The Pass at Widow's Tooth
The trail thins to a ribbon of shale clinging to the cliff. A fresh slide has buried half the path, leaving a slick lip barely wider than your mare's hoof. She snorts, plants herself, and will not budge.
Above, thunderheads boil black across the peaks. The first cold drops strike your hat brim like warnings. Every minute here is a life lost at Coffin Creek.