He rolled the de Havilland into a steep bank and surveyed the land like a king taking in his domain. New York had been crazy; Beijing, otherworldly; Rio, hedonistic; and Israel, holy, even amid the constant strife. Bryn had once asked him how he knew he was supposed to be in Alaska when he’d never been anywhere else but Chicago, and now he knew. He wasn’t one of the Alaskans that were running away from something; he was home. This was it. This broad, beautiful Susitna Valley, the mountain ranges that showed themselves to him in surprising ways—the High One, often veiled in clouds and then clearing like a looming warrior emerging from the fog, the miles of birch and spruce, the herds of caribou, the grizzly and moose. He took a deep breath. This was home. The tourists with him asked about the clear-cutting and expressed the normal Outsider belief that no trees should be harvested at all, never mind their penchant for pine tables and paper and disposable napkins. They asked him to name the mountain peaks as they passed, mountains that Eli had dreamed about when away—Mount Deception, Mount Brooks, Mount Silverthorne, Mount Tatum, Mount Carpe.
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