I’m leading a tour group up to one of the best lookout points in the park.

Me: “And if you look way out past the ridge, you’ll see the peaks that stay snow-covered most of the year. It’s one of the most photographed views in the park.”

A tourist squints, then raises a hand.

Tourist: “Is that Canada?”

Me: “No, sir. Canada is several hundred miles further north. Those are still U.S. mountains.”

Tourist: *Shaking his head.* “No. That has to be Canada.”

Me: “Sir, I assure you those mountains are still part of the USA.”

Tourist: “Nope. If there’s snow, it has to be Canada. I know what I’m talking about.”

Not knowing what else to say, all I can come up with is:

Me: “No, sir, that’s still the USA. We do snow, too.”

The group chuckles quietly, and I hear a few comments:

Other Tourist #1: “By that logic, my freezer is Canadian territory! They should open a consulate there.”

Other Tourist #2: “Canada called, they’d like their mountains back.”

Other Tourist #3: “Aspen has been lying to us all these years?!”

That’s enough to encourage Mr. “I know what I’m talking about” to be quiet, and I can continue the tour uninterrupted.

It’s a sunny afternoon, and I’m manning the rental hut, handing out paddles and life vests to tourists. A couple strolls up, looking a bit too polished for river mud.

Woman: “Hi, we’d like to rent one of the… boats. The quiet ones.”

Me: “…you mean canoes?”

Woman: “Sure, but no paddles. We just want to float and relax.”

Me: “Okay, but without paddles you won’t be able to steer.”

Man: “That’s fine. It’s a round trip, right? Like the current brings us back?”

Me: “…That’s not how rivers work.”

Woman: “But the guy at the resort said this was a loop.”

Me: “He meant the hiking trail. The river has, uh, a strong preference for downstream.”

They stare at me like I’m trying to upsell basic physics.

Woman: “So if we go, we have to… paddle back?”

Me: “Yes, otherwise, your vacation ends in Manitoba.”

I work in a visitor center, one of many, for a large US national park. A family of four strolls up to the desk. The dad has his phone out with a Google Maps screenshot (no signal out here), zoomed out enough to make the park look like a green smudge.

Dad: “Hey there. We’re just gonna do the park today. Which way is best?”

Me: “…You mean the whole park?”

Dad: “Yeah. The waterfalls, that big canyon thing, some wildlife, maybe the summit if it’s not too crowded.”

Me: “Sir, the summit trail alone takes six hours round trip. If you want to see all the highlights, you’ll need about three days.”

Mom: “But that map makes it look so close together.”

Me: “Ma’am, that’s a printed brochure and tourist map, it’s not to scale.”

Teen Son: “Can we Uber between spots?”

Me: “We don’t even get phone signal past the front gate.”

Dad: “Come on. How big can it be?”

I flip my monitor around and pull up the park overlay compared to a city map. He stares.

Me: “Almost a million acres.”

Dad: “…Oh.”

Teen Son: “Daaaad! You acted like this was a dog park and you just walked us into Jurassic Park!”

They accepted a walk to a local viewing spot and back again. Forty minutes there, forty minutes back. They were hot and bothered by the time they were back an hour and half later and got back in their car.

I work in a National Park visitor outfitter. We’re near a popular entrance into the park, and we sell equipment that can enhance a visitor’s experience, such as binoculars. A customer approaches the counter with a pair of mid-range binoculars in hand.

Customer: “These say 10x magnification, but I’m only seeing… like, regular trees. Aren’t these supposed to show you the animals?”

Me: “They help you see further, but only if the animals are actually there.”

She lowers the binoculars and gestures at the forest outside the window.

Customer: “Well, I haven’t seen anything in the past fifteen minutes. Are you sure they work?”

Me: “They work great, but you’re not going to see much wildlife here. We’re far too close to the entrance and the visitor center. You have to go further in.”

Customer: “Hmph. Maybe you should be in a better position and be closer to the animals!”

Me: “Okay, ma’am. I’ll be sure to tell management your suggestion to relocate the store.”

My sarcasm went unnoticed as she nodded with satisfaction and ended up just buying a few snacks and leaving.

True to my word, I told my manager.

Manager: “When was she here?”

Me: “About eleven.”

Manager: “Ah, too bad. The deer start their shifts at noon.”

My dad was a stubborn man with a temper, and unfortunately, this often led to uncomfortable, embarrassing situations when I was growing up.

One time, when I was ten or so, he and my mum and I visited a national park. Dad was driving. He paid our entrance fee, and the park’s employee handed him a pass.

Park Employee: “Peel off the backing and stick that to your windshield, please, sir.”

Dad: *Instantly.* “Nope.”

He said it so fast it’s as if he’d anticipated that instruction.

Park Employee: *Professional smile disappearing.* “I beg your pardon?”

I cringed, knowing that a fight – the latest in a long list of stupid, pointless fights my dad seemed to take pride in – was imminent. So did my mother, who groaned “Here we go again” to herself.

Dad: *With a smirk.* “I’m not doing that.”

Park Employee: “May I ask why not?”

Again, Dad’s response was instant:

Dad: “Because the glue you use on those passes makes them next to impossible to remove. They always leave a sticky residue behind.”

This was sometime around 1974, and I have no idea if what Dad said was true or not. I know that these days the glue used is similar to what’s used in Post-its, which means the passes come off easily.

By now, the employee’s face was grim.

Park Employee: “Sir, you need to put the pass on your windshield. That’s the rule.”

Dad: “I’m not going to.”

Dad’s entire attitude was pure smugness, like he was daring the employee to do something about it.

Park Employee: “Then I’m not going to let you enter the park.”

Dad: *Confidently.* “You can’t do that.”

Park Employee: “Yes, I can. And I will, unless you do as I say.”

I began to cry, both from humiliation and sadness, as I saw my happy day in the park vanishing before my eyes. Mum wasn’t having it, though, and she read Dad the riot act.

Mum: “For God’s sake, [Dad’s Name]! You are NOT spoiling yet another day out, do you hear me? Put the d*** pass on the windshield, NOW!”

Dad: “But—”

Mum: “—NOW!”

Dad: Ugh! Fine!.”

Dad applied the pass with very bad grace.

Dad: “There, happy? Everyone happy now?”

Park Employee: *With icy politeness.* “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

Dad muttered something unintelligible.

As you’ve no doubt guessed, that park visit wasn’t fun. Dad sulked and stewed the entire time, and we ended up leaving early when Mum couldn’t stand his surly attitude any longer.

In hindsight, it’s pretty obvious what happened. Dad, having had issues removing passes from his windshield before, planned the park visit with the idea that he’d make a stand, win the employee over with the sheer brilliance of his argument, and score a point for the “little guy”. When that didn’t happen, he remained convinced that he was right and that his actions were completely reasonable.

I loved my dad, but boy, growing up around that wasn’t fun.