The morning after my ill-fated trip to Acadia National Park, I’m up early, scanning through some of the research I’ve already done, trying to put together a cohesive strategy for interviewing Knox Bernard later in the day.
As I look through my records, there’s something odd I keep coming across, and while it doesn’t make me feel like I’m becoming a full-on conspiracy theorist, it does set off some red flags. Like many of the national parks that exist in the US, Acadia was made possible through lots of advocacy and generous contributions from wealthy men--but the donations were made by the same handful of families repeatedly.
Most well-off families do benevolent things to get their names in history books. But a lot of the people involved in the establishment of Acadia, and the National Park Service as a whole, seemed to not want any credit at all. I decide by around eleven that I’ll ask Knox what he knows about the history of the park itself, and start getting ready for our meeting. I’ve got a few bumps and bruises from falling on the trail, but I’m actually surprised at how unafraid I am to venture back into the woods. Of course, that could just be because I won’t be alone, and especially because the ranger who’ll be taking me around is actually pretty hot.
I weave my hair into a french braid and pull an old cap from my university over my head to keep the sun out of my eyes. It’s cool enough that it makes perfect sense to wear hiking boots, my other pair of thick jeans, and a heavy pullover sweater. I find myself hoping that I at least look halfway decent; not that I should be worried about how I look, other than needing to come across as professional.
“Headed out to the park? It looks like a beautiful day for a hike,” Mary says as I clomp downstairs from my room.
“Yeah. I’m even getting a special tour,” I tell her. I’d mentioned I was going to be in town to work on an article for New World, but I hadn’t given away any details about what I was actually investigating, just that the piece is about national parks in general.
“Oh really? Well a cute young thing like you is bound to get some special treatment,” Mary says, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “Want me to fix you up some of this in a thermos? It’ll help to keep you warm out there.”
“I’d love some. Thanks,” I say, smiling at her.
I check over everything in my bag as she’s hustling about the kitchen to get my thermos ready: I’ve got my recorder, a spare microphone, a notepad with some preliminary questions written out, a heavy-duty flashlight, a full bottle of water, my phone, maps and guides of the park--everything I need for the day’s trek and for the interview I lined up with Knox.
I wonder absently about the guys who tried to attack me, and what’s become of them, but I know I’m not going to include that detail in the article unless I absolutely have to--that’s not the kind of incident I want to have my name next to, if only because it makes me look like a total idiot for putting myself in that predicament in the first place.
In no time flat, I’m pulling through the gate at Acadia. I spot Knox waiting for me, and I have to admit: in full daylight--even without his uniform--he looks super hot. He’s in a pair of relaxed jeans that fit snug in all the right places, along with a shirt that looks a little light for the weather, a leather jacket, and rugged hiking boots.
I find an empty parking spot--there are a lot fewer of them now, since it’s daylight--and pull into it, checking my hair and making sure I collected everything I’d need. I climb out of my car and by the time I’ve got it locked up and my bag slung over my shoulder, Knox is only a couple of yards away. I see him looking me over and realize that I’m not the only one who likes what they see.
“Good day for a hike,” he says, giving me a smile. For a second, something vaguely primal flashes in his eyes, and I have to wonder if I imagined it somehow.
“You do know that I’m going to spend the entire time trying to pry information out of you, right?” It only seems fair to give him warning, but I give him a little smile to go with it. I’m not usually coy or all that flirty with people I’m interviewing, but there’s something about Knox that makes me blush and flutter my eyelashes.
Up close, he’s more muscular than I realized the night before; I can almost make out his pecs against the fabric of his shirt. He’s definitely more ripped than I would imagine a park ranger to be, and I can’t help, just for a second, imagining what he would look like naked.
Shit! You stop that right now, Hannah Grant. I take a quick breath to try and stifle the heat that seems to be coursing through my veins, heading just south of my hips. What is wrong with me?
