Читать книгу Thirst - Heather Anderson - Страница 10

On June 6, I boarded a plane and flew from Seattle to San Diego, soaring over the length of the mountain ranges I would soon traverse on foot. As the plane swooped over brown hillsides and stucco homes with tile roofs, I realized how very far I was from Washington, which had become my home. Staring east, where clouds and ridges were visible, faint and low on the horizon, I remembered the last time I was here, eight years younger and vastly inexperienced. I had faced the same distance, but this time I knew the enormity of the land extending between myself and Washington. I felt the pull of the mountains I knew like friends, and the people there that I loved.

A small voice inside me whispered, “All that’s left to do then is walk.”