never been
written--pages replete with dangers and hardships, loneliness and
privations, sacrifice and service, all sweetened with friendships not
found in heartless, hurrying cities, lightened with loyalty and love,
and tinted with glamour and romance. And over it all lies a fascination
a stranger without the gates can never share.

I was the first woman ever placed in field service at the Grand Canyon,
and the Superintendent was not completely overjoyed at my arrival. To be
fair, I suppose he expected me to be a clinging-vine nuisance, although
I assured him I was well able to take care of myself. Time softens most
of life's harsh memories, and I've learned to see his side of the
question. What was he to do with a girl among scores of road builders
and rangers? When I tell part of my experiences with him, I do so only
because he has long been out of the Service and I can now see the
humorous aspect of our private feud.

As the sun rose higher over the Canyon, I reluctantly turned away and
went to report my arrival to the Superintendent. He was a towering,
gloomy giant of a man, and I rather timidly presented my assignment. He
looked down from his superior height, eyed me severely, and spoke
gruffly.

"I suppose you know you were thrust upon me!"

"No. I'm very sorry," I said, quite meekly.

While I was desperately wondering what to do or say next, a tall blond
man in Park uniform entered the office.

The Superintendent looked quite relieved.

"This is White Mountain, Chief Ranger here. I guess I'll turn you over
to him. Look after her, will you, Chief?" And he washed his hands of
me.

In the Washington office I had often heard of "White Mountain" Smith. I
recalled him as the Government scout that had seen years of service in
Yellowstone before he became Chief Ranger at Grand Canyon. I looked him
over rather curiously and decided that I liked him very well. His keen
blue eyes were the friendliest I had seen since I left West Virginia. He
looked like a typical Western man, and I was surprised that his speech
had a "down East" tone.

"Aren't you a Westerner?"

"No, I'm a Connecticut Yankee," he smiled. "But we drift out here from
everywhere. I've been in the West many years."

"Have you ever been in West Virginia?" I blurted. Homesickness had
settled all over me.

He looked at me quickly, and I reckon he saw that tears were close to
the surface.

"No-o, I haven't been there. But my father went down the