Case for Fiction Part 1:

Daydreaming in National Parks

Some context, so that you don’t have to jump back in time and read last week’s post. (Who want’s that?)

In writing my fiction books in national parks, I’ve encountered several forms of the question/statement: “Why write fiction about national parks?”

There are many versions of this question, and many reasons for asking it. Some simply don’t like or read fiction themselves and find any investment in fictional material/characters/events to be a waste of time or effort. Some wonder why it’s necessary to stoop to fiction in a place with real depth in history and nature. Some are concerned that fiction may muddy the waters around the real story of a park. Some latch on to particular points about the fiction, and topics which are chosen for highlight: Why focus on pirates/ghosts/treasure/intrigue? Why engage with topics so ancillary to actual history of the park?

Well, over the course of a couple articles I will seek to answer some version of these questions. And I might occasionally dip back into this topic as it seems appropriate.

Truly, the reality of our parks should be appreciated.

But Fiction isn’t subtractive, and it can be additive. It doesn’t need come at the expense of reality. Fiction can shape appreciation for, understanding of, curiosity around, scrutiny of, engagement in, and even knowledge about different real world subjects. Subject in this case: National Parks.

So, where do start? Why not by explaining why I am so invested in the idea of Fiction in National Parks to begin with.

Part 1: Daydreams

If I were a smarter, more organized essayist, I wouldn’t start here. I’d start by laying groundwork for the communicative value of Story. It would probably be easier, and I may circle back to that obvious and already well-trodden ground. But I am writing a series of fiction mystery novels in National Parks, and I am selfish, so I want to start with my own personal accounts.

I was born in Wupatki National Monument in Arizona. (Technically at Flagstaff Hospital.) I’ve grown up in national parks. My first remembered daydream was in the parking lot of the Wupatki Visitor Center. I was enthralled with the vending machines in the small partition between the Visitor Center’s outer and inner doors.

I loved that you could put money in and get soda and junk food out. I thought that this was a magical quirk of automata and loved it so much that I would go out to the parking lot and pretend to throw rocks into the desert scrub as payment. Then I would imagine a soda or bag of M&M’s coming back to me. In short, my first memorable daydreams were of vending machines. I was about 2 or 3, so I probably put some of those rocks into my mouth, pretending they were the dreamt of treat. (That doesn’t really have bearing on my point.)

I don’t tell this story to demonstrate the height of my imaginative abilities. Only my tenure. I’ve been filling National Parks with stories from a very early age. In Biscayne National Park, I’d stare into the water and look for submerged treasure chests hidden by imagined pirates. In Dry Tortugas, I imagined Fort Jefferson a fantasy castle, and populated it with adventures and adventurers. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that when I enter a National Park these days, I’m already trying to plot and scheme a potential story for JRIC.

These stories didn’t, and don’t, erase the real history or natural wonder of these parks. They simply exist alongside and within, informing and informed by what we know.

I didn’t just fill the empty Wupatki parking lot with the height of human technology. (Snack Dispensers.) I also populated the ruins preserved there, repairing them in my mind and trying to imagine the lives of the people who had come 1500 years before me. I couldn’t, of course, accurately imagine the lives of the Ancestral Puebloans, but my attempts to do so helped me to better engage with the historical writeups in the visitor center and the stories of other rangers about the history of the park and it’s past peoples.

I never found treasure in Biscayne. Not even a single gold piece. This is despite the fact that the video which used to show in the old Biscayne Amphitheater spun stories and promise of treasure from Pirate Caesar. (I was too young then and cannot recall which version was cannon in this old film.) However, because I was interested in the story of pirates and treasure, I was engaged in the adventures available in Biscayne and explored more of its water and real history. (Always informed by adults who reminded me not to disturb historical artifacts, or touch coral.)

I, like my character Bethany, hate hot humid weather, so despite the fact that I was not a post-Civil War US soldier stationed at the Dry Tortugas, I could at least sympathize with the unfortunate men who were stationed out there in woolen uniforms. But at the same time, I couldn’t.

