn’t my father see the feces, doctor? There was a little string of them, like a choo-choo train.
That experience, probably because the little girl was involved, was one of the worst I had at the DOLA. Imagine coming out for a walk with your kid and dogs and behaving like that! Wouldn’t you do anything to avoid that kind of confrontation? I would.
The DOLA was not a good place to run with a dog. Dogs run in all directions, people are on and off the paths, bicycles cross paths, old people and kids get in the way, there’s a lot of erosion in places and the path’s uneven. And, what about the jogger not being able to see their dog if it runs even slightly off to the side or behind the runner to relieve itself? Do you think the jogger really cares? Naah, they do not care, I promise you. It’s why the run, so they won’t see it.
An hour later the twenty-eight-year-old jogging female who came by me was wearing latex shorts, colorful shoes and a close-fitting tank-top and ear buds, no leash or pass or bag in sight, with no room in her outfit to carry them. She had spiky short dark hair. Her dog was a hundred yards behind her loping along, enjoying the run. I held up my hand to stop her. The first thing she said, as she took the gizmos from her ears was, “What do you want!” She was angry that I’d interrupted her. I told her that I wanted to see her pass, leash and waste bag. She said, “Oh, goddamnit, is that all you’ve got to do, stop people and give them a hard time? I’m training!” She said she had everything back in her car, and she put the ear buds back in, clearly about to head off down the trail again now that she’d answered my questions. I was a real pain in her ass!
I stopped her again and told her that I was going to be writing her a citation, but only one of three I could write because she didn’t have any of the three required items with her. (It upsets me as I write this to remember what a vile, awful person she became in reaction to her bad, illegal behavior, screaming at me, hollering to passersby what a jerk I was, calling me names, demanding all sorts of things…my supervisor, etc. I had no right to stop her!) The woman went nuts, turned red in the face, breathless. I called for backup and I heard later that her screams and insults were clearly audible over the radio, and that every Ranger in the Park knew I was in conflict with a loon. Doing the best I could, I found out where her car was, and started her off walking that way with me so that she could show me her pass, leash and waste bag. (Her wildness really hadn’t had the desired effect. I was still there. I was going to issue her a ticket.) In a few minutes the other DOLA ranger was on the scene, trying to calm her down, standing between us while she hollered to other DOLA dog owners as they walked by that they’d better watch out, that I was a jerk and writing tickets. Meanwhile, this mad woman reached in her car, with me not knowing what she’d have in her hand, and came out with a pass to be in the DOLA but no leash or waste bag.(I’d eased over behind her car, just in case.) She had not had any of the required items when I contacted her far from her car, so the ticket was completely justified. I went to the same park bench I’d used earlier to write the ticket as two other fulltime rangers arrived in their patrol cars. They came as fast as the distance allows, which took about ten minutes, plenty of time for the nutcase to have shot me dead. The woman continued to rage, but the FTE—a pro at these sorts of things-- got her quiet enough to fill out a complaint form and vent to him about me, the laws and the terrible injustice about to go down. Good cop and bad cop…me.
I got the citation filled out and presented it to her with the rangers nearby, and she got in her car with her dog and left the park, appearing exhausted from all her efforts.
One of the rangers, trying hard to be helpful and get me cooled out, asked if I’d mind a suggestion. I said, “Please! Anything you feel might be helpful in situations like that.” He said, “When you’re issuing a ticket, don’t sit down like you did at the picnic table. You’re too vulnerable. You could be attacked before you could stand up and defend yourself.”
I thought, WHAT!? Vulnerable? I guess so! He was the first person to express even a casual concern. That out-of-control psycho could easily have pulled a gun. What about the 6’4” inch guy earlier? There I was alone in the DOLA, completely unarmed. Two awful people in less than an hour, and he’s wearing a .45 with two extra clips of ammo, handcuffs, MACE and a baton and bullet-proof vest. His badge is big as a dessert plate. What am I DOING!? His best idea is not to sit down while writing a ticket? Oh, that’s right, when he issues a ticket he undoubtedly never does it at a picnic table. He’s locked in his police cruiser. He meant well. I thanked him for the suggestion.
