I'm a product of restless genes. As a teenager, my mother left the country for the city. Her parents moved from the city to the northwood forests. Their families left Europe centuries before, always moving westward. My father was born with wandering genes, too. His life with my mother was one long road trip. He loves maps and my mother is an excellent navigator, so, for as long as I can remember, they've either been planning a trip, traveling or reminiscing about their travels.
I was doomed to wander from the start. My first cross-country trip was when I was two weeks old. Like a baby bird imprinted by the sight of his mother, as an infant I was imprinted by the sight of the open road. My first lullaby was the sound of tires rolling down the highway. The "ding-ding" of a car entering a gas station was better than the sound of sleigh bells at Christmas. Perhaps that's why I liked Picacho Peak so much.
Not a wilderness park by any means, Picacho Peak State Park is located just off of I-10, west of Tucson, Arizona. From the campground you can watch a steady stream of cars and trucks moving across the country. Parallel to the highway, and just as busy, are trans-continental train tracks. Since prehistoric times Picacho Peak has been a landmark for travelers. While definitely not a park for everyone, I enjoyed watching the traffic in the distance from my saguaro-dotted campsite. With my imagination, and by squinting my eyes, I could turn the cars, trucks and trains into long lines of covered wagons, stage coaches and bands of travelers, all following the dictates of their restless genes.
