When highways began to connect the major national parks during the 1920s, Mather needed a new kind of national monument. Vast distances separated the western national parks, and motorists along the dusty roads sought places to stop for brief respite from the seemingly endless travel. Mather soon began to look at places that could serve as rest stops for motorists. The national monument category became the focal point for such areas. Usually of regional significance, they could rarely withstand the congressional scrutiny that national parks underwent, nor did they measure up to Mather's and Albright's standards. The ease of a monument proclamation made their creation simple, so to shape the system according to his vision, Mather relied upon the Antiquities Act.

Pipe Spring National Monument, a Mormon fort in northern Arizona, developed significance for Mather that far outweighed its historical importance. It became one of his pet projects because of its location on the highway between Zion and Grand Canyon national parks. Mather used persistence and charisma to acquire the seemingly unimportant site.

There were a number of conflicting claims upon the tract. Mormon settlers built the fort over the one spring in the area, and everyone in the vicinity needed its water. The Kaibab Indian Reservation included the old fort, but Jonathan Heaton, who once lived on the property, tried to reestablish his homestead claim on the buildings of the fort. Because of the complicated status of the land, both the GLO and the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) challenged his claim.

After visiting the fort in the fall of 1920, Mather began to pursue its acquisition. On 21 June 1921 he wrote to the commissioner of Indian affairs, Charles H. Burke, suggesting that the area "should be preserved as a national monument from a historical point of view. . . . [I]t is a point at which tourists stop en route from Zion Park in Utah while visiting the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, or vice versa." [16] Mather wanted the BIA to appoint a caretaker to prevent vandalism. This was an important tactic for the Park Service. If the agency could convince another federal agency to place a guard at an historic or archaeological place, the Park Service could eventually present the need for its kind of management. Mather also sent a copy of the letter to GLO commissioner William Spry, attaching a memo insisting that "this splendid old landmark should be saved, either by direct purchase if J. Heaton's title is confirmed, or, if it reverts to the United States, it should be maintained as a national monument." [17] Mather intervened in an open public lands case in an attempt to secure the property as a stopping point for tourists visiting the crown jewels of his system, the national parks.

To win this victory for the NPS, Mather worked his network of influential friends. He contacted F. A. Wadleigh of the D&RG Railroad and President Heber J. Grant and Apostle George A. Smith of the Mormon church, and soon these disparate elements were working together for the public good. Although the GLO disallowed Heaton's contention in February 1923, Mather felt that paying Heaton's family for the claim was the best way to ensure local goodwill. Grant offered to be "one of twenty men to purchase [the] property," and Mather, Carl R. Gray, the president of the Union Pacific Railroad, and others contributed $500 each. [18] By May 1923 the acquisition of Pipe Spring was imminent.

But Mather's emphasis on this inconsequential place puzzled some of his supporters and friends. As the transaction concluded, the real reason for Mather's interest became clear. On 21 May 1923 Mather proposed to have Congressman Louis Cramton, the head of the House Appropriations Committee and a great friend of the fledgling NPS, take a "trip from Zion to the National Monuments and Mesa Verde made via the Pipe Springs, so that he will see the place for himself. . . . After he comes across the desert from Hurricane," Mather reasoned, "I am sure he will be convinced of its importance as a stopping place." [19]

Pipe Spring was an important link in Mather's vision of a complete park system. As highways came to the Southwest and began to assume the role that the railroads previously played in bringing visitors to the national parks, intermediary sites became important to the NPS. Located between the national parks that Mather was really trying to promote, Pipe Spring acquired a role in the growth of the park system that far outweighed its historical value.

Mather's priorities were increasingly clear; the most spectacular and extraordinary sites of any kind became national parks. The national monuments became intermediate stops between these stars of the system, building blocks from which to fashion grandiose national parks. They became complements to entertain the tourists who motored along the long and poorly developed western roads. The trend persisted throughout the 1920s, as places with special significance broadened the dimensions of the park category.

