An Excerpt from Chapter 40
Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous
The road wasn’t wide enough for both of us.
My brother and I sat shoulder to shoulder in a third-class bus heading southwest to Puerta Vallarta on Route 80, watching locals board with bundled clothing, sacks of produce, and cages of squawking chickens. A sour mix of diesel fumes and hot rubber hung in the air. Dust rose off the floor and stuck to damp skin. The driver stopped again and again to help each new passenger hoist a load onto the crowded, top-heavy roof.
He pulled a stepladder from a side compartment, braced it against the metal frame, and climbed up while the owner pushed an awkward bundle from below. The bus rocked as he dragged the weight into place. He knelt to cinch it down with rope, tugged twice, then climbed back down.
The delays stretched on. Heat built inside the bus. When everyone was finally aboard, the driver jammed the gearshift toward first. The lever resisted. Metal grated against metal. The engine shuddered. The vibration traveled up through the floor into my legs. Worn gears whined, and the brakes squealed as we lurched forward, already uneasy.
Earlier, along that mountain grade, we had looked down into a ravine and seen a rusted yellow bus lying on its side among scrub and rock. Its windows were empty. Its frame twisted. No one on our bus said a word, but everyone had seen it.
My wandering thoughts snapped back when our driver braked hard. A big truck was descending toward us, its grille filling the windshield. The road was barely wide enough for one vehicle. To our right, the land fell away into that same gorge.
The road rule was simple: the downhill driver backs up. This one kept coming.
Metal kissed metal. A slow scrape dragged along our side — deliberate, grinding. The bus leaned toward the gorge. I stopped breathing. My ribs locked tight. My palm stuck to the vinyl seat. I wiped it on my trousers and gripped again. My hands were slick.
Then a sharp crack. Our side mirror snapped off and disappeared into the ravine.
The rosary chant stopped mid-Hail Mary.
Beads hung suspended between fingers.
For a second I saw that old yellow bus again, embedded in the rocks below. Gravel shifted beneath our tires. Dust crumbled at the fragile road edge. The bus tilted just enough to pull my weight sideways against the seat.
Our driver ground first gear into place. The clutch shuddered. Inch by inch, we ledged forward. I fixed my eyes on the narrow strip of road between tire and void.
When we finally cleared that truck, applause burst forth — strained, breathless. Air rushed back into my lungs.
Our own yellow death trap lurched ahead.
Deep road ruts jarred the worn frame. Each bounce sent the chickens on the roof into frantic squawking. A woman whispered, “Jesús, María y José.”
At every blind curve, a statue of the Virgin stood in a cliffside niche. Passengers crossed themselves as we passed. My brother lowered his tape player without being told.
We had both been raised Catholic. I prayed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now at the hour of our death.”
I never prayed so hard in my life
I kept my eyes fixed ahead, afraid to move.
From the memoir-in-progress, nearing publication:
Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous
—a spiritual epic for truth-seekers, contemplative mystics, and all who long for God.
Visit www.RMDellOrfanoAuthor.com and pass it forward.
THE TRIQUETRA OF LIFE: Wisdom, Wealth, and Wellness 
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