Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“I survived yesterday. I’m a little sore but I’ll manage.”
“For what we might find.” His voice drops, meant only for me. “The Pass isn’t just a place, Aubrey. It’s a threshold.”
Before I can ask what he means, Eli calls out that the horses and Angus are ready, and Jensen turns away, the moment lost.
The trail begins easily enough, following Donner Creek upstream through stands of pine and fir. The morning sun filters through the branches, dappling the forest floor with dancing displays of light. Under different circumstances, it might be beautiful. Peaceful, even.
But there’s nothing peaceful about the silence that has fallen over our group. Each of us is lost in our own thoughts, the only sounds the creak of leather, the steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth, and the occasional snort from one of the horses.
Jensen and Jeopardy lead our small procession, moving with the easy synchronicity of long partnership. I follow on Duke, with Eli and the pack mule behind me. Red and Cole ride side by side where the trail allows, their eyes constantly scanning the forest. Hank brings up the rear, rifle across his lap, posture tense.
An hour into the ride, I’ve grown warm enough that I take off my jacket and tie it around my waist, and the terrain begins to change. The trail steepens, switchbacking up the mountainside. The trees thin out, offering glimpses of the valley below, the landscape spreading out like a rumpled blanket of green and gray, trees then houses and the shimmering waters of Donner Lake.
“This is the old Dutch Flat Donner Lake Wagon Road,” Jensen calls back, raising his voice against the wind that’s starting to pick up. “Built in 1863 to connect the mining towns to the railroad.”
We plod around the road for a while and I’m surprised that I haven’t seen any hikers or signs of civilization. The trail narrows again, forcing us back into single file. As we climb higher, the air grows noticeably thinner, each breath less satisfying than the last. Duke’s sides heave beneath me, steam rising from his hide as the air starts to cool with the elevation.
At 6,500 feet, according to Jensen’s offhand comment, the trees change. From my brief venture into botany at college, I pick out lodgepole pines and mountain hemlocks, though there seems to be more granite outcroppings and low, wind-stunted shrubs. The trail here is ancient, worn into the very bedrock by thousands of wagon wheels and countless feet over more than a century and a half.
As we’re rounding one such outcropping, Hank cries out. I twist in the saddle to see him suddenly rein in his horse, the animal dancing nervously beneath him.
“Hold up,” he calls, his voice tight.
Jensen raises his hand, bringing our column to a halt. “Problem?”
Hank’s eyes dart to the rocks above us. “Thought I saw something moving up there.”
We all follow his gaze, but the ridgeline stands empty against the brilliant blue sky.
“Probably just a marmot,” Red says dismissively. “Shoot it next time.”
“Excuse me?” I say to Red, giving him a disgusting look.
“Vermin,” Red says with a sneer.
“Men are the real vermin here,” Jensen says derisively. At least he agrees with me.
“Wasn’t no marmot,” Hank insists. “Too big. Maybe a mountain lion.”
Jensen studies the ridge with narrowed eyes. “We’re in their territory now. Stay alert, keep moving.”
But I notice how his hand drifts to the rifle in its scabbard, how he waits for Hank to take up position before nudging Jeopardy forward again.
The next hour passes in heightened vigilance, the easy rhythm of our morning ride replaced by taut silence and watchful eyes. I’m probably not the only one thinking we’re about to ambushed by a mountain lion. The wind picks up further, carrying a bite that wasn’t there before, and I put my jacket back on. Seems tomorrow it will be time to bust out the puffer.
Even Duke seems affected by the growing tension, his ears flicking back and forth, nostrils flaring as he tests the air. I stroke his neck, murmuring reassurances I don’t fully believe.
We stop to rest the horses at what Jensen calls the halfway point, a small plateau with a stream trickling down from the snowpack above. The elevation is taking its toll on the horses, on us. Every movement requires more effort, every breath hard.
I slide from Duke’s back, my legs protesting after hours in the saddle. The ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, though whether from exhaustion or altitude, I can’t tell.
“Drink,” Jensen says, appearing at my side with a water bottle. “Small sips. Altitude sickness is no joke.”
His concern catches me off guard, like I’m being doted on. “I’m fine. We’re near the pass, right? I drove through there the other day.” But I take the water bottle, our fingers brushing in the exchange. His are warm despite the chill.