One of my most cherished childhood memories was when my Dad piled us all into the ol’ 1970 Oldsmobile Delta 88 and we took off before sunrise from Dana Point, heading up to the San Bernardino Mountains. This is back in the day when freeways were six lanes, Crown Valley Parkway was four lanes, and seat belts were those things stuck under the seat cushions.
I’d sit up front on the folded down armrest so I could see out the windshield and we’d drive for what seemed like hours until we finally reached the base of the mountain.
Up the road we went, clawing ever higher around the curves, Dad turning the steering wheel, me sliding between his shoulder and my Mom’s. Up, up, and up into the clouds we drove until we finally emerged through a break in those rolling mists to see the bright Technicolor red rooftops of Santa’s Village.
Okay, if you’ve visited my website a time or two – or even scrolled through a bit today, it’s no secret that I’m a BIG fan of Yosemite. It must be a Scottish thing; John Muir seemed to have a fixation on the area that would eventually become a national park, too.