It is with a heavy heart (and, of course, apologies to the Beatles for the title of this one) that I must relate the following tale of true grit in the partially-decomposed face of adversity, and how I came to a fuller realization that the life of a park ranger isn't all trees and breathtaking vistas. There are other aspects of the job that are similarly breathtaking, but not in a good way.
Take a rotting deer carcass for example. Please? Well, okay, I won't make you do it, but someone has to, because the wind has shifted and people are starting to complain. That someone would be . . . wait for it . . . the park ranger!
I won't bore you with every nauseating detail of the operation. I'll just say that, while I was standing upwind babbling about creative—and yes, even bizarre—ways of dealing with the deer departed without, you know, getting too close, the park ranger simply walked over, grabbed one of its feet, then sprinted down the hillside with the putrid carcass in tow, leaving it within easy reach of the Caterpillar I described in my previous monologue.
Aside from reinforcing my already-solid belief in the utility of large hydraulic machines, what did I learn from this experience? Mostly, I learned that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who take the deer by the foot—even when doing so results in retching—and those who do not. One of those types of people shouldn't ever be a park ranger, because sometimes prudence is really nothing but the lesser part of valor.