I try to make my smile as genuine as possible. Don’t know how successful I am.

The woman sitting across from me, a lean, whipcord-thin old matron with hair like steel wool, shuffles papers on her desk. Her name is ‘Weathers’ and she is the superintendent here. “We’re glad to have you here at the refuge,” she says. “Your grades and CV are exemplary, and I think you’ll have a lot to offer to us.”

That brings out some bitterness. I am exemplary—but not exemplary enough to get a place I would have liked, apparently. Yellowstone would have been ideal, but I also would have loved to be a ranger at Acadia—Sequoia—even Bryce Canyon. But none of the big parks wanted me. I suppose the old adage is true; the outdoors is a man’s world, and all of the parks would rather hire a mediocre man over an exemplary woman as their ranger.

So no, I don’t get to be a ranger at Yellowstone. Instead, I get saddled with the ass-end of the system—the goddamned Elk Refuge.

Somebody, gag me.

Weathers is looking at me critically and I realize that oops, I’ve let my emotions out, fuck, guess I’m going to lose the job as soon as I got it. I plaster on the sort of smile that would fit in a Listerine commercial and rattle off something about how excited I am to be here, but Weathers silences me with a wave.

“You don’t need to play,” she says. “The refuge wasn’t your first choice. It’s nobody’s first choice. We’re aware of that. But I hope you’ll find us a good fit nonetheless. We could always use good rangers.”

That actually does make me feel a little better. She’s a sensible woman and she doesn’t expect me to fake enthusiasm I don’t have. So long as I do the job and do it well (and at the risk of sounding immodest, there’s no other way I can do the job) I’ll fit in. I stand, shake her hand, thank her, and prepare for my new career here.

---

I’m the sort of woman you would expect to be a park ranger. Slightly above-average height, athletic build, face that has never seen even a hint of makeup. Shoulder-length hair that I don’t truss up; it usually stays in a ponytail. The sort of tanned skin and spray of freckles that comes from a life under the sun.

The work at the refuge is decent enough, I suppose. Not many tourists (why would there be? We’re not a park, we’re a place for elk herds to recuperate) so most of my time is spent in the woods themselves. There’s a number of herds inside the refuge, and I’m assigned the second-largest, which is an honor for a newbie. I shadow them from a distance, sometimes kitting out in a tent or a small shelter. I live off the land quite easily; I prefer sleeping in a tent and bedroll, cooking my meals in a small portable skillet over a wood fire, than to any noise-drowned apartment in the big city.

And if the prestige of working one of the bigger parks eludes me, I still find myself enjoying what I do here. From afar, I’ve come to appreciate the members of the herd as individuals. They have their own scientific designations, of course—“E42A” for the highest-ranking hind, or female; “E27B” for the bull who dominates the herd. But I’ve given them my own, private names.

I’ve named the leader of the herd “Prince.” It fits his lordly bearing, his sometimes prissy tantrums, and the impeccable crown of antlers atop his head. The lead female is “Autumn,” for her dappled coat; other important males include “Hyperion” and “Toreador.” One of my favorite members of the herd is Cedar, a spunky adolescent male who’s fearless and inquisitive.

I cut my teeth out in the wilderness over the summer and as fall approaches, I grow excited. September—the borderline between summer and fall—is the elk’s traditional rutting season, and being able to observe (and safeguard) the herd during this most crucial of times is one of a ranger’s most important duties. Even though I didn’t want this posting, I find myself eagerly awaiting the chance to show myself.

And then everything goes wrong.

In late August, Weathers abruptly calls me back to her office, and I have to leave behind the herd I’d grown so accustomed to. When I walk in, she looks apologetic, like she knows I’m not going to take whatever she tells me well.

(Spoiler alert: I don’t.)

Weathers tells me that I’ve done a great job for this summer and that she’s pleased with my work, but informs me that I’m going to be put on a temporary paid sabbatical, effective immediately and lasting until the first week of October.

I’m going to miss out on the rutting season.

