227 vehicles have passed by us in the last hour. We are parked on the side of the road, in a car that is leaking oil. At least the hood has stopped smoking. Our two friends left in a taxi to Taluca, the closest town, to see a mechanic and have a grua tow us either to the town, or back all the way to Mexico City.

We had gone to the park to see the monarch butterflies before they begin their migration north; we arrived too late, the mariposas had left three days prior, but the trail was still open at a discount, and many bodies of the  butterflies that died were still littered on the edges of the walking paths, the ticket takers told us. We had driven about 2 hours out of the city to see them; we were three days and two hours too late.

The path was dusty. The hundreds of boots trampled the grass into the ground many times over. Natured had ceded this narrow path and had left only loose rock and dirt that flew into the air with every step. We wore masks to avoid breathing it in, but even so, our mouths became dry and dirt had encrusted itself along where the masks had met our faces.

Patches of dead butterflies attracted congregations of visitors. A path had been roped off due to people stealing the bodies and taking them home. The intact wings were still bright orange, dotted with black and white, but they were dirty, layered with the excrement from our boots on the path. They would be buried soon, I thought, from the crowds walking through. Children would probably pick them up and dust them off.

The butterflies had left too early; thousands were likely still coming to visit them through the end of February.  But now they would cancel. Warmer temperatures in the north, perhaps, driven by global warming, may signal to the butterflies that it is time to leave earlier than normal.

The roads curved and winded down back to the city. The smell of burnt rubber persisted, and we pulled over to the side of the road. The hood smoked. A pool of oil underneath the front and a trail of drops followed us from behind. He stroked his finger along the ground; it came up dripping with the dark brown liquid, and he nodded.

No cell service to call for help. Cars passed, but we did not wave any down. Emergency lights on,and we decided, perhaps at 30 miles per hour, the engine would persevere. The car turned on without smoking, and drove for a few meters until the engine started clanking. We rumbled into a deep curve, along a cliff. He pressed the gas pedal, but the car did not respond, and we rolled to a halt.

No visibility from either side of the curve. The car smoked and soon it came through the dashboard vents. Car after car careened along the curve from behind us and deaccelerated rapidly. A line formed quickly. A policecar arrived, and a taxi man, and together we pushed the car 20 or 30 meters. Our feet slipped in the oil path. Uphill, now, but beyond the dangerous curve. The police truck, bumper to bumper, pushed the car forward to a pull off.

The police left. They left in the taxi, and will be back. Cars passed: 1,2,3,4,5…