Yosemite Summer
The year was 1983 and the Eurhythmics’ hit, Sweet Dreams are Made of This, was
replaying on a continuous loop in my head.
My medium brown hair was frizzed into a not-so-stylish-on-me Afro that
made my head look huge stuck as it was on my tall lanky body. The frayed edges of my butt-hugging pair of
skin-tight Levi cut-offs tickled my darkly tanned long legs. Look at
you checking out my legs coming right up outta my hiking boots, I thought
as I looked at my husband’s hungry grin.
As an athlete primed for racing, he was barely breathing hard behind the
camera. I wore a blue and white plaid shirt
with sleeves rolled up, shirttails tied at the waist over a white tank top
thinking I looked like quite the outdoor girl. My left arm is wrapped around our oldest son,
Brent with his baseball cap crooked way back on his Buster Brown haircut smelling
of campfire smoke and sweat but looking proudly at the camera as he smiled and snuggled
securely under my arm. Brian, who was five and two years younger than his older
brother, had mischief in his eyes while he sat precariously on my lap—messy hair,
dirty face and all.
Our young family had just hiked up the Mist Trail in
Yosemite National Park. The trail winds almost
straight up beside the cascades created by Vernal and Nevada Falls. We stopped to rest, and for a photo
opportunity, at a viewpoint that took in a small expanse of Yosemite Valley
along with Yosemite Falls exuberantly bursting out and over the face of its
granite cliff. Outdoor girl I may have
been, but I gratefully sat down still breathing hard from our trek and wiping
the sweat dripping into my eyes. I
hugged my precious little treasures to my breast, smiled into the camera and
nodded my head slightly: Indeed, sweet dreams are made of this.
