He drove slowly along the highway; he was inspecting, not traveling. CALIFORNIA—U.S. 40 stared at him from the neat shield-shaped markers. He passed between the slender bright-orange snow-stakes standing at hundred-foot intervals on both sides of the highway. He saw a stake leaning over, and got out to straighten it. A car with a Minnesota license slowed down beside him.

“What those stakes for, brother?” called an abrupt voice.

“Snow-stakes,” said the Superintendent, but the face into which he looked was blank. “You see, when there’s snow—deep—the snow-plows have to steer by these stakes.”

“Say—you kidding us, brother. It’s January—where’s your snow? Why we had fifteen inches in one storm the other day. You telling us about snow?”

The car started forward suddenly, but the Superintendent heard a woman’s voice trail back from it.

“Those things must be eight feet high. Just like California!”

He drove on, a little disgruntled. People from northern states always made trouble—thought they knew everything about driving in snow. He’d like to see that crowd now, getting around Windy Point on a bad day. Fifteen inches of snow—why, man, on Donner Pass you figure snow by feet, not inches!

Well, that was MINNESOTA anyway. CALIFORNIA and NEVADA didn’t count. He got NEW YORK, and ILLINOIS before reaching the Lake Tahoe turn-off. Noting “foreign” licenses was an unbreakable habit of no practical importance; it was perhaps a sign of his pride in the great highway which he served. UTAH, OREGON. A big gasoline truck thundered by; its trailing chain struck sparks. Then went a towering van with a trailer; half a dozen special licenses spattered its rear-end. A streamlined transcontinental bus speeded toward him. A big truck passed, laden with bulging sacks; “Idaho potatoes, or onions,” he thought. PENNSYLVANIA, NEBRASKA. Yessir, he’d bet, considering how high it went, U.S. 40 carried more traffic than any other road in the world. And he was the one who saw that it got through, summer or winter. ALBERTA, MISSOURI.

He passed the Donner monument; the refreshment stand was boarded up for the winter. Dirty remnants of snowdrifts lay here and there. Now the road skirted along the Lake; it was unfrozen; glittering in the sun, it did not seem even very wintry. At the western end of the Lake he came to the gates which at his word would be closed across the highway. Beside the road the big sign read: Snow conditions over Donner Summit—U.S. 40, and then below in large letters ROAD OPEN TO ALL TRAFFIC.