There is an assumption among many
that Fundamentals is a training all new Park Service staff immediately receive. Would that it was – but with staffing and funding constraints, session backlogs, and then a pandemic, many rangers didn’t get the opportunity to attend a session at the Horace M. Albright Training Center until later in their career. That’s how I found myself finally stepping off a bus into the Arizona evening heat after nearly a decade with the National Park Service.
The name “Grand Canyon” doesn’t prepare you for the reality – “grand” is far too small a word to describe the magnitude of the geology. It strikes you like a physical force and leaves you breathless as the magnificence washes over, a landscape painted in vibrant color that literally brings one to tears with size and scope. The experience is religious – quite literally for many who’ve inhabited the region for tens of thousands of years.
On its southern rim, amidst the venerable, rustic historic structures of Grand Canyon Village, the Albright center has sat tucked away amidst the pinyon and ponderosa pines since 1963. Within it, skilled staff have fostered more than tools and techniques – they nurture the fellowship and family spirit which binds the staff of what has always been a small agency in a shared mission. I was fortunate enough to enjoy a few days there, days which not only left me wishing for the week-long sessions of yore, but quite literally saved my career.
Having moved from one of the service’s most famous parks to one of it’s smallest, I was burned out. Exhausted, overworked, like so many I found myself taking on tasks far above my pay grade as we struggled with staffing cuts well before the current administration’s axe. I’d worked in different divisions, at natural and historic sites, and survived and fallen victim to budget and staff cuts before. Despite a deep love of the Park Service, I found myself questioning if I could spend a life with it.
Albright changed that.
The few short days along the South Rim were nothing short of cathartic – an experience shared with staff from across the country that rejuvenated my mind and soul. From classroom to canyon-side, the sessions led by dedicated and skilled staff reminded me why I do what I do and why I love it, all with humor and a refreshing change of scenery that made each lesson all the more memorable. We struggled with sample park budgets, traded interpretive techniques, reinforced commitments to support and uplift each other, studied historic preservation processes, and traded tools to maintain visitor and staff safety.
Between sessions, there were sunrises and sunsets – stargazing, songs, and shared stories over dinner and around fire pits. Personal connections and interactions that cannot be replicated or replaced by a few hours stiffly seated before a webcam and a videoconference screen. One must be immersed in the parks to experience the atmosphere, the challenges, and the people to truly learn and appreciate what is necessary to preserve and protect these places. For me, this started from the beginning - when first walking into the training center, a glass case with a soft, sun-weathered hat greets all who enter, a non-descript yet deeply human object serving as a reminder of the person who wore it: Horace Albright.
Albright’s career is the stuff of park service lore – conservationist, historian, superintendent, second director of the service. In those early days he oversaw the transfer of historic military sites to the NPS and created dedicated history, wildlife, and research programs critical to managing and interpreting parks. While no perfect person, his tenure and teachings were foundational for the park service, and along with Stephen T Mather – for whom another training center in Harper’s Ferry is named – he fundamentally shaped the agency.
In 1933, Mather retired from the park service. In his farewell, he made a plea for future generations of staff, senators, and visitors – that parks should not be exploited, over-used, or endangered. It is well worth a read. One line particularly applies to the training center bearing his name – that we should “not let the service become ‘just another Government bureau;’ keep it youthful, vigorous, clean and strong.” The Albright center did just that – a training experience transcending rote memorization that fostered fellowship and an esprit de corps.
I never had the opportunity to attend a session at the Stephen T. Mather center, nestled in the historic hills of Harper’s Ferry. From what I’ve heard it offered a similar experience – a place of education and experience that shaped countless staff for the better. Barring some miracle, I suppose I never shall. The loss of these training centers cuts something unique from the park service, a foundational methodology and mindset that is as glaring in its omission as it was in its creation. That the leadership of the park service has chosen to close them amidst the waves of government consolidation is particularly glaring – it is a clear message that the mission and mentality of the park service have been fundamentally altered, and not for the better.
But while the future is uncertain, one thing is not – the impact of these places and the people who ran them will live on as long as we take their lessons to heart. These places and programs are just as important as parks themselves, if not more so – they speak to the character and calling of our agency, and I for one will always be grateful for having experienced them.
—B