We had rented a log cabin near Talkeetna, tucked into the woods along a remote lakeshore. Spruce trees crowded the clearing, their lower branches hung with gray lichen. Paper birches leaned toward the water, their pale trunks bright against the forest shadows. Along the shore, sedges grew through the shallows, and submerged stones shone amber beneath the clear water. Lily-pads lined the lake’s edge like a mottled green aura with speckles of vibrant yellow flowers floating in the still inky water.

One of my oldest childhood friends had come to Alaska with her boyfriend. After twenty-five years of living here, I loved having the chance to share a little of the place that had become my home. Around the cabin table, stories from our childhood mingled with plans for the next morning. Sometimes her laughter brought back a memory so clearly that I could almost feel the humid Maryland air.

The cabin was our basecamp for hiking adventures in and around Denali National Park. We spent our days following trails into open country, stopping to look across valleys or watch clouds drag their shadows over the mountains. Back at the lake, we stretched sore legs and let the evening unfold.

Near midnight, the water would turn pink. The low sun warmed the undersides of the clouds, spreading a soft glow across the lake. Every spruce along the opposite shore stood reflected in the stillness. Then a loon would call, a long, wavering cry that carried across the water and echoed from the wooded hills. We would stop talking and listen until the last faint note disappeared.

One sunny day between hikes, I slipped away in a kayak. My friends stayed at the cabin as I pushed off from shore. The bottom fell away beneath me, pale stones giving way to deep green water. Each paddle stroke made a small, clean sound. Droplets fell from the raised blade and scattered rings across the surface. Beyond the trees, Denali rose into a cloudless sky.

Even from that distance, the mountain seemed immense. Snow covered its broad shoulders, and blue shadows gathered in the folds below the summit. I had seen it many times over the years, but from the low seat of the kayak, with the lake opening around me, I found myself staring.

I rested the paddle across my lap. A light breeze moved over my damp hands. Somewhere near shore, a bird sang from the spruce woods. The cabin had disappeared behind a bend, and for a while there was only the faint rocking of the kayak and that white mountain above the forest. I pulled into a quiet cove with a small sandy beach and I dove into the water. It was warmer than I expected, having been heated by the continuous near-24-hour summer daylight.