Mount Shasta, the huge volcano dominating the skyline of Northern California, has been my personal holy mountain since childnood; only later did I learn of the Native American legends around it (not to mention the extraordinary number of modern cults).

I always associated Shasta with centaurs and talking horses because of Shasta, the hero of sorts in C.S. Lewis's The Horse and his Boy, one of the few Narnia books I liked (less preachy, or maybe just because it wasn't set in Narnia).

Anyway the sparsely-settled, iron-soiled hills around Mt Shasta feel like centaur heaven, though the centaur girl I saw guiding me had California attitudes about sex and democracy and such-like decadent notions that old Aslan the jealous lion-god (aka C.S. Lewis) would probably claw her butt for having.

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