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38 Snow Pack Café for Clare The sign on #395 remains legible, broken neon tubing and faded paint spelling out another failed enterprise: Snow Pack Café. Strangely lost in the middle of the Mojave Desert, it fronts a hot long highway slashing north to Reno, the spine of the Sierra Nevada twisting through every conceivable shade of dry brown behind it. Yet I can believe an insistent stab of wind pinned somebody’s collar to neck, widened the imagination’s eye to admire that hard, white speck with a death-grip handhold hovering at 8,000 feet. ...

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