I often joke with our summer intern, Izzy Makman, that her time at the Beacon will be the best summer job she ever has. “The best!” I say, “The last summer intern refused to leave until we hired him.”
I’m referencing full-time staff writer Justin Franz, who really did refuse to leave until we hired him (and I’m glad he did). Izzy, on the other hand, has grand plans after graduating from college – perhaps a career as a doctor or something of that nature. She’s the type of young person of whom you expect to have acronyms after her name the next time you see it. She’s also hilarious and made work a little more fun the last few months.
She reminded me of the various summer jobs and internships I held during college. There were several, since I decided to sleep through my freshman and part of my sophomore year. And one is likely familiar with college students in this area – working for the National Park Service.
At the time, I was attending Northwest College in tiny Powell, Wyo., and Yellowstone was just up the road. So it made sense to apply for a job there. It would be like summer camp for adults, I imagined. And they hired me, except not for the position I expected.
Instead of clearing trails, or filling potholes, I would ride on the back of a garbage truck for 10 hours a day, four days a week. It was good, honest work that I assumed would be awful.
At the time, I was the youngest member of the maintenance crew, with Zack – who worked on the back of the truck with me – not far behind. I spent that first summer with no Internet, television or phone in a studio apartment that served as government housing. I was mostly isolated with about two-dozen veteran laborers who spent much of their days chiding me for my obvious lack of common sense.
The first week on the job, employees watched a video explaining how to prevent injuries, avoid contracting the Hantavirus and why it’s unwise to run from bears. My third week in Yellowstone, I encountered a black bear on a trail near Hayden Valley, screamed and ran away. Luckily, the bear didn’t give chase.
To liven up our days, Zack and I would hold competitions to see who could slide the longest on their boots behind the garbage truck – much like barefoot skiing on asphalt. Once I hung on too long, got tripped up and hugged a metal dumpster in full stride. I thought I broke my ribs (I didn’t). Ed, our driver, told us we were idiots (we were).
When hired, I imagined spending a summer in a physically demanding job covered in the odor of tourists’ trash. And I did, but I loved it. I returned the next summer, the same year I transferred to the University of Montana to begin pursuing a journalism degree.
If I had hated my chosen field, I imagine I would have never left Yellowstone. I would have stayed until they finally offered me a full-time job, much like Justin did here. Ironically, my last day during my last season, I almost didn’t leave.
My $400 1981 Toyota Tercel broke down on my way out of the park. Ed tied it to the garbage truck with a short chain and towed it back to the dump, during which we held up traffic on the east side for hours. Zack drove me to Missoula the next morning and I ended up donating that car to emergency workers who used the “jaws of life” to tear it apart during a training exercise.
It was the least I could give back in exchange for the best summer job ever. No pressure, Izzy.