A couple of miles past the western entrance to Yosemite National Park, visitors pass from California into a postcard. The road opens to a majestic view of Half Dome, El Capitan and Cathedral Rocks—celebrity peaks if ever there were—which form the towering walls of Yosemite Valley. On the pine-scented floor of John Muir’s mountain mansion, the Merced River flows gently by the side of the road as signs point toward trailheads and tourist destinations. Not far from Curry Village, a cluster of tent cabins and eateries at the eastern end of the road, is a section of employee housing known as the Stables. It was there that Erin Rau found herself wrapped in a sleeping bag one broiling afternoon last summer, wondering whether she was about to die.

Rau was a little over a month into a seasonal job selling goods in the village’s general store. Almost as soon as she arrived from Michigan, she recalls, she got the sense this wouldn’t be the carefree, post-college summer gig she’d imagined. In the evenings, she was left alone to manage a bunch of fellow early-twentysomethings making the same sixteenish bucks an hour until the shop closed at 10. At night a family of ringtail possums would crawl down from the rafters to tear into a display of baked goods, a long-standing issue she says her bosses did nothing to resolve, apart from throwing away half-eaten muffins in the morning. Similarly, deer mice kept leaving droppings on the pillows and sheets in the cabin Rau shared with three other women. When one of her roommates complained, she says, management supplied a Ziploc with a couple of mouse traps, a mask, gloves and some hand wipes, leaving the employees to sort out the rest.