a pass into the past

Those mountains behind us still look the same (snowier in winter, of course; this was likely August, 1969 or '70).

The three of us have changed in appearance. Our toy fox terrier, Pebbles, is long gone. How she reveled in vacations every summer.

I think we all reveled in them. Long drives south to Oregon, sometimes farther. Camping near rivers, high in elevation, or at sea level, across the highway from the beach. We had a tent, air mattresses that were flat by morning, an electrolytic heater, a lantern. The lantern would hiss when Daddy carried it inside after I'd snuggled deep into my bag, eyes stinging a little from smoke, ready to feel the quiet as soon as the light went out. All that remained would be my parents' voices from their side -- muffled goodnights, a sigh. Darkness deep enough I couldn't tell for sure whether my eyelids were open.

Inside my chest heartbeats resounded in eager joy, awaiting dawn.