By the time we reached Talkeetna, the three of us had spent a week traveling around Southcentral Alaska. My close friend from high school had flown up with her boyfriend, and our days had filled with mountain roads, long summer evenings, and stops that always took longer than we planned.

Now we stood beside a ski-plane, looking toward Denali. The mountain rose white above the distant foothills, its summit clear against a blue sky. Even from the ground, it seemed impossibly high.

We put on our headsets and climbed aboard. The engine caught with a shudder, then settled into a roar I could feel through the seat. A few minutes later, Talkeetna dropped beneath us. The rivers spread into braided channels, silver and brown among miles of green forest. I turned toward my friend. She was already looking out the window, smiling. There was something wonderful about having her here; someone who had known me long before Alaska, now sharing a view that still astonished me after all these years.

As we approached the range, the foothills gave way to rock walls and glaciers. Ice filled the valleys in broad, winding streams. Dark bands of rubble followed their curves, and crevasses opened across the surface like deep blue cuts. Then the mountains rose around us. The pilot banked, bringing a wall of snow into view so suddenly that I leaned toward the window. Wind had carved the ridges into sharp edges and smooth, sweeping curves. Cliffs plunged into shadow. Snow clung to ledges where it seemed there could be nothing beneath it.

Near Denali’s upper reaches, scale became difficult to understand. What looked like a small fold in the snow might have swallowed a building. The summit stood brilliantly white in the sun, with a faint plume of windblown snow lifting from its crest. I pressed the camera to the window, took several photographs, then lowered it. Beside me, my friend pointed toward a ridge. Her boyfriend leaned forward for a better look. Through the headsets came brief exclamations, followed by long stretches when none of us spoke.

Eventually, the plane descended toward the climbing basecamp on the Kahiltna Glacier. The pilot lined up with the snow, and I watched the surface draw closer until I could make out tracks. The skis touched with a soft scrape. We slid, slowed, and stopped.

When the engine shut down, the quiet felt enormous. Outside, sunlight bounced off the glacier, making us squint behind our sunglasses. The air was cold and startlingly clear. My boots sank slightly into the snow as we walked near the plane, surrounded by peaks that forced us to tip our heads back.