When it was past the children’s bedtime but the full sun still shone through the pine branches, a Parks Canada Warden (their term for Rangers) approached our campsite. I put on the face reserved for instances when I might be in trouble.

It being bear country, I assumed I hadn’t followed one of the myriad rules about clean campsites. In truth, bears were less of a daily issue than the vicious ground squirrels and magpies in pursuit of scraps. They were almost as fierce as the mosquitoes attempting to penetrate the bulletproof combination of technical fabric and full-strength DEET bug spray coating our bodies.

This Warden introduced himself as Alex and I felt like a kindergartner about to be admonished for not sharing. Or, I guess in that instance, maybe sharing too much - had we left our cooler out? Were there crumbs from the afternoon’s grilled cheese?

But no. In the most Canadian way possible, Alex was there to both apologetically and politely invite us to the program he was giving shortly at the outdoor amphitheater. I had seen it listed on the website and half-heartedly decided to go, but he previewed the Transylvanian accent to be used during the performance and thus the deal was sealed.

Parks Canada takes their evening programs very seriously and by that I mean they are informative, entertaining, and funny. This is a combination difficult enough for professional theaters to pull off, so it’s particularly remarkable that this is the side gig to the Wardens actual jobs of trying to make sure people aren’t harmed by their own actions in the wilderness. Imagine a combination of science class, musical kitsch, and conservation messages presented with elaborate handmade props, costumes distributed to the children in the audience for their participation at a key moment, and Power Point presentations with animated graphics.

But before the talk began, there was a pre-presentation video that described the difference between mountain goats and bighorn sheep performed by two costumed Wardens singing original music and prancing through meadows. This was an excellent preview of what was to come. After that bit of warm-up, Alex came out to request that we not leave food back at our campsites during the talk; the potential for wildlife interaction was highlighted by the can of bear spray clipped on his belt alongside his microphone battery pack. Just a guess, but it probably wasn’t the strength available to tourists in the local grocery stores.

Then it began. This guy was so enthusiastic and so unconcerned about his evident nerdiness. He would mutter asides that were both on topic and usually gently heckled folks from Quebec. Otherwise, he was playing one to three characters. For the bat-themed night, he was Dracula with a Translyvanian accent, he was a scientist at the Royal Ontario Museum speaking Quebecois, he was white nose syndrome represented by a professor in a white lab coat. For aquatic invasive species night, he recruited my children to play a Family-Feud style game that drove home just how important it was to make sure we weren’t bringing any new plant or animal life into the pristine waters of Alberta and British Columbia.  

He made jokes and was self-effacing and goofy and absolutely knew his stuff; he was perfectly suited to his job. For three nights in a row, I was more entertained than I had ever been in front of a glossy television program. While sitting on a splintered bench swatting at mosquitoes watching a guy in khakis and a green button-down dance around stage with eight different accents and a half-working microphone. I didn’t check my watch once during the forty five minute presentation.

In the bright light of eight o’clock in June above the 50th parallel, we got to watch someone be excellent at what they were. We learned facts, true, but also that if you’re genuinely weird (and not in the way that hot people say they are) and twitchy and pants don’t fit you quite right, you can still be an object of admiration. You can still find a way to do a thing that you’re meant to do.

On the last night, I was oddly nervous about going onstage to thank him. I waited behind a group of children pawing through the box of stickers. But finally, I said, I appreciate the last three nights. And we’re going to miss your show. He put his hand over his heart and said, thank you. It was the only time I had seen him unsure, despite all the strange configurations he had presented himself in front of groups ranging from five to fifty.

He had been himself, in all his glory, and I can’t think of a more powerful thing to have witnessed.  

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