Crosses on the Pass
Old pumps under a pointed peak, burros on the shoulder, and a hilltop where strangers have been leaving crosses for years.
Before the climb, one last stop: a stone filling station under a pointed peak, old pumps lined up in the shade as if the next car to pull in might still be a 1950s sedan.
Then the road began to twist. Burros wandered the shoulder, unbothered by anything with an engine, and the land fell away in folds of red rock and dry brush.
Near the top of the pass, people have been leaving crosses for years — wood, metal, chain, stones piled on stones. Some are for loved ones, some for animals, some for reasons only the person who placed them knows.
Travellers climbed the last bit of trail to the lookout and stood there without saying much. From up there the old road looks like a thread someone dropped across the mountains.
Some of the stones carry names and years painted in white, a few words of love beneath them. Read them and the hillside stops being scenery.
Flowers, faded ribbons, small offerings tucked between the rocks. A place built by strangers, one quiet gesture at a time.
We stayed a while without talking, then drove on, slower than before. On the other side of the pass, a town full of burros was waiting.
