We arrived in a town called “Cascadia” on May 16, 1912. Several of the townsfolk greeted us as though they were not accustomed to seeing strangers in their town and were happy for it. Both men and women were eager to talk to the Overland Westerners about our historic trip.
We learned that we were soon to face a terrible challenge.
“It’s too early to cross the mountains. The snow is still too deep,” said one man.
“If you should make it over the Hackassian Pass, you’d be the first to do so in 1912.”
“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” one old-timer said. “I’ve lived here all my life. Many a man and beast has tried it this early, never to return.”
This did not sound good to me, and I decided a nice, warm stall sounded much better.
George patted me on the neck. “With Pinto here, we’ll make it. I’m sure of it.”
I gave George a look of skepticism. If I’d had eyebrows, I would have knotted them. I snorted and shook my head instead.
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