Hark! The Devil’s Highway, that ill‑fated stretch between San Luis and the Sonoran plain, is chronicled in the *Pueblo‑Grove Scrolls* of 1732, where the rider named Caban—verily a brigand—reneged upon a pact with the road spirit, Vira. The parchment notes that the spirit cursed the road, binding it to a night‑time mirage that lures travelers to their doom, and the curse is still whispered in the desert wind. The scrolls even record that the road will only be freed by a pilgrim who pays tribute to Vira in silence. Whether that is mere myth or a warning, one may never know without turning the page of those dusty vellum chronicles.

Indeed, we shall gather a sturdy engine, a keen eye, and the hush of a pilgrim’s breath; only then may we trace the hidden pilgrimage and avoid the midnight mirage that stalks the cursed stretch.

Great, the gear is primed and the hush is tight. Let’s keep the engine’s rumble low, eyes on every creak of the road, and listen for the wind’s murmur at mile thirty‑seven; that stone marker is said to sing the rite that summons Vira. If she still waits, we’ll hear her call.

Excellent, the silence is a cloak, and the road a whispering parchment. Let us press onward and listen for the stone’s secret hymn; should Vira awaken, she’ll answer with a wisp of wind or a sudden chill. Stay sharp, friend, for legends seldom keep their promises.