It was the late 1950s and America was on the road. My family was one of them. Some of my fondest memories were from these times and our many camping trips to Yosemite National Park & beyond. This one’s for you, Dad…..
“Are we almost there yet?”
I whined to my parents as we motored down seemingly endless highways
punctuated with Burma-Shave signs,
Jumbo Orange stands and other odd roadside attractions.
We traveled to the pace of a ’56 Chevy Station wagon
two-toned Red & White
unbuckled with my older brother in the way back
windows rolled down
stifling heat & wind flapping about our ears
while we sang songs in harmony
& read piles of comic books
rejoicing in those stops
with dripping ice cream cones
& Jackalope postcards
on the way to that perfect camp spot under shady pine trees.
We slept under the stars on army cots
tucked in thick sleeping bags lined with red flannel plaid
waking to the “shhhhhh” sound of the Coleman stove.
We waded in creeks turning over rocks exposing odd bugs 
& released crude sailboats made of wood scraps & white rag sails
into the current past our tin can waterwheels.
It was a wild wonderland
for a young girl with legs as spindly as a colt’s.
Now looking back to those years from the arc of adulthood
“Are we almost there yet?”
We were there
We were there all the time.
By Alanna Pass 