Captured

The black and white photo was taken of me when I was eight years old. I was standing between the two ruts that served as the driveway to our cabin. I had a backpack on and a stick in my hand. Inside the backpack most certainly was a canteen, probably a plastic bag with cookies and a sandwich. The sandwich was either peanut butter with grape jelly or tuna fish. It was most definitely made by my mother. The picture was also most definitely taken by my mother.
Do I remember the moment frozen forever in that photo? Not specifically. I remember hundreds like it. My younger brother was had his own pack slung over his shoulders, eager to be on our way. Inside his pack was an identical lunch packed with the same care by the same lady. Except the canteen. As the big brother, hydration was my responsibility. Five year olds don't have the same sense of survival that eight year olds do. We didn't want to get halfway to wherever it was that we were going and be out of water.
Wherever we were going. Into the woods. Up behind the big pile of granite that loomed over the cabin. To the top where we could look down on the place we just left. We would put our packs down and clamber around on the rocks making believe from a dozen possible scenarios. All of them heroic. At some point, we would stop, because we were hungry. And thirsty. We would eat our lunch, careful. not to go too close to the edge. It was a long way down.
It should be noted by this point the stick had been discarded. Whether it was a facsimile of a walking stick or merely a young branch from which I was peeling the bark, rock climbing was a serious business that requires two hands. As does eating a sandwich. Mom was thoughtful enough, of course, to cut the sandwich in half creating the youthful illusion of twice as much food.
And all this time, our dachshund Rupert was following after us, and sometimes ahead of us, going under things my brother and I were climbing over. He was finding crevices and caves that we never would. Until the water ran out. When the canteen was empty, it was time to meander back down the mountainside. Time for afternoon chores or maybe some quality time with Mad magazine. Our return did not require a separate photo to document it. The Pine Glade Shutterbug had captured the moment, and fifty years later I was able to look on it and remember it. And all those other days of summer.