“I expected as much,” Knox says, keeping that little grin on his face. I notice something secretive in his eyes, and begin to wonder if maybe I’m onto something; perhaps some of the bizarre claims I’ve read about the NPS aren’t so outlandish after all. I can’t think of what else he could feel the need to hide, but I’ll play along for now.
“Well, shall we get started?” I open the thermos and take a swig of coffee. “I’ve got all day, but the sooner we start…”
“The sooner we’ll have it done and over with,” Knox finishes for me. “Let me show you my favorite trail.”
We start off in that direction and I fall into step with the ranger, running the questions through my head and trying to figure out where to begin.
“So, I’m assuming that as the manager of the park, you’re pretty well-versed in its history,” I say. “Oh! I almost forgot. Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not at all, go right ahead,” Knox replies. I take the recorder out of my bag and rattle off my standard disclaimer, holding the machine a few inches from Knox’s face for him to confirm his agreement to being recorded.
“So, as I was saying, I assume you’re pretty knowledgeable about the park’s history,” I begin again.
“It comes with the territory,” Knox says. “Is there something specific you want to know?”
“While I was doing my research, I came up sort of...confused, I guess, about some of the founders,” I say. “Obviously, the main people involved were Christopher Ellsworth, his father Christopher B. Ellsworth, and Theodore Davis, but there were others too, right?”
“Of course,” Knox nods. “What about them?”
“A lot of them don’t seem to have much in the way of public records,” I say. “I mean, there are notations that they contributed or lobbied to the cause, but when I tried to find some of their birth certificates, for example, I came up empty.”
Knox shrugs. “It was nearly a century ago, so keep in mind, many of the records might be a little shoddy.”
I frown at that, but I can’t think of a way to press the point further. “So, Knox, you’ve probably heard the strange rumors about Acadia, and the National Park Service in general. What are your thoughts?” I hurry a bit to keep up with him as we head up a little incline. I have to admit it’s beautiful out, even if it’s a bit chilly.
“The conspiracy wackos?” Knox gives me a sardonic grin. “Don’t tell me you’re doing some hit piece about how the people who created the national parks were all warlocks and freemasons.”
“No, no; I’m trying to do as straightforward a piece as possible,” I say quickly. “But it does come up, you know.”
“I know,” Knox nods. “It’s just always seemed so ridiculous to me--doesn’t it seem that way to you?”
“Well, we know a lot of the founding fathers were masons, or members of other fraternities,” I counter; I’m not even sure why I’m pressing the point at all, because a day ago, I found the whole idea ridiculous. “But obviously, the idea of building a bunch of parks to make it easier to sacrifice goats in private is a bit much to believe.”
“Glad to hear you think so,” Knox says, his voice rippling with amusement.
We come to a stopping point and I mention I need to sit down for a bit; I offer Knox some coffee and he waves me off. “I’ve actually got a picnic basket with some snacks hidden for us down the trail a bit,” he tells me. “Did you bring water, too, or just coffee?”
“I have a water bottle, and it’s full,” I tell him, and he nods his approval.
“Do you do much hiking, Hannah?”
I shrug off the question. “Some, but my job doesn’t leave me much time to.”
“How did you end up in this line of work, anyway?”
“Kind of by accident,” I explain. “I always liked asking questions, and I enjoyed writing back in school, so when it came time to pick a major, journalism sounded like the perfect path. By the time I graduated, I had honed my skills...and well, here I am.” I take another sip of my still-warm coffee and look at Knox speculatively. “How about you? When did you decide to become a park ranger?”
“I’ve wanted to be one since I was a kid,” Knox says. “I’ve always loved the outdoors; hunting, camping, fishing. I even took foraging classes when I was young. My parents liked living off the land, and when I turned twelve, we did a tour of the different national parks; that’s when I decided.”
I try to picture Knox as a twelve-year-old boy, foraging in the woods for mushrooms, berries or whatever, but it’s impossible. He’s far too masculine and fully-grown for me to imagine him any other way.
“Ready to move on?” he asks, gesturing toward the next leg of the trail.
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