Parklands in the East were as important to the agency as those in the Southwest. Before Mather became assistant to the secretary of the interior in charge of national parks in 1915, a rumbling in favor of a national park in the East began. Even Henry Graves, the chief forester of the United States, felt that the development of remote national parks was "a waste." He contended that "the question of accessibility [to park areas] should be considered . . . from a national standpoint." [20] Despite the democratic rhetoric of those who advanced the park and monument cause, the western parks appeared to be playgrounds for those with the time, money, and inclination to travel into what was not always civilized territory. Questioning the value of remote national parks helped make some kind of parkland east of the Mississippi River an imperative.

Although the converted monuments gave the Park Service a strong hold in the West, serious rivals, particularly the Forest Service, threatened its position. The USFS also had an extensive western domain, but it valued its resources differently. The Forest Service worked to develop commercial uses of natural resources and to aid timber interests and local stockmen. The NPS became a threat to the Forest Service. When the Park Service proposed additions to its system, the land typically came from USFS holdings. Escalating conflict seemed inevitable, and by the early 1920s, the two agencies suffered from a growing rivalry that inspired mutual distrust.

The Forest Service also threatened the existence of the Park Service, and Mather and Albright needed a way to outdistance their most important rival. They realized that the best way to leave the USFS behind was to add park areas in the eastern half of the nation. The Forest Service had few holdings in the East, and there were few areas there with potential to become national forests. The American population centered on the eastern seaboard, and by creating parks and monuments close to its cities, the Park Service could build its constituency.

Mather and Albright had a mandate to build a system, but the raw material they inherited was strictly western. Transforming the NPS into a national entity was a complicated proposition. The support of eastern populations would help assure the growth of the park system. Most of the land east of the Mississippi River was not in the public domain, having been settled generations before; what was left was not particularly appealing for public reservations. The agency had to take what it could get from the sparse public holdings of the East. But because its standards for the national parks were designed by westerners for the expansive vistas of the West, finding eastern scenery that conformed to their criteria entailed considerable work. Eastern parks would never be as large as Yellowstone, nor could they contain the rugged peaks of the Rocky Mountains.

The problems of locating and acquiring suitable eastern park land seemed to stymie Mather's and Albright's dreams. The Park Service sought to acquire new land for eastern park areas, because there was little attractive public land in the East. But the agency budget did not contain funds earmarked for purchasing private land, and people willing to donate suitable private holdings were few and far between.

Thanks to the efforts of private citizens, the agency gained an eastern toehold at Sieur de Monts National Monument. A tract of rugged cliffs descending to the ocean near a favored vacation spot of American elites, the monument resulted from of the activities of a textile heir, George B. Dorr, and Dr. Charles W. Eliot, the former president of Harvard University. Both had summer homes in the area, and by 1903 the men and their circle of friends felt threatened by the development of the region. They formed an organization to acquire and hold lands in the area. The state of Maine granted their group, the Hancock County Trustees of Public Reservations, a tax exemption in 1908, and despite attempts to revoke the charter, Dorr solicited gifts of land near Bar Harbor. By the end of 1914, Dorr had amassed nearly 5,000 acres, and early in 1916, he went to Washington, D.C., to offer the land to Secretary Lane as a national monument. [21] On 9 July 1916 Sieur De Monts National Monument was proclaimed.

Sieur De Monts was another example of a way-station national monument, established to facilitate later attempts to create a national park. Dorr's letter offering the land suggested a region "rich in historic association [and] scientific interests," as required by the Antiquities Act, adding as if an afterthought, a reference to its "landscape beauty." [22] But its historic and scientific value were marginal; there were better examples elsewhere of "glacial action and the resistance of rocky structures." [23] Sieur de Monts was earmarked for eventual park status from the moment it was created. Its main features were scenic and recreational, and it was not likely to remain in the monument category for long. The Park Service worked to make the comparatively minuscule 5,000-acre tract into a national park. A national park was a more important prize than a monument, and the NPS needed to expand its base of power. In February 1919 Congress approved the new Lafayette National Park.

Sieur de Monts changed the national park criteria of the NPS. Its location made it a prime candidate for both monument and park status, and small size did not prohibit its entrance into the park category. It was close enough to Boston and New York to add a new dimension to the park sites already in existence. In 1919 more than 64,000 visitors came to the park, confirming that its transfer to the park category had not been a mistake. Sieur de Monts offered the agency what no western park could—a balanced geographic distribution of American national parks and monuments. It became the consummate way-station monument.

