A visitor comes storming up to me near the visitor’s center. He’s carrying a trash bag and looks angry.

Visitor: “You preach to us about keeping the park clean and global warming and all that s***, but then you don’t give us anywhere to throw our trash!”

Me: “There are multiple trash cans all over this area, sir. I can see two right now.” *Points*

Visitor: “I tried those, but they’re f****** locked!”

Me: “You need to press the lever on the ground with your foot to open them. There are instructions written on the top of the can.”

Visitor: “Why the f*** did you have to make it so complicated?”

Me: “It’s designed to stop the… uh… the animals from being able to open the trash cans.”

Visitor: “Well, I couldn’t open it, either!”

I just nodded, smiled, and walked away as quickly as possible before I was forced to point out the irony.

One time, I took a driving vacation, and along the way, I wanted to camp out at the Grand Canyon. I figured I could get up early enough to watch the sunrise and get some pictures. I checked my almanac for when the sun was to rise that time of year and turned in.

I woke up and checked my watch. It was about twenty minutes before sunrise, so I headed out to the southern rim. It was still pretty dark, but I found my way and staked out a good location. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, almost an hour later, someone else showed up and we started chatting. Then a few more people. By this time, it was getting light and the sun started to rise. I got my photos and headed out to a local diner to have breakfast.

As I was waiting, I got a local camping guide to see if maybe the almanac was wrong. And there, under important facts, was: “Please note that Arizona does not observe Daylight Saving Time”. Ugh.

I recently went camping with some friends at a big state park, and one of my friends made puppy chow. For those not from the Midwest, it’s an easy-to-pack trail snack made from cereal, peanut butter, and chocolate, and it’s very tasty.

After lunch, when most of my group went to the lake, I decided to go for a short solo hike on a trail surrounded by big boulders. We’re talking from the size of furniture to the size of camper vans, so while you could see up the slope to the tree line, visibility immediately around the trail was limited. I was happily crawling around boulders off-trail when I heard the unmistakable sounds of a small child sobbing and a harried parent trying to comfort them. It was far too nice a day to spend crying, so I went to see if I could offer assistance.

Young Dad: “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s just bruised, see? No blood.”

Little Girl: “But it huuuuuurts!”

Young Dad: “We’ll wash it off, and I’ll carry you for part of the way, okay? We’ve gotta get moving, though; we’re blocking the trail.”

Little Girl: “I don’t wanna!”

Me: “Heya. Sounds like someone took a tumble. Would some chocolate help?”

Young Dad: *Exasperated* “Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

Me: “Cool. Any allergies? I have puppy chow that I don’t mind sharing.”

At this, the little girl’s eyes went wide, and she was so busy staring at me that she forgot she was crying. It was only then that it occurred to me that I probably did look semi-feral; I was covered in mud and scrapes from climbing around the rocks, I had realistic vine tattoos up both legs and henna tattoos on my arms, I was carrying most of a small dead tree that I’d been using as an ad hoc walking stick, and I was still wearing one of the bindweed and clover flower crowns that my group had been making at lunch.

Me: “So, any allergies?”

Young Dad: “Uhhhhh… no, no allergies.”

He was staring at me, too. Weird, but okay. I pulled the puppy chow out of my pack, and it was as I was pouring some into the girl’s hands that her father asked:

Young Dad: “How did you know?”

Me: “Huh?”

Young Dad: “She’s been asking all week to go make puppy chow with Grandma, but with work and planning this trip, there just wasn’t any time.”

Me: “Wow! Just lucky, I suppose.”

I finished dispensing chocolatey goodness, the little girl mumbled a thank-you, and I found a fun-looking boulder to start scrambling up.

After I was out of sight, I heard the little girl ask:

Little Girl: “Daddy… was she a tree sprite? Like in my book?”

Young Dad: “I… don’t know. Maybe? She had the puppy chow…”

I was clinging sideways to a rock face with my fist in my mouth, trying not to crack up, but yeah, from their perspective, this wild-looking girl covered in vine tattoos and mud just emerged out of nowhere, stopped his daughter from crying with exactly the snack she’d been begging for, and disappeared again among the rocks.

My friend was delighted to hear how her puppy chow had led to a fae encounter, and that remains one of the highest compliments I have ever gotten: being mistaken for a tree spirit. I hope that family enjoyed their hike as much as I did mine!

I am working at a visitor’s center at a large national park. A visitor approaches me.

Visitor: “Do you have any paths to [Remote, Isolated Location] that are wheelchair-accessible?”

Me: “I’m afraid that since that area is quite remote and still very much as nature intended, it’s not a suitable place to visit for anyone but our more experienced hikers.”

Visitor: “So, you discriminate against the disabled?”

Me: “Uh… no, we have plenty of trails and paths that are very accessible to wheelchair users. This is a large national park, and large sections of it are kept as nature intended, which does limit their accessibility.” 

Visitor: “Are you saying nature intended to discriminate against wheelchair users?”

Me: “Uh… I don’t think nature intended anything. It’s just the way it is.”

Visitor: “I will be writing to everyone that [National Park] hates disabled people!”

The visitor leaves, but another visitor is in line behind them and speaks up.

Next Visitor: “In nature, any creature that can’t walk doesn’t live very long. Would they prefer we go back to that system?!”

I work in a seasonal hotel in a Canadian National Park. Being seasonal, we have a lot of college students and international workers who come out for the season.

We’re in a beautiful, historic hotel with a large, open lobby and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the lake and mountains. By these windows is our afternoon tea dining area.

And then storms over our grumpy old man…

Grumpy Man: “I have a complaint about one of your afternoon tea servers!”

Me: “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask what happened?”

Grumpy Man: “Well… she was very polite and attentive, and the food was delicious. However, I didn’t appreciate her using a fake British accent.”

I am confused as I know my staff is more professional than that.

Me: “Oh, dear. May I ask who your server was?”

Grumpy Man: [Server]

Me: *Taking a deep breath* “Well, sir, she is from Australia, so while I don’t believe she would use a fake accent, she does have one.”

Grumpy Man: “Well, how was I supposed to know that?!”

Me: “All our name tags say where we’re from, sir.”

And with that, he rushed back over to the dining area — I hope to give her a better tip!