Cresting the hill, we register brake lights from several cars ahead and, in front of them, strobing red flashes from an emergency vehicle. We stop, turn off the ignition. The day is clear; the road is dry; yet something has gone wrong with a Sunday drive. Three fire engines and two ambulances arrive over the next several minutes, sirens screaming the wrong way down the empty oncoming lanes. A state department of transportation truck follows, stacked with traffic cones -- a signal, we figure, that the road may reopen eventually. We sit tight for about an hour. Not much to see, and not much point in turning around for an alternate route. Eventually, one ambulance speeds away. The second follows. One fire truck and then another navigate multipoint turns and return from where they came. We're moving soon after. We crawl past the accident scene: two totaled vehicles, their makes and models no longer identifiable. The driver's side door of one has been removed. The other is about as pancaked as I've ever seen a car outside of a junkyard crusher in an old movie; its front wheels, still attached by an axle, somehow face the sky. Our thoughts are with whoever was in those cars.