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HIGH SIERRA SUMMER

High school? Graduated. Shakespearean acting class? Completed. Got the part in "12th Night." My part-time job wouldn't interfere with rehearsals or performances. Perfect!

After the play closed, my manager called me into her office at the store where I worked as a stock clerk. I was told - for the first, but not the last time - that my "hobby" was interfering with my work and my career as a stock clerk would be in jeopardy if I didn't give up acting.

It was a mistake to refer to my passion as a hobby that should be sacrificed for a future as a stock clerk! I had been actively involved in performing arts since my first ballet class when I was six. Private acting and speech coaches, public speaking competitions, school and community theater, and more.

This wasn't a hobby, it was both college and career preparation. It was my life! I was born in Hollywood and grew up in L.A. We saw movie stars in grocery stores and restaurants. We had family in show biz', for heaven's sake!

Rather impulsively, I resigned. After one day of unemployment, mom called from the office to ask if I'd like to work in Yosemite; not in the valley where I'd worked before, but in the high country.

The ballet dancer and instructor, aspiring actress, and artiste, being a multifaceted and complex person, responded with a resounding "YES!"

My mother worked for the Department of Employment in Fresno, in one of the offices that provided seasonal workers for the nearby national parks. Many of these jobs came across her desk and she found one for me.

"When do I have to be there?"

"Day after tomorrow. Stop by the office, pick up some money, and head for Sears. I'll tell you what to buy. Get everything on the list today, pack tomorrow, and take off for Tuolumne Meadows early Wednesday morning."

I knew the drive by heart, and made only one brief stop to wave to my dad. He swore that when he died, he would spend the rest of eternity perched on top of Half Dome. I always wave.

The drive was mildly terrifying and absolutely splendiferous. The last 25 miles of the 50 mile trip from the turnoff to Tuolumne Meadows was, back then, little more than an unpaved single lane trail through the High Sierra forest and along some very steep drop-offs, with an occasional wide spot in the road in case someone was heading the other way. Average speed: 10-15 mph in my big, wide Pontiac Fire Chief, circa 1956.

But the Chief and I had no trouble and the scenery was beyond spectacular. The road is much improved and

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