The train tracks seemed to stretch on endlessly ahead as Tim led the pack string onward. The Redwoods towered high above them, keeping them from direct sun exposure. The cool, woodsy breeze felt more like October than the usual August, dry heat they were accustomed to in Bakersfield. Like a traveling safari, the caravan stayed true to the old, rundown train tracks. The clear path ahead of them provided a longer stretch of smoother travel than the unsteady terrain that surrounded them on both sides.
The crew rounded the bend and came to the third train trestle in four hours. It was only the second day of their horseback journey, but Tim’s patience was wearing thin with all the detours around these trestles.
He sighed out his annoyance. Approaching the entrance to the trestle, he pulled slightly on the reins, bringing his horse, Cher, to a slowing stop. The metal frame of the bridge stretched nearly one hundred yards to the end, towering over enlarged rocks and bushy trees nearly thirty feet below. Tim scanned the railroad ties, examining their condition. Each tie lay close together and appeared sturdy and fairly new.
“Okay,” he said aloud. “Let’s go. We’re crossing this one.”
