“I grew up in Fairhope, but I work at Yellowstone. My dad is the reason for both. My dad had Bay Paint Company on Fairhope and Church Street. He was a chemical engineer and did a lot of consulting for the City of Fairhope. Dad was head of research and development for National Gypsum’s fiberboard division. They built those acoustical ceiling tiles that everybody hates these days. Dad received 216 patents in their name, and we had most of his test runs all over our house. I went to Fairhope High School. I was in the band and was the photography editor for the yearbook. Photography is still my passion.

My dad first came to Yellowstone in 1922. He was 12 years old and his family drove their Model-T from Iowa. That trip made an impression on him. He and my mom honeymooned in Yellowstone. My mom died when I was in 10th grade. The following summer, dad let a friend run his store in Fairhope and we traveled out west. We went to all of the national parks, including Yellowstone and Glacier. It was so good that we did it the following year.

I went to college at the University of South Alabama and worked at Yellowstone in the summers of 1970-1973 pumping gas. I fell in love with the park, just like my dad did, and wanted to come back one day. I got a master’s in German at the University of Southern Mississippi and taught, but an old calling began to assert itself. I wanted to become an Episcopal priest. I moved to Evanston, Illinois, and received my master of divinity degree.

In the beginning of my second year of seminary, I started having muscle spasms and problems taking notes. That was 1986, and I was in my mid-thirties. The following January, I woke up one morning and my legs felt like they were as heavy as cordwood. It took me 45 minutes to get down 14 steps, across the parking lot, and into a building. I fell three times. After many tests, I found out I had primary progressive multiple sclerosis. It didn’t show up on an MRI and was difficult to diagnose.

After seminary, I was ordained a deacon and served at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Mobile. I found an internist who knew MS intimately well because his wife had it. The doctors told me to get out of the South because MS makes you sensitive to heat. I started looking for a position in parishes in cooler climates.

I was already in a wheelchair and had to disclose my disability. This was before ADA protections for employment. I was rejected by 58 different parishes and dioceses – 58 positions I was qualified for. I ended up in Utah in a tolerant, delightful community. I was there for six years, but my MS got so bad that my doctors told me to retire. I was 41 years old. I moved to Salt Lake City and became a volunteer priest. I worked with the state disabilities council and ended up on the board of the National Association of Developmental Disabilities.

The University of Utah kept me alive and flourishing the best that I could. From 1990 until 2002, I was in a wheelchair, and my left side was paralyzed. The MS community began using a drug only available through a few compounding pharmacies. My doctor gave me a prescription, and within a month I was walking. I went from the wheelchair to hiking in a year, but it was hard work. I had to regain the use of muscles that hadn’t been used in years. Eventually, that medication became FDA approved. It doesn’t change the course of the disease, but it makes damaged nerves work better.

Utah got so hot that I moved to Montana and took a position there. Then my wife and I came to Yellowstone. I work for Forever Yellowstone and volunteer in the park. I walk the Old Faithful basin and answer visitor questions. 95 percent of the questions are about the time the geyser goes off. With a twinkle in my eye, I ask which geyser do they mean? Yellowstone is welcoming the biggest crowds in the park’s history. Everyone was tired of being cooped up because of COVID. We are also short-staffed, and the park service is short-staffed. We do the best we can.

The joy of being a priest and working at Yellowstone is to awaken a spark of curiosity in someone else. We need to experience wilderness. Many of us have nature deficit disorder. We have an innate need for mystery, something beyond ourselves. The daily grind of life suppresses that. When you stand at Point Clear and watch a sunset on Mobile Bay, it gives you peace, joy, beauty, and color. It’s the mystery of the hinge of the day, going from the busy daylight hours to nighttime.

When I left the heat of Alabama for my health, I realized that I was also leaving the beauty of Mobile Bay. Mom and dad always said once you get that sand between your toes, you can never get it out. They are right. My first girlfriend still lives in the house they owned next door to where I grew up. I visit them when I go back home. I miss Alabama very much.”

Glenn