“But this is the most important time of the year for the herd!” I protest. “They’re my charges, and you—you don’t even trust me to watch after them when they’re at their most vulnerable!”

Weathers spreads her hands apologetically. “I just feel it’s unsafe—”

“Unsafe?!” I shout back. I’m not thinking straight, this is my boss I’m shouting down, this could cost me my job, but right now I couldn’t give less of a fuck. “I fought off a grizzly bear, superintendent!”

(A slight exaggeration; there was no ‘fight,’ but a mother grizzly charged my camp once and I spooked her off with bear spray and by banging pots and pans together. Still, though.)

Weathers is both understanding and iron-willed. Apologetic she might be, she nonetheless insists that I’m temporarily off herd duty and that my paid leave will end when rutting season is over. I leave and return to my cabin at the edge of the refuge in a sulky mood.

And my mood only sours that night. I do a bit of digging and find out that a few other rangers have been placed on sabbatical for the duration of the rutting season—all of them women.

Is this how Washington felt when he heard about Benedict Arnold? Weathers is a woman like me, she has to know how hard it is for us in this field, yet here she is, enabling our mistreatment.

Well, fuck that and fuck her too.

The next morning, when dawn is little more than a greying of the skies, I sneak my way out of the cabin to go find the herd.

See, rutting season usually lasts for September, but it’s not a sure thing. It can start early, sometimes as early as mid-August. My herd was already showing signs of an early start when Weathers called me back. My plan is to establish myself at the start, and when the boor that Weathers has replacing me shows up, I’ll tell him in no uncertain terms that this is my turf and I can handle it and he can go cry to the superintendent if he doesn’t like it. And if Weathers still doesn’t think I’m up to snuff, she can fire me.

I don’t care anymore.

I find the herd with ease and sure enough, rutting season has started early. The heady musk can be smelled from the hillside where I’ve staked out, and below Prince is having his share of the females, bugling and calling out every time he ruts them. Sometimes the lesser males try to have a go when he’s done or sneak a quickie with the low-ranked females at the edge of the herd while he’s busy. It’s all pretty par the course. The herd is distracted and vulnerable, and it’s my job as ranger to make sure that nobody—poachers, say—goes out of their way to act when the herd is most vulnerable.

I’m so busy paying attention for threats to the herd that I don’t realize the elk are paying attention to me.

The thing about wild animals is people think they’re dumb. They’re not. If you go into the wilderness, most animals around you know you’re there unless you take a lot of damn good steps to hide yourself. Even then, it’s not a sure thing. Prince and his elk knew I was there. They’d always known. They just kept their wary distance.

Today they stop keeping their distance. At first I barely notice, I’m so vigilant for threats. And as they continue approaching me, I chalk up their familiarity to the rutting season letting down their guard.

It’s not until the herd has me circled, the musk so heavy as to be overbearing, their hooves pawing at the ground, the wind stirring the leaves, that I realize something might be happening.

Prince is the one to approach me, low and baying, his nose black and shiny. His horns are tall and branching on his head, his coat a deep brown, and his eyes fixed fearlessly and unflinchingly upon me.

I’ve never been afraid of elk until this moment. Rising from my spot on the forest floor, I try to back away, but the shuffling and baying of the herd keeps me penned. Prince is now close enough to touch and for an awful moment I fear he might be trying to gore me.

But no. He snuffles at me, poking around my shirt and rubbing himself against me. God, the musk is unbelievable, the scent so strong and sharp I almost want to gag. I’m no idiot—I know that this behavior usually preludes an attempt to mate, and a quick peek between his legs confirms it as his penis is standing erect and ready to breed. Somehow Prince has gotten it into his head that I’m one of his hinds.

Trying to swat him away could agitate him and those antlers are dangerous, so I just stand there uncomfortably, hoping he’ll wise up. Animals can act strange during the mating season.

Prince’s actions are abrupt. Suddenly he grabs the hem of my shirt with his teeth and rips, the action shredding the cloth with incredible force.