Descansos: A History Etched in the Desert

I’ve been talking about documenting roadside memorials for over fifteen years. I’d see them in passing, crosses by the highway, and feel a deep, respectful pull. But I never did anything about it. I was afraid of sensationalizing them, of stepping into someone else’s grief uninvited. Maybe I just didn’t feel brave enough.

That changed this past year. My wife, Hayley, gently pushed me forward. “Let’s just get out there,” she said. “Let’s drive. Let’s take pictures, see what happens.” And so we did.

On a trip to southern Colorado, we documented dozens along Highway 89 in Arizona and the quiet county roads that wind through Utah and Colorado. In a small-town parking lot, a cowboy, making friendly conversation after noticing we were from out of town, asked what we were doing. As Hayley explained the project, he lit up with enthusiasm and offered all sorts of ideas and encouragement.

Later, on a trip to Parker, Arizona, we stayed the night by the Colorado River. While walking our dog Carlton along the shoreline, we met a retired couple who had been spending winters in a nearby RV park for years. As our dogs played in the water, the conversation turned to our travels. When we explained the project (we hadn’t named it Descansos yet), their response surprised us. They not only expressed heartfelt compassion for the lives honored by the memorials, but also asked if we wanted to know the story behind it.

The man had worked with the person memorialized there (we had unknowingly photographed his earlier that day): a young, capable man whose life ended too soon. Unfortunately, being in the earliest days of the project and unsure how it would be received, I didn’t record or transcribe the story. But it was a beautiful conversation, one that showed us this project would grow in ways we hadn’t yet imagined.

What began as a quiet idea, one I carried with me for more than a decade, has turned into something much larger. This project has grown with every photograph and every conversation. It has become a journey through mourning traditions, public memory, cultural identity, and community resilience.

This second entry in the project focuses on the Descansos, a practice with deep historical roots in the American Southwest.

Descansos is a Spanish term meaning “place of rest,” originally referring to a spot where pallbearers would set down a coffin during a long funeral procession. In the Spanish colonial era, mourners often traveled long distances on foot or by cart to reach a cemetery. Each pause, each literal moment of rest, was marked by a pile of stones or a handmade cross. Over time, the term evolved. If a traveler died en route and was buried beside the trail, a cross placed there was also called a Descansos. Eventually, the meaning expanded to what we recognize today: a marker for where a life ended, often suddenly, often violently, on the open road.

In modern usage, descansos are roadside memorials placed at the site of a death, usually from an accident but sometimes due to other tragedies such as homicides. In Arizona, New Mexico, and across the greater Southwest, they are a time-honored tradition, deeply tied to Hispanic culture, Catholic iconography, and local mourning practices.

While their forms vary, Descansos often take the shape of a wooden or white-painted cross placed directly at the location of the incident. Some are elaborate: small shrine-like enclosures (Capillitas) adorned with rosaries, vigil candles, photographs, handwritten notes, and seasonal decorations. Others are simple: a cross with a name and a date, standing quietly in the gravel. Yet all serve the same purpose, they mark where a spirit left the body and create a space for the living to remember.

These memorials are more than symbols of grief. In many cases, they are also acts of caution. A Descansos on a sharp curve or a desert stretch of highway doesn’t just honor a life lost, it warns others. It says: slow down, be present, remember what can happen here. There are stretches in Arizona, like SR-60, where so many memorials line the roadside that you can’t help but ease your foot off the gas.

Interestingly, that dual purpose is part of official history as well. In the 1940s and ’50s, the Arizona Highway Patrol installed white crosses to mark the locations of fatal crashes. When the practice was discontinued, families continued it on their own, preserving the visual language of loss. What began as institutional messaging became personal again: community-driven, handmade, sacred.

Though Descansos originated in the Southwest, the practice of placing roadside memorials has spread far beyond it. Today, you can find similar tributes in nearly every region of the United States. Some include crosses, some do not. In urban areas, photographs and flowers might be tied to a lamppost or fence. In rural states, long stretches of highway may be dotted with white markers, often placed by different families, but sharing a visual solidarity.

Still, regional styles persist. In the Southwest, where this tradition runs especially deep, some states (like New Mexico) even acknowledge descansos as culturally significant. I’ve read stories of highway crews documenting and respectfully replacing memorials during construction. In some communities, they’re visited and tended like gravesites, especially during Día de los Muertos, Christmas, or the loved one’s birthday. Over time, a simple wooden cross may be replaced with something more durable, but the meaning remains unchanged.

As we’ve spent more time photographing these spaces, the project has grown. We’ve had conversations with strangers. We’ve spoken with members of the Arizona Department of Transportation about how they navigate these deeply personal but publicly placed markers. We’ve explored the Greek tradition of Kandylakia, small roadside shrines that carry striking parallels to descansos. What we’ve come to realize is this: though the styles and names differ, there is something universally human about the desire to mark the place where life ended, and love continues.

And that’s where this journey is taking us, not just across the Southwest, but across cultures, histories, and conversations. In upcoming posts, we’ll explore how laws across different states impact these memorials, how some are protected, others removed, and why the question of what belongs on public land is more complicated than it seems. We’ll also take a closer look at ghost bikes, a striking modern variation of the Descansos that commemorates cyclists killed on the road. And as the project continues, we’ll be exploring how other countries and cultures mark loss in public spaces, from Greek shrines to global roadside rituals, seeking out the shared threads of grief, remembrance, and humanity that tie us all together.

But for now, we want to stay rooted in where this all began: a desert roadside, a handmade cross, a story that won’t be forgotten.

Have you passed a roadside memorial that impacts you?

We’d love to hear your story. This project grows with each story shared. Follow along as we continue exploring the culture, memory, and meaning behind these powerful spaces.