The establishment of Sieur de Monts was a strategically far-sighted move. It was much closer to American centers of population than any of the western parks and monuments. Its creation made a parklike area seem accessible to the majority of the American public, offsetting cries of elitism. No matter how far away from eastern cities the Bar Harbor area was geographically or culturally, it seemed closer than Yellowstone. The establishment of Lafayette National Park answered the clamor for a park in the East, as well as extending the reach of the NPS beyond the Forest Service. It was the first step toward making the national parks and monuments truly national.

Following the guidelines Lane put forward in 1918, Mather and his agency created a character for the American national parks. A handful of the most spectacular national monuments fit this model and, as a result of Park Service initiative, were elevated to the set of park areas that became the center of administrative attention. The unfortunate consequence of the loss of so many of the most spectacular monuments to the national park class was the relegation of the remaining monuments to a seemingly permanent second-class status, without sufficient funding and generally devoid of development. This tainted the remaining monuments, making them the stepchildren of the Park Service. The parks existed for visitors, and the best of the national monuments regularly became national parks. The remaining monuments lost any semblance of importance.

In spite of this lack of concern for the monuments during the late 1910s and 1920s, the rudiments of a cohesive system of administration began to emerge in the Southwest. Visitation increased, and as it did, crucial administrative issues emerged. Guardianship became paramount, and finding custodians to watch over the monuments on some regular basis became the first imperative. Unlike the GLO, the National Park Service did not have an already established system of personnel in the field, and its budget did not include the money to hire full-time staff to guard the national monuments. Instead, the NPS found local volunteers, most of whom were paid the token sum of one dollar a month, to watch over nearby monuments whenever they could. Two major problems perennially faced the custodians. There was often no available money for the upkeep of the areas, and the number of wanton acts multiplied. Careless visitors were responsible for frequent vandalism at nearly all of the national monuments.

In 1917 the NPS received its first appropriation, and the $3,500 allotted for the national monuments showed how inconsequential the areas were. If divided evenly, this amounted to a mere $120 a year per monument, not enough for any kind of substantial program. The reports of GLO special agents and the volunteer custodians offered the central administration of the NPS a picture of conditions in the monuments. Officials in Washington, D.C., decided which monuments needed the money most immediately, and these places received the bulk of the allotment. Uneven distribution meant that the places in the worst condition got some money while others, which often needed the money nearly as badly, got none. It was a race to see where conditions became intolerable first, before a monument received an inadequate appropriation that had little chance of delaying its disintegration.

The promotional efforts of the agency and the minimal funding combined to create a vicious circle that entrapped the national monuments for many years. Weather and the activities of careless, ignorant, or malicious visitors damaged unattended monuments. But without adequate funding, there was no remedy. Inevitably, the conditions at various national monuments worsened and visitors were unlikely to return and even less inclined to speak favorably of the places to their friends. As a consequence, justifying the appropriations the monuments received became more difficult, and increases in funding were inconceivable. The lack of funding also precluded finding full-time guardians, which virtually guaranteed continued deterioration. The best that concerned people could hope for under the circumstances was that deterioration could be slowed and vandalism kept to a minimum.

As the only national monument within walking distance of a major population center, Muir Woods was in a unique position. It required a live-in custodian, something that William Kent recognized and provided when he donated the tract in 1908. A hired man, Andrew Lind, lived on the grounds before the establishment of the monument, and Kent continued to pay his salary until 1910, when the GLO assumed financial responsibility. In 1916 Lind was the only full-time custodian at any of the national monuments of the Department of the Interior. [24] After the creation of the NPS, the funding for Lind's position ceased. The Park Service could not afford it. Other monuments received nominal care from nearby residents. At the Navajo National Monument, the GLO promised Richard Wetherill's brother John and his wife, Louisa Wade, one dollar a month to watch over the ruins from their trading post at nearby Oljato. In a typical situation, between 1909 and 1916, the Wetherills did not collect any of the money owed them for this work. [25] Elsewhere, volunteers or regional GLO personnel watched over the remaining monuments.