Like most of us who encounter the Dry Tortugas today, I wasn’t assigned to, imprisoned in, or employed at the fort. (Though admittedly my situation was comparatively unique to most.) For me the fort and islands around it were neither prison nor aged defense structure. The fort was a wonder, and the islands and ocean a tropical paradise home to coral reefs, crazy fish, and shipwrecks! And there has been real treasure found in these waters. (Not by me)

But, just because I was taking in a present view of the park, was I supposed to avoid imagining all of the potential in it’s past history beyond the facts, figures, and limited records? Was I supposed to ignore the stories of pirates, buccaneers, sailors, and soldiers, except and unless provided with ample documentation? Impossible! The Fort and surrounding islands and waters carry too much potential.

I couldn’t simply wander through its walls without asking what it would have been like to have a battle there defending against the Confederacy during the civil war, even though no such battle took place. I couldn’t simply walk the dark halls of the fort at night and not worry about what lurked in the shadows. Stepping outside the fort, that same worry comes back to me anytime I am in a cave, as a wonder who is watching from beyond the boundary of light. I also can’t help but scan every seafloor for glint of gold even though I knew I probably won’t find any. (also it knowing it wouldn’t belong to me if I did) Was I not supposed to imagine the possibility of such a find? Equally impossible.

I’ve snorkeled some of those shipwrecks, sometimes in the presence of a real team of archeologists working to document them. I’ve adventured through ancient ruins, hiked forested trails, rambled through caves, appreciating the real beauty, nature, and history around me. These are real, awesome, memories of things I have done.

I have also imagined an array of adventures in these parks which exist outside the realm of the possible. I searched the walls of Fort Jefferson for evidence that someone had been buried within. I’ve looked for glint of gold and treasure chests underwater, behind stone, and beneath complicated root structures. I’ve imagined modern mysteries taking place amongst the park visitors around me.

Because I also like reading sci-fi, and still think dinosaurs are cool, I’ve also filled parks with way too many dinosaurs (interacting despite being from different eras,) and had populated the parks with aliens and otherworld scenarios as well. ßTotal non sequitur.

None of this came at the expense of the actual history or nature of our parks. In fact, often my imagination was improved as it was informed by everything I learned. I can’t with 100% accuracy picture the lives of the people who lived in the ruins of Wupatki 1500 years ago. But I can attempt to imagine myself in their footsteps using what we are still learning about them today. I will probably never hike through Mammoth Cave by torchlight or match, or cross the bottomless pit with a wooden ladder, but I can imagine what that would be like. Ideally, no group of 5 troublesome adventurers will ever find themselves stalking the halls of Mammoth Cave on their own, but what harm is there in imagining if they did (as long as I also repeat the reminder not to.)

Parks are full of wonder, natural and historical. Every person who enters a park will have a singular adventure there. But we are humans, we are dreamers, and some of us like to imagine other possibilities, to step outside of our own experiences and into the experiences of others, real or imagined. Some of us like to envision other potential adventures beyond our own. Some of us simply want more time or possibility within the places we visit than we have opportunity to have. (Most people who experience Dry Tortugas for instance are limited to a single day trip on the ferry. Great though it may be, I can empathize with anyone who leaves wishing they had more time.)

Fiction about a park isn’t subtractive. It is additive. It is, simply, another way to engage with and within a park, and it shouldn’t be discounted. Because we all engage in our own fiction about parks, whether it comes from plotted out stories or not. But that is an argument for a different day.

Here, all I wanted to say was that I was born in (near) a national park. I’ve grown up with them. I’ve also grown up reading about the history and science of, and the letters and journals from people who have also lived in, the same places I have. I’ve also grown up reading fiction, and imagining my own adventures within our parks. Doing so has only brought me closer to and made me more appreciative of them.

Not everyone has to appreciate the fiction written about parks. Not everyone even has to appreciate fiction. But denying even the possibility of fiction in parks cuts off an avenue of engagement and appreciation that is as innately human as curiosity, wonder and awe. or love of beauty. Story.

Why Daydream in national parks?

Because I could. Because even the best recorded histories leave gaps. Because its fun. Because it is allowed and allows me and others to engage with these parks in ways we cannot in real life. Because it helps to inform our appreciation of these parks. Because it is something we do anyway.

I would know. I’ve lived the stories of many of our national parks. And still I want more. So, I have written and I am writing more. Hopefully, some are reading those Junior Rangers Investigative Club Novels. And if not, and you still read this thanks! Why? Party on!