The other fulltime ranger who’d showed up was a training officer from the main Parks office just outside the DOLA. He’d heard the woman hollering over the radio and decided to see how I was doing as a new seasonal. He knew the reputation of the DOLA, but he’d never really seen it. Did I mind if he walked with me for a while and got the lay of the land? I was happy to have someone to talk to. Off to the trail we went, my hands still trembling.
We’d gone about two hundred yards when we watched a bird dog take a dump off to the side of the trail about fifty yards behind us, with his owner, an old gent in his late seventies coming up far behind, oblivious to the problem, accustomed to coming out for a walk to let the dog run where it wanted. If the dog crapped in his living room he’d have his wife pick it up. I walked back to meet him. He didn’t have a poop bag, so I sent him back to the parking lot to get one while I waited.
As he was heading slowly back our way a few minutes later the Ranger from the office commented that the old guy probably didn’t have a pass either, and he hadn’t seen a leash. “Oh, I’m sure you’re right,” I told him, “but I’m already going to write him up for no bag, leaving the mess in the bushes. I’ll warn him about the other things.”
While we waited two women came towards us with four dogs. I asked and they didn’t have their leashes, so I issued them verbal warnings and sent them on their way. One had one bag she said they’d use if they needed it. (I should not have contacted them, as I was still in the process of working out the details of the old man’s problem, but I couldn’t resist having the office ranger see what I saw every day, regular non-compliance.)
In the space of fifteen minutes the office man had seen one crazy visitor presenting potentially real danger and three others with a total of eight violations between them, at least. Once I finished with the old guy, the ranger said that he’d remembered something back in the office, and thanked me for letting him walk with me, and he turned back to the parking lot. He’d had all the exposure to the DOLA he wanted. What he hadn’t known hadn’t hurt him. Too much information working with Ranger Dave.
In the middle of an ordinary afternoon on one of my last days a family group—a son and his girlfriend, and Mom and Dad-- refused to pay the $2 DOLA fee, claiming as their bitter defense that the gate attendant hadn’t told them it was required. The mother hollered, way out of line, over-the-top completely, Didn’t that lady see that they had dogs!? What was she there for!? When I pointed out that I could not see into their new $50,000 truck from five feet away due to the very dark tinting, and the big black Rottweiler’s were in the back seat directly in front of me and I couldn’t see them at all, it didn’t slow her down a bit. The fee dispenser was fifty feet away, but rather than pay the two dollars as I suggested and be on their way, they decided to make trouble. Mom kept repeating her chorus about the lousy gate attendant, while the son joined in, said that he wasn’t going to pay one more goddamned dime to the State of Colorado. He’d already paid eight dollars to get in the park. He slammed a big handful of metal collars and leashes down on the tailgate for emphasis. I said that he was giving me no choice but to issue him a citation.
Their truck was parked directly in front of the regulations sign. They had a $70 annual vehicle pass, and had schlepped all their picnic gear, cooler and folding chairs, down to the water’s edge for the dogs to play. I’d seen them earlier, having a good time, relaxing, throwing toys for the water-loving Rotties. They were familiar with the DOLA. When I contacted the four of them they’d just returned from having way more than two bucks worth of fun.
Dad was hovering around during the fracas trying to make peace—obviously his role in the family. The son—short hair, lots of tattoos, various piercings, baggy shorts and chains-- ordered everyone in the truck and took off in a squeal of tires, giving me the finger out the window, risking a $300 fine for “eluding” a Parks officer—I’d told him not to leave-- and a few minutes later when the ranger I called stopped them on the road with lights flashing and siren going, they were still raising hell.
