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Talk to nicely.

Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted to be a park ranger. Maybe it was the idea of being a hero to some lost tourists or trapped cavers.

Or maybe I just realized from a very early age that I wasn't cut out for work in an office.

I needed to feel the sun on my back and the breeze in my hair to look out over a great expanse of wilderness and not see a single trace of human civilization.

Or so I thought back then.

Hell, maybe I just thought the uniform looked cool.

In the end, the reasons don't matter.

As sure as water flowing downstream, I was set on the course that led me here, to the Arville National Forest.

That isn't the real name of this place, but it will have to do.

What's important is that we're talking about nearly two and a half million acres of land, bordered by

nothing but dusty two-lane roads and dying small towns. Tourists mostly come in just three

times a year, spring break, midsummer, and a few weekends in October for the fall colors. During

the rest of the year, the local economy depends on a trickle of

vacationing families and rugged backpackers. They rent the log cabins, buy ice and beef jerky

from the general store, and eat at Molly's greasy spoon diner on the park border. Occasionally,

...