A parallel situation existed at the only congressionally established park site, the Casa Grande Ruin Reservation in Arizona. Like Muir Woods, it had a paid custodian. The development of Casa Grande was due to the boundless enthusiasm of Frank Pinkley, who assumed duties there in 1901 and remained closely associated with it and the other national monuments until his death in 1940. Wiry like a terrier, energetic, and inquisitive, Frank Pinkley was typical of the midwesterners who invaded the Southwest at the turn of the century. For better or worse, these migrants brought the values and perceptions of an industrial culture to a previously pastoral world and, in large degree, reshaped the Southwest. Pinkley typified the breed. The Missouri native moved to Arizona in 1900 after a medical examination revealed he was tubercular. Formerly an apprentice to a jeweler, Pinkley became a farmer near Phoenix until he was offered the position of caretaker and watchman at Casa Grande.

In 1892, President Benjamin Harrison had made Casa Grande a "national reservation." The presidential proclamation that established the national reservation also included a $2,000 appropriation. A custodian, the Reverend Isaac T. Whittemore, was appointed in 1892. His post was honorary because the funding for Casa Grande had been spent on repairing the ruins. Nevertheless, Whittemore took his responsibilities seriously. In 1895 he requested $8,000 for a roof for the ruin and for an excavation "of all the mounds in the vicinity for the purpose of learning the history of the wonderful people who once lived here." In late October 1895 W J McGee, the acting director of the Bureau of Ethnology, visited Casa Grande to report on the condition of the reservation. John Wesley Powell, the director of the bureau, recommended additional funds for Casa Grande, but Congress ignored the request. [26]

This was how things stood at Casa Grande in 1901, when Frank Pinkley pitched the tent that served as his residence there. Pinkley was full of ideas, and he had the determination to carry out his plans. A dedicated perfectionist, he developed a deep attachment to Casa Grande during his tenure. By the time Dr. J. Walter Fewkes of the Bureau of Ethnology began to excavate at the monument in 1906, Pinkley had already collected and displayed artifacts from the ruin, and he began maneuvering to get funds for a museum on the grounds. He also built a house in the compound and sunk a well on the premises. Pinkley and other local men assisted the Fewkes excavation, and sub-surface prehistoric artifacts further whetted Pinkley's appetite. [27] He continued his energetic management until 1915, when he resigned to serve a term in the Arizona legislature.

After the creation of the National Park Service, the Casa Grande was in an unusual position. Although it fit the criteria to be administered by the agency, on 13 November 1916 Frank Bond, the chief clerk of the GLO, discovered that the law authorizing the new agency did not cover Casa Grande. Bond thought that the NPS should assume its administration and initiated the process that resulted in the reclassification of Casa Grande as a national monument. [28] On 1 April 1918, following the close of his legislative term, Pinkley returned to Casa Grande after his replacement, James Bates, was discovered selling artifacts from the ruins. But Pinkley remained an employee of the GLO, not the Park Service. In 1918, when the transfer became imminent, Mather and Albright welcomed Pinkley as one of their own.

The NPS realized that in Pinkley they acquired someone with boundless energy. In his letter accepting reappointment at Casa Grande, Pinkley put forth his ideas about care for the national monuments. With fifteen years experience under similar conditions, he thought that he had a comprehensive understanding of the problems facing the monuments. Protection, development, and publicity were Pinkley's main concerns as custodian. [29]

Protecting the ruin came first. Pinkley's reappearance offered Casa Grande a degree of guardianship that had not existed during his absence. He was able to control vandalism by visitors. To prevent range stock from fouling and otherwise damaging the ruins, he proposed building a fence around the compound. Pinkley offered to supervise the erection of cement posts and helped to build the fence as part as part of his custodial duties. This showed Mather that he was not trying to use the improvements as a means of personal aggrandizement.