All because they didn’t want to pay two dollars! Some seriously screwed up people! Ah, what a sweet mom and loving son they were. The girlfriend, if she had a shred of sense, planned a ditching maneuver as soon as they got back to their trailer home, making sure she didn’t leave her drugs in the glovebox. (She was silent throughout, did what she was told and looked stoned.)
Unbelievably, the ranger let them leave after talking to them a few minutes, let ‘em drive off, still loud and angry. I could vaguely see their gestures through the tinted windows and heard the tone of their complaints. I’d followed along in my truck to write the ticket, and stood nearby. The ranger gave them a Colorado State Park business card after having me put my name on it so they could complain about me, as though somehow I was the wrongdoer. Imagine the sort of people! The kid’s had me Googled by now—I doubt that he’s computer literate-- and one night soon I’ll have to shoot his sorry ass when he busts down my front door with a couple of his mates from rehab.
What kind of a State Park Ranger decision was that, OFFICER, to let them skate away? I was pissed! Backup, my arse! It made me wonder what it was in my personality and background that had indicated to parks management that I’d be a good DOLA ranger. Did they think I was mentally handicapped in some way, that I’d stay in the job no matter what happened? Age had something to do with it, I was sure. Old guy. He’ll stick. I felt entitled to much more respect from the visitors and the ranger. Now they’d hurt my feelings, and I was pouting, I could feel it.
From there it was an easy decision to turn in my little gold badge, my ticket book, cap and radio. I wasn’t angry at the ranger for letting the creeps go—I knew he must have had good reasons, though he never shared ‘em with me-- but I was disappointed with myself for staying in the job two-and-a-half months. It had felt like two years!
It was forty degrees when I started in April, ninety nine on my last day in June. Six hours walking every day, fine. Dog feces, excrement, doo-doo, crap, poop, shit and plenty of it…liars, whiners, disrespectful, irresponsible, break-the-law-for-fun people who didn’t want to pay two bucks to enjoy that beautiful dog area. Adios!
Over the time I worked at the DOLA our research showed no improvement in the rate of compliance. We’d made no change in visitor behavior after nearly 4,000 contacts, issuing warnings and citations.
The DOLA was out of control and Parks management didn’t seem to care. They knew what was going on. Not even a 1st aid kit and a radio that worked? What was that about? Where was my pepper spray!? I think they liked the idea of us two DOLA rangers wrangling the folks far from the park office, trying to educate them about the need for compliance, and collecting some dough, but when I read in a Parks report that the entire projected revenue from $2 passes was less than $1300 for the year, I thought, well, Parks and Ranger Dave are screwed up and I can only change Ranger Dave.
For many years I’d been trying to keep my life peaceful, to do the next right thing, to avoid stress and aggravation, yet I’d ended up in a job that guaranteed it every day. How could I have known? I had done the best I could with it. I caught on to the truth in the first few days and quit accepting blame for issuing tickets to the law breakers, but the job was still there every day. Dog owners kept coming down the paths.
Were the rest of the seasonal rangers hired, like young Marines, because management knew they’d stick it out if things got bad? I don’t think so. The other seasonal jobs are doable, not nearly as confrontational as working at the DOLA. Still, I quit before my season was up. Not good, for sure. I’d signed up, made my deal. Had I known the devilish details of the job I probably would have taken it anyway, thinking I could handle it. Couldn’t be that bad, right?
I’d talked to my sons and friends over the weeks. I had a sensitive, wonderful wife who would have backed me any direction I had turned, but she let me know, as people who love you will do, that I needed to think about folding my losing hand.
Judging from the frequent, sudden resentment so many DOLA folks displayed I know there was something very basic going on. Confronting people about their leashes and dogs’ poop and requiring that they pay their way must bang on some crude mental doors.
I always enjoyed being with the dogs. Hundreds got along fine off-leash every day. Now I need an English Bulldog in my life, and maybe a Cairn Terrier. I could use a Chesapeake Retriever like I saw at the DOLA, and there was the weensiest Chihuahua….
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