Rocky Mountains, Hi

Imagine this.

The year is 1964. Trips to Hawaii, Europe or the Caribbean – anything that requires a passport or an airplane ticket – are strictly fantasies, suitable only for the rich.

Although the revolutionary system of smooth, straight interstate highways is under construction, it is a time when cross country car trips cover many miles on old two- and four-lane highways that pass through the center of each little town along the way. Air conditioning is a relatively new option on automobiles and it is something you pay extra for in motels. Almost everyone drives an American made car; you are either a GM family or a Ford family.

So, just for fun, you load 4 children into a 1961 Buick LeSabre which nominally features air conditioning – tepid at best and tending to make the engine run hot. You put a giant canvas tent in the trunk, along with all the powdered food and canned goods you can fit. You fill the fuel tank with 20 gallons of gasoline at about 27¢ per gallon.

And then, you leave Shreveport, Louisiana, headed for the Great American West.

That's exactly what the Marshall family did for fun. Our father, Jack Marshall, thought it might be interesting, educational – and cheaper – to go on a camping vacation "out West."

Just before his 1943 World War II deployment as a U.S. Navy officer in the Pacific, Dad had for a time been stationed in San Francisco, and had fallen in love with the Western landscapes immortalized by Ansel Adams. So when the logistics and expense of beach vacations became too much for our growing family, and when we all clamored for something other than vacation trips to visit our relatives in New Orleans, Dad hatched his plan for camping.

After a couple of trial runs to Arkansas and Oklahoma, we finally were ready for our grand adventures to the West. Although this 1964 trip was the first, we ultimately took several car and camping trips to the West that gave our wide-eyed Louisiana family (and a couple of unsuspecting guests) memories of a lifetime, with stops at landmarks such as the Grand Canyon, Hoover Dam, Pikes Peak, the Air Force Academy, Rocky Mountain National Park, Garden of the Gods, the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde, Las Vegas, Lake Mead, Death Valley and eventually even Yosemite National Park, Los Angeles, Disneyland and the Pacific Ocean.

We did it all without cruise control, cell phones or video games. And most of the time without television, air conditioning, electricity or even running water.

On the first day of that 1964 trip, as would be the case in all future trips West, we drove across Texas. Not all the way across Texas, but almost. That first-day drive of nearly 600 miles always was as far as a family of 6 in a recalcitrant, low riding, prone-to-overheating Buick could tolerate in one day. When you leave Shreveport heading west, you almost immediately cross the Texas border. Starting soon after sunrise and driving hard for 14 hours or more, we usually limped into Amarillo (or "Armadillo" as Jack Marshall insisted on calling it), long after the sun had set in a blazing wet pool on the asphalt in front of our hot, tired car full of intrepid adventurers.

Nothing ever looked as welcoming as that Best Western Motel, just off what is now referred to as "Historic Route 66," where we usually spent our first night. After a shower and the last of the sandwiches and fruit my mother had packed in Shreveport, we all fell into our beds, exhausted. And we slept well that night, knowing it was the last night for a while with artificially cool air or blessedly hot water.

Day Two always dawned with excitement. First of all, we got to eat breakfast in an actual diner. Jack Marshall used to proudly announce as we trooped in, looking like we hadn't eaten in a week, "Kids, you can have anything you want, as long as it doesn't cost more than 59 cents!" We were pretty sure he was joking, but then again, maybe not. And once, a waitress dutifully trying to clarify my mother's order for an egg, asked her, "Over easy?" To which Giffy Marshall , suspicious of any meal not prepared in her own kitchen, tersely responded, "Oh, no, not greasy!"

The second day of our trip also was exciting because it was the first day we would see the mountains. Leaving Amarillo, we headed northwest, through a corner of New Mexico. At some point, the road began to rise, and soon we were in Raton Pass, which would carry us into Colorado. The heavily loaded Buick (see above) labored to climb the hills and Dad carefully pumped the brakes as we lurched down steep inclines.

The first morning of our first camping trip to Colorado, everyone woke early. It was still dark outside, but the Eastern sky showed traces of the coming sun. My father reluctantly rose with us, and we joined some new neighbors at their campfire. As we huddled together in excitement, Dad guessed with the other father how cold it must be. Then, stifling a yawn, my Dad squinted at his watched and remarked that he couldn't remember the last time he was awake at 5:30 in the morning. Incredulous at my father's "rookie mistake," the neighbor pointed out that we were now in the Mountain Time Zone, and it was actually 4:30 a.m. Dad was horrified, but he told that story for the rest of his life.

Still, Jack Marshall the photographer was in heaven, with breathtaking landscapes in every direction. One of his favorites is at the top of this entry.

For the next two weeks, we snuggled each night into sleeping bags against the Rocky Mountain chill. We sang songs around roaring campfires. We bought blocks of ice to keep milk and eggs fresh in a cooler. We ate pancakes and bacon cooked on a Coleman stove. We drank Tang, just like the astronauts. We went on nature hikes conducted by National Park Service rangers. We looked for – but never found – arrowheads and other Native American artifacts. We drank ice-cold water from roaring creeks. We saw snow in July and mailed postcards to friends and relatives back home in Louisiana.

Our camping trips to the West were grand, glorious, memorable and happy. Without a doubt, these trips ultimately helped define who we were as a family, and who we kids became as adults.

– Tom Marshall, New York City