CHAPTER 13It is cold in the hunting season in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. It is especially cold at 7:45 in the morning, after five and a half hours of steady driving, with the last coffee break two hours gone. I was stiff in every muscle and especially in the left arm. I tried swinging it around as I got out in the little county seat town and went into a cafe called the Mountain View Inn. I didn’t try for long; it hurt too much.
From inside, seated at a front window, I had a view of Mount Whitney, fourteen and a half thousand feet high and top-heavy with snow. A waitress brought me coffee and a menu and I ordered enough breakfast for three guys. I wasn’t sure I could eat all of it, but I didn’t want to run out.
While I waited for the fruit juice, I composed a telegram to the bigg
