o there I was last week, scraping the F-word off red sandstone under a blazing Western Slope sun. I was steamed. “If I ever find the loser who expressed himself so crudely on this gorgeous slab of rock, why, I’ll . . . .”
With a wire brush in one hand and a sheet of coarse sandpaper in the other, I was one curiously armed — and mildly dangerous — park ranger.
Later that week I’d realize — not as an epiphany, just recognition — that however dire situations often seem to us Americans, the direst can be reversed.
Consider the Great Depression. Life was so hard back in the 1930s that some Americans jumped out the windows of Manhattan skyscrapers. And just when the U.S. economy seemed flat-lined, good old World War II came along.
Back to our anti-graffiti detail. Free speech is one thing, but the First Amendment does not allow you to carve your initials or your honey’s nickname or your favorite cuss word on multimillion-year-old geologic formations of the Colorado National Monument. It’s against federal law. Plus, defacing national park property wrecks what should be a magical experience for others.
Just imagine. You hike several back-country miles surrounded by juniper trees, golden eagles, whiptail lizards and bighorn sheep, only to be greeted with “Mary sucks” on the boulder by the trail. Ugh.
So park rangers work to restore Mother Nature’s gifts with steel brush and sandpaper. Our efforts are only partially effective. “Young punks,” I said under my breath that hot morning. “No respect.” Yet I’m not so old that memories of my youthful exuberance have completely disappeared. (Frankly, I did some pretty stupid, disrespectful things as a kid.)
The day after the graffiti-cleaning, I visited Leroy Lewis, 96, of Grand Junction, who had happily agreed to talk about one of his favorite subjects, the Civilian Conservation Corps, for some research I’m doing as an interpretive park ranger.
“I signed up for the CCC in ’33,” he said. “Had a big impact on my life. Very big.”
Lewis worked as a road builder for the CCC at the Colorado National Monument. Since his parents were dirt-poor ranchers in Hotchkiss during the Depression, Leroy enrolled in the CCC to become the breadwinner for his family. At the age of 22, he joined hundreds of other poor young men from all over the country. They used picks and shovels, sledges, jackhammers and dynamite to construct Rim Rock Drive, which snakes high up along canyon lips of the monument for 23 miles.
Nationwide, millions of CCC workers labored on backbreaking projects in national parks. They planted forests, dug dams, erected fire lookouts, and hammered out stone shelters under the guidance of soldiers and craftsmen. In the process, they also developed strong bodies, discipline, new skills, camaraderie and pride in an honest day’s work.
Leroy Lewis remembered the Half Tunnel Tragedy in December 1933. Nine of his co-workers were killed when a sandstone overhang sheared off. The accident buried most of them under tons of rock and sent others over the canyon lip and into the void. “For some of them, it was their first day of work,” he said.
From every monthly paycheck of $30, CCC workers were obligated to send $25 to their families back home. FDR created the program to give the ailing economy a boost and to restore Americans’ confidence in themselves and their country. From all accounts, it proved a remarkable success during its 10 years of operation.
When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941, many of the 3 million CCC workers matriculated into the armed services. It was just another fight for survival, and Leroy Lewis was among them. He served in the Army during World War II and also in the Korean conflict, eventually retiring as a lieutenant colonel.
The CCC worked magic. “It was all about patriotism,” he said. “They should bring it back. It would keep our young kids out of mischief.”
Without ever mentioning graffiti, I seconded his motion.
Eric Sandstrom (esandstr@mesastate.edu) teaches at Mesa State College in the mass communication program.