Pinkley also recommended a program of development for Casa Grande. Mapping was critical, he insisted, and as was his nature, Pinkley offered to make the map "at odd times during the next few months and locate on it the needed operations" if the U.S. Geological Survey would loan him the proper instruments. He also noted that during his absence, brush had grown up in some of the rooms of the compound. Water stood at the base of many of the walls, eroding the foundations of some of the buildings. Both clearing the ruins of brush and creating a drainage system were imperative before any other kind of development could begin.

Pinkley had even grander ideas for the promotion of his monument. By 1918 he had plans for a museum to display the artifacts he collected as well as to create "suitable buildings" for travelers who wished to remain overnight. His promotion campaign included convincing the "Phoenix and Tucson papers to play the Casa Grande up as an interesting automobile trip," taking up the matter of publicity with the railroad that served the region, the Southern Pacific, and cooperating with Byron L. Cummings's Department of Archaeology at the University of Arizona. He also wanted to mail a bulletin or newsletter to people whose names he had compiled from the register of guests he kept during his earlier tenure. Pinkley felt that such a mailing would rekindle the interest of former visitors to Casa Grande. Pinkley also proposed a referral service among the parks and monuments to encourage the people in charge of the various areas to exchange information concerning tourist accommodations and transportation.

Despite his grand scenario for the development of the Casa Grande, Pinkley was also a pragmatist. "I think of the protection of the Casa Grande against vandalism and disintegration as matters we must take care of;" he closed his letter, "the further devlopment [sic] and exploration as matters we wish to take up, as funds may be obtained; and the different methods of publicity as very desirable to experiment with until we determine the most effective methods to be used." His list of priorities was difficult to contest.

In Pinkley, Stephen Mather knew he had a man whose enthusiasm matched his own. Throughout April and May 1918, Pinkley wrote to the agency in Washington, D.C., regularly with many new ideas for the improvement of Casa Grande. A library relating to archaeology and ethnology was one of his proposals, an idea that the NPS took to Dr. Fewkes. Horace Albright wrote Pinkley that Fewkes "stands ready to assist us in every possible direction" and that he was "particularly pleased" that Pinkley reassumed management of the reservation. Albright concurred, noting that "the energy and enthusiasm that has marked your new administration is a source of keen delight to [the NPS]." [30]

Casa Grande, however, shared in the most serious problem facing the monuments. There was simply no money available for the upkeep and maintenance of the ruin. "I am going to be frank with you," Horace Albright wrote Pinkley on 7 June 1918, "the National Park Service and the General Land Office are both without a cent of money that can be expended on the Casa Grande Ruins during the current fiscal year." Casa Grande was in limbo, a problem exacerbated by its position as a national reservation. As Frank Bond pointed out in 1916, the ruins logically belonged to the Park Service. But there was no legal way that the Park Service could spend money on a reservation for which the GLO was responsible. The GLO already directed all the money it could for upkeep of the ruins. Because Albright was sure that "Congress [was] loath to make a special appropriation for the Casa Grande Ruins," he sought to reclassify the ruin as a national monument. "It would be in an eminently superior status from what it is at present," Albright remarked, "we must face the existing situation and do the best we can without the funds we desperately need." [31]

The problems at Casa Grande were part of the pattern affecting all the monuments. Although Casa Grande did become a national monument on 3 August 1918, the change in status did little to improve conditions. The newest addition was caught in the same cycle that encompassed the other national monuments. Pinkley still had no money with which to initiate his programs and he learned that the only way to counteract the situation was with his own hard work. Only his "indefatigable efforts" kept Casa Grande operating.

Pinkley believed that Casa Grande was an important part of the American past, and he worked to convey that idea to the public. His detailed annual reports on the monument did more than just recount its historical and cultural significance. Pinkley did his best to alert the bureaucrats in Washington, D.C., to the plight of the monuments. "It makes me sad," he wrote in 1920, "to see a prehistoric monument . . . gradually disintegrating and to know that many other of our 24 monuments are in like condition, all for lack of a few thousand dollars a year." [32] He did all he could to bring it to the attention of anyone who would listen. Having a library and building a museum were ways to counteract the lack of funding and guardianship with the best alter native: widespread publicity that led to some sort of public hue and cry.

