I hate cleaning up after teenagers. It’s the worst part of the job.
There’s a special sort of sociopathy the unformed teen mind exhibits when it comes to leaving absolutely foul messes for others to deal with, and it’s not like they’re unaware – they think it’s funny.
I work for a state park with a very short list of normal and sensible rules. No littering. No camping without a permit. No unapproved fires.
I’ve been a park ranger at White Leaf for nearly forty years. During that time, I’ve seen a lot of stuff most people aren’t ready for. Campers losing fingers to fireworks, the occasional hiker high on mushrooms, hugging trees like they’re old friends… Despite being outdoors, I’ve essentially “walked in” on moose fucking more times that I’d want, which is even once.
Believe it or not, nothing… NOTHING is worse than picking up after teens.
I’ll shoot you an example. One night, on a regular Friday just like any other, I was doing overnight watch from a ranger tower. It was the best vantage point in the forest, with a clear line of sight over the south ridge.
The only friend keeping me company was a “Gnaw T. Pine” thermos of hot coffee to keep me awake until the next morning. The cartoon, dressed in a similar uniform to mine, grinned from the side of the thermos, reminding children to “Leave the forest clean enough to eat off!”
I wasn’t really a fan, but gift shop items were heavily discounted for park staff.
Around 11:30, I spotted them through my old pair of binoculars… a group of about five or six teens setting up in a far-off clearing. No permits had been approved that night, and they clearly had zero respect for the fire ban.
I felt like I could hear the thump of their loud, obnoxious music all the way from there, but it was probably my imagination… or my aggravated heartbeat.
I thought about calling it in to headquarters, but I decided to just wait and observe. The presence of a ranger, even an old-timer like me, usually scares the fun right out of these types. Then they skitter back to mommy’s SUV. However, these kids were a different sort. Rowdy. Probably drunk or worse. Openly violent toward the flora and fauna around them, kicking down saplings in the way of their set-up and tossing stones at critters in the tall grass that I couldn’t see.
One of the boys made a move to grope one of the girls, causing another boy to shove him to the ground, only for the girl to slap her would-be white knight across the face… A loud argument commenced, and it was probably just as raucous as the music.
These dipshits were about to wake up the whole of nature.
That’s when I saw something else.
Movement. Not one of the kids, but something in the woods near them. Through the binoculars, I could only make out a shadow at first, but then it stepped into the clearing, and its features became all too clear.
It was a mascot, or, what used to be one. It was ragged, rotten, decommissioned long ago. The oversized foam head was intended to resemble a beaver with big cartoon eyes and a goofy smile. Now, it just looked like the enlarged, bloated skull of road kill, its felt “skin” barely hanging on in patches.
His sash, once a vibrant green, was now tattered and darkened by mildew.
Even though I couldn’t make out the letters, I knew what the sash said.
“Ranger Gnaw T. Pine”
A randomly selected park attendant, dressed up as the character, used to greet people at the visitor center back in the ’80s. Usually, it wasn’t all that random, however, and was more of a punishment for disobedience, laziness, and other infractions.
There’s a photo of him still hanging in our break room.
Of course, there were plenty of Gnaw T. Pine suits, for back-up and simultaneous events, but they were all decommissioned in ’93. A group of frat boys grabbed and held the mascot down, forcing him to “chug” repeatedly, and unwittingly waterboarding the park attendant inside with alcohol.
That visitor center shut down soon after while a newer, more advanced one began construction. Shame, the original had a giant mural of Gnaw T. Pine, one that took multiple artists a lot of work. If anyone ever went there, they’d probably just see a sun-faded shadow, ruined by decades of exposure.
The mascot was basically just an afterthought as time went on, they had the trademark, so why not use it on the merchandise?
Now, there he was through the lenses of my binoculars, lurching past the brush like a hammered scarecrow. Staggering. Twitching. His foam head was split on one side, with various mushrooms sprouting from the damp and dingy filling. Probably poisonous ones.
One of the teens noticed him and pointed, patting others on the back to get their attention.
The teen’s mouth moved, and I imagine he said something like… “Bro, what the fuck is that?”
The others laughed, too influenced by recreational chemicals to properly read the room. One girl dismissively tossed a beer can at him. Gnaw T. Pine looked down briefly as it bounced off his chest.
Suddenly, he moved a lot faster.
He lunged at the girl.
I could hear the scream in my mind, I could imagine the abject shock and horror in her voice as she shrieked. It didn’t last long, however, as he shoved her into the camp fire.
No – that description doesn’t do the act justice. The foam-and-fabric beaver costume lifted her by the throat as she flailed and kicked, then choke-slammed her into the flames, raising a cloud of glowing cinders.
Her clothes went up like kindling, hair spray causing a brief burst of flame around her head.
The others froze for half a second, probably unsure of whether they were actually seeing this.
The girl soon stopped thrashing, and perhaps needless to say, she did not get up.
Panic broke out.
One boy tried to run, but tripped on his own tent line. Gnaw T. Pine was on him in a second, pulling the tent stake out of the ground and impaling the boy through the throat like he was just casually adjusting its position.
Another tried to hide in a wild berry bush, but the mascot knew. He yanked the kid out by the ankles, dragging the teen like a hunter’s fresh kill. He dragged the boy into the woods. I didn’t see what happened to him, and I didn’t want to.
I readjusted my view to the dirt road nearest to their impromptu campsite.
Two made it to their car. The groper and the gropee from earlier. Their ride was an SUV, as I presumed. I watched them scramble the the doors, searching for keys they clearly didn’t have.
Gnaw T. Pine took his time. He approached, step by deliberate step, as the guy stepped in front of the gal as if he had any chance of protecting her.
The car was finally opened as the mascot smashed the guy’s head through the driver’s side window. Unlocking it through the jagged hole, Gnaw T. Pine then proceeded to repeatedly smash the kid’s head with the door until it was nearly fully closing.
I didn’t look away. I didn’t even lift the radio.
The girl tried to run, but she had nowhere to go. They were miles from civilization, and the pursuer had not only a clearer head, but more knowledge of their surroundings. After a reasonable amount of work, Gnaw T. Pine had the girl on the ground, bungee cord hooks jammed in under her shoulder blades. He drove the SUV around a looping path, dragging her behind the whole way.
When he was done having his fun, the park mascot stopped in place, turned, and looked in my exact direction. I don’t know if he was looking at me, or just the tower.
I gave a scout salute, and even though there was no possible way for him to know it – he returned the gesture.
It wasn’t until dawn that I made my way down to the campsite. Everything was quiet. The birds weren’t singing, the moose weren’t bellowing. Nothing.
I shoveled dirt onto the smoldering ashes of the campfire. I collected the beer cans, and food packaging, and so on. It was nice to pick up condoms that weren’t used, for once.
Changing out my work gloves for plastic ones, I located each of the bodies; burnt, broken, or otherwise brutalized. The one that had been dragged away was hollowed out like a sleeping bag, which really just failed to make my day.
Collecting the dismembered body parts was a bitch. I was bagging them up at first, but that wasn’t being very kind to my back, so I got a wheelbarrow and just dug a pit past the tree line.
I hate cleaning up after teenagers. It’s the worst part of the job.
