We drove on, through the gate and down the side of the bluff, first facing south, then hairpinning and arriving at Dad’s Camp directly below. A short distance above the surf a row of closely packed trailers, campers, and bathhouses sat on a ledge of sand. Closer to the road, a shed-size office showed an open window. On the other side, a redwood-stake fence served as visual backdrop, and protected the Camp from ocean winds and waves. The camp appeared deserted.

To the south rose a massive boulder. In local Indian reality, she was one of two Sisters who had always stood guard at the base of these two encircling headlands, and who even now watched over the river, the fishruns, and the people who lived nearby. Around Dad’s Camp wafted the memories of centuries of living at the important Twin Houses named Pegwolay.

Ahead of us, a rutted road unrolled down the center of the sandbar, bordered by drift-litter, blackened logs and stumps, and mats of salt-tolerant pink and yellow wildflowers. The road ended at a parking lot, crowded with recreational vehicles.

Every winter graded by storm-waves and inland runoff, every summer by a tractor sent out from Dad’s Camp, this August 1964 parking lot spread out across the sandspit like a wide ring on a long skinny finger.

We parked and piled out. The boys pulled up the hoods of their navy blue sweatshirts. I zipped up the tan, hooded parka liner that was my favorite jacket. J. pulled on his kakhi-colored waders, grabbed his fishing box and fishing pole.

In every direction the scene was wintry and shrouded, except for one detail over at the edge of the parking lot. A pink, almost- florescent satin shirt beaconed through the mist, like a neon sign on a summer-night highway. A black turtle-neck showed above its soft open collar. The man wore black trousers. He had an oval, copper-colored face, receding chin, and straight black hair. He was the Collector of the Toll, the Ticket-taker for Dad’s Camp. And he looked Indian.

As we drew closer, I saw folded dollar-bills wrapped around the fingers of one of his hands. Later I remembered this telling detail, after money became so important—historically as well as for me personally.

“Any chance of a half-day rate?” J. inquired.

“It’ll be the same,” replied the Indian, looking up at the tall inlander, equally cool.

“Do you,” I asked, still curious and never too cool, “would you mind a question?”