The Mexican Federal Highway 1, was completed in 1973. Google
maps claims that’s twenty-one hours of driving to La Paz (click on the ‘family
road trip’ icon and that time doubles). Their marriage tenuous, my parents
seized on the idea of going south through Baja. I was thirteen, my sister
eleven. Was this road trip borne out of an article in Westways magazine? An aching
hope that peninsular beaches would wash away present pain? For the kids? Adventure
called; Baja beckoned.
A seed of the wild was at work in my folks. Evident in each
parent when separately seen. Mom took us to the mountains. Dad played with
photography. Somewhere in them, between them, this connection. A seed stifled.
An album in a box contains black and white photos from that
trip. Taken with my Brownie camera; mom, dad, sis, a statue celebrating the 28th
Parallel. I have few memories of that trip. Fighting to stay awake---the rocking
of the car lulling me to sleep. Watching the scenery in-between fights with my sister.
Many bathroom stops—mom was taking a diuretic. Pemex gasoline—that’s funny when
you’re thirteen. Roadside shrines, and ribs at Senor Frogs. I can’t say what
the trip stirred in my parents. Still a portal opened, a seed planted.
Is this hankering for road trips my nature? The same DNA
driving my parents to drive? That same DNA motivating my grandfather to flee
Russia—the most grandiose of road trips. Or was I nurtured by highway? Solid
and safe the car takes care of all my needs.
Transporting me to a place where hope is just in the distance. A seed takes
hold.
I've seen countless backroads since then. Cresting hills
and plummets into washes. Hours in the cab with close friends. Honeymoon with
the wife. Weeks in the summer with the daughter checking out ‘America’s best
ideas.’ Every October and Summer seeking adventure. Other people’s stories.
Vistas and visions of beauty around every turn. Hope just beyond the horizon. A
seed blooms.
