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Three months after I turned forty, I awoke from a terrible dream gasping for air at the thought of my own corpse buried six feet under, rotting in a coffin. It wasn’t the fact I was dead that terrified me. It was the stifling and permanent lack of freedom. It was the fact I would know; I would know I could never again wander the landscapes I love full of geysers and grizzlies, eagles and salmon, caribou and polar bears. My heart raced, knowing I would never again be able to return to the spaces I will always call home.


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