We had an hour.

One hour for the Savage River Trail, an easy two-mile loop. It apparently meandered downstream along the Savage River, crossed a little bridge, and came back along the other side. We would then drive four hours back to Anchorage, return our rented Nissan Rogue, and properly pack our bags in the hotel room. I had literally thrown our clothes into packs this morning; Martin would be aghast, but not surprised, when he unzipped the bags later, revealing the rumpled disaster inside. We would then hopefully get some sleep (“nap” seemed more like a more appropriate word), and be up again at 2 AM to catch our shuttle to the airport, for our early morning flight home the next day.

We had a schedule to keep.

One hour is plenty of time for a nice, peaceful two-mile stroll. It’s perfectly do-able, perfectly complete-able, for normal people. Except we’re not normal, we’re us. The ones who stop and stare every two steps, who scan for animals, peer at plants, scrutinize the river (“If we were kayaking right now, would we want to go right or left at that rock?”), who photograph, record, breathe, listen, gawk, examine, linger, and are completely incapable of making any forward progress.

Ever. At all.

So we knew we’d be late. One hour isn’t nearly enough time for us to walk two miles. But we had to try.

We had arrived at the Mountain Vista Trailhead near the end of Denali National Park’s one paved road. Our plan was to hike the Savage Alpine Trail up and over the ridge, a total of four miles, ending at the Savage River parking lot on the other side. From there, we would catch the free shuttle bus back to this parking lot, and collect the truck.

As we started up the trail, some plants were in heady fall color, others were becoming bare. We would eventually enter unequivocally wintery conditions. But down here it was still fall, the air cool but not freezing, the shrubs and trees colorful and only starting to shed their leaves.

We hiked up a gradual incline, climbing higher, with stunning snowy mountain ranges all around us. Plant life started petering out. We ate lunch – the last of our crackers, cheese, and that age-old turkey – overlooking magnificent views. We kept climbing, stopping frequently to get videos of us clomping along a wooden boardwalk, or photos of us hiking up the path. Or we’d stop simply to ooh and ahh at the scenery, and breathe the fresh air.

We were feeling overwhelmed.

Standing at the counter in Denali National Park’s crowded Wilderness Access Center, we had intended to buy bus tickets into the backcountry. One road snaked deep into the park; the ticket allowed you to get on and off any bus, anywhere you wanted, and explore the backcountry, as far in as your purchased destination.

But apparently we didn’t fully understand the system. Yes, one could hop on and off any bus, the ranger patiently explained. But we must first choose a specific departure date and a specific departure time. Buses left every hour. Which bus, exactly, would we be on? The ranger’s fingers hovered over the computer keyboard, ready to punch in our answer, while a long line of people waited behind us.

I hadn’t anticipated needing exact dates and times. In retrospect, it makes sense– they don’t want to oversell any one departing bus. But we felt pressure as we stood there talking to the ranger, holding up the whole line as we tried to sort out the information in our heads. Quick! Which bus, what time? So we stepped aside to discuss things.

It felt like a stressful start to