Pinkley's aggressive approach to promotion presented problems for Casa Grande, but his personal approach counteracted most of the danger. If visitation increased rapidly without any commensurate increase in appropriations, his efforts might have led to faster disintegration of the monument. But Pinkley was always on hand to counteract this eventuality. He took personal charge of his visitors, guiding them through the ruins, "explaining and describing things they would otherwise overlook, see[ing] that no vandalism occurs and in general, act[ing] as host on behalf of the United States Government." [33]

Despite herculean effort, Pinkley and the other custodians fought a losing battle against natural decay of and human impact on the monuments. In contrast to the top position at national parks, superintendent, the very title of the person in charge of a national monument, custodian, connoted rudimentary care and minimal responsibility. Pinkley had access to neither materials nor money for Casa Grande, and his cohorts fared no better.

The early custodians were a mixed batch, brought together by a few common threads. For most of them, performing as custodian was a secondary duty, far less important than maintaining their business. Many happened to own land close to the monument for which they became responsible. Proximity to the areas led to their selection. Evon Z. Vogt, who became the first custodian of the El Morro National Monument, lived on the road between the monument and nearby Ramah, New Mexico. In 1916 Vogt was already interested in the inscriptions at El Morro, and GLO special agent R. R. Duncan recommended him as a suitable custodian. He had, Duncan wrote the GLO, "the opportunity to notice [from his ranch] those passing on the main highway to the monument." [34] At Mukuntuweap National Monument in April 1917, locals recommended Freeborn Gifford of Springdale, Utah, as custodian, and the National Park Transportation and Camping Company, an offshoot of railroad interests, offered to pay him a salary. But Horace Albright contracted with a local man, Walter Ruesch, to build a fence across the canyon mouth. In November 1917, after he informed the Park Service that he had completed the fence, Albright asked Ruesch to add a self-catching latch to the gate. Ruesch obliged and, at Albright's request, sent photographs of the work. Albright was impressed with both his handiness and sense of responsibility, and after the enlargement of the monument, Walter Ruesch became custodian of the Zion National Monument. [35]

The men and women who filled the custodial positions in the early days of the Park Service were no more professional than Richard Wetherill, but they had the sanction of the proper authorities. Although the majority stayed as custodians for a number of years, a few were dismissed for selling relics that they took from the monuments, whereas others resigned when they discovered that "real" salaries for their work were far in the future. Most lived in the immediate locale and had some knowledge or interest in the monument before they were made custodians. They were selected because they could provide what their monument needed most. Guardianship of El Morro was essential; almost everyone headed there had to pass by Vogt's ranch. Ruesch proved himself reliable when he built the fence at Zion National Monument. He was also the only man in the region with whom Albright and the Park Service had direct dealings. But because there was no salary for these positions, most of the custodians had to earn a living. Consequently, they could only patrol the monuments in their care occasionally. Given an impossible job, the majority of the custodians served admirably. But the care they provided was at best sporadic, and the majority of the national monuments remained at the mercy of the elements and anyone who happened along.

Of all the monuments, El Morro was the most vulnerable to damage. Its historic significance centered in the centuries-old inscriptions upon the sides of its cliffs. Spaniards like don Juan de Oñate, who colonized New Mexico in the late 1590s, and American military men like Lt. James H. Simpson, who headed a cavalry expedition in the Southwest in 1849, left their marks on the cliffs. According to Frederick W. Hodge, a director of the Bureau of Ethnology, El Morro was "one of the most valuable historical places in this country." Were the monuments in Massachusetts, Hodge said, "it would be protected by a gold fence with diamond tips and there would be thousands of people to see it every day." [36] It was also a magnet for those who felt compelled to add their names alongside those carved by explorers in previous centuries.

Few visitors saw El Morro before 1918, when the Fred Harvey Company opened the El Navajo Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico, about fifty miles from the monument. When the roads were passable, hired guides and cars from the Harvey hotel took visitors to the monument. Even with guides, the carloads increased the chances of vandalism at this fragile monument. Vogt could not leave his ranch every time a car passed, headed in the direction of the monument.

