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Coming Home

One time I had opened a book about America’s national parks to a page showing a steep canyon. A muddy river flowed out of it, and at its edge, on a rocky beach, sat a cowboy on a horse. The text spoke of jagged mountains, sheer canyons, and hundred-mile vistas. Without knowing anything more, I longed to go there. The page header read: Big Bend National Park, Texas.

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