The old man came through the swinging door of the general store. Worn blue flannel shirt, knife clipped to jeans pocket, big hands that had spent a lifetime working hard. He walked with the air of someone used to being listened to.
“Forester’s impassable,” he said brusquely to the woman behind the counter. “Any hiker with a lick of sense is getting out at Cottonwood Pass and skipping ahead. Bad snow and ice up there.”
He paid for a soda and looked at me sidelong as the cashier rang him up. ...
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