By the end of the 1910s, "name-scratching" had become a serious problem at El Morro. In 1919 "unthinking persons" inscribed their names so close to some of the most valued inscriptions that some kind of everyday protection became imperative. In 1920 Vogt reported that he had posted signs warning people not to deface the monument, and he began to send the names of vandals to Washington, D.C., for legal action. Anxious to do something to protect the inscriptions, Vogt also sent a sample of local sandstone to the Bureau of Standards. He sought a "transparent substance which will absolutely protect the writings from any weathering away and save these historical messages for all time." [37] No such substance was developed, and Vogt continued to chisel out any modern inscriptions that appeared at the monument.

Even federal employees were not immune to temptations, but the NPS had recourse against those on the government payroll who added new inscriptions. Two employees of the BIA "engraved their names so close to an old inscription that it is a desecration," assistant director of the NPS, Arno B. Cammerer, wrote to the commissioner of the BIA, Cato Sells, on 8 October 1920. "An example should be made of these men and of others whose names and addresses have been as certained and [the Park Service] proposes to take legal action against them." Shortly afterward, Cammerer told a friend that he was "going to put the fear of God into them." [38] Cammerer did just that. As an assistant director of the Park Service, he wielded no small amount of power and he brought it down upon the two men. Both wrote Cammerer, pleading ignorance while apologizing profusely. "Your work has already had results," Vogt wrote Cammerer on 18 April 1921. "Last Sunday early in the morning a strange and unheralded car visited El Morro and erased the names." [39]

Although Cammerer's intensity ended this specific case, it did not prevent others from repeating the offense. Knowledge of rules about defacing national monuments was simply not widespread. "I was unaware that it was unlawful," wrote one culprit, E. A. Errickson of McGaffey, New Mexico, "as there were several names carved there in recent years and I did not notice any signs that a person was forbidden to do so." Dr. Albert Spears also pleaded ignorance, claiming that he "saw the names of many who were not historical characters—even the name of the custodian of the monument, I think. I cannot be sure of any particular name now as there were so many . . . [but] I have really felt ashamed of it ever since." [40]

Although the voluntary erasures by the occupants of the "strange and unheralded car" solved the question of legal culpability, the responses of the guilty parties revealed a deeper problem. As Leslie Gillett of the GLO pointed out in 1916, many did not regard El Morro as a monument. Ordinary law-abiding citizens, flushed with a sense of adventure after the difficult journey, saw the names of the explorers of yesteryear and felt compelled to join their company. Even though Vogt's ranch had become "a sort of public campground for tourists," he did not have the time to monitor the behavior of everyone who visited the monument. [41] The very character of El Morro invited what the Park Service regarded as vandalism. A full-time, on-location custodian would provide a solution, but without more than the token sum of ten dollars a month, Vogt could not give up his other responsibilities.

Yet, even without a salary, Vogt's enthusiasm for the monument rivaled Pinkley's. On 18 September 1921 he orchestrated a celebration of the seventy-second anniversary of the arrival of the Simpson Expedition at El Morro. There were almost ninety guests, including travelers from the East Coast, neighboring ranchers, and Gallup residents. Speaking eloquently, Vogt traced the history of humanity at El Morro, beginning with the prehistoric Indians who built the cliff dwellings on top of El Morro. He then directed his audience down the narrow stairway to the inscriptions below, where he described the conquistadores and interpreted their writings for the crowd. This was custodial care at its best, a model for the interpretive style the NPS later developed. Pleased with the results, Vogt asked that the anniversary of the first known Americans to come to El Morro continue to be celebrated every year. [42] It provided a unique opportunity to use the monuments as an educational tool, to teach Americans of the continuity of human culture and the viability of their own culture in a hostile environment.

Lacking adequate funding and care, the position of the national monuments became more precarious under the first eight years of NPS administration. The custodians did the best they could, but there were many obstacles to consistent care of the monuments. Most custodial care was good, but no one but Pinkley at Casa Grande provided it on a full-time basis. Preserving the remnants of earlier civilizations, illustrating the continuity of human experience on the North American continent, was a secondary goal of the new agency. The primary goal of the NPS was to attract tourists to the awe-inspiring, breathtaking scenery in the national parks.