The sign up ahead on the road heading south cautions, detour.
From three scattered lanes our vehicular alter egos squeeze into one obedient column. We crawl up the single mountain lane – second-gearing behind behemoth 18-wheelers, cursing in hydraulic hisses.
Skimming sheer rock-face of crude red design while shunning the100 foot drop into endless canyon just to the left.
Swallowing the adrenaline that churns fear and impatience, we wind with the curves that forecast unknown treachery.
And the vastness of nature reveals our insignificance – humbles our arrogance in the mumble of prayers that implore God’s hands to nudge us toward safety.
The sharp autumn sun becomes slate shadow, forbidding illumination in our progression and artificial light is a ghostly guide.
When the mountain relents and the road opens again, a communal breath at last escapes. And we break apart like dominoes poorly placed. Now strangers in singular journey, on the same road, but heading in different directions.
copyright 2010
Where has the detour led Christine?
What detour has Clancy encountered?
Anita Rodgers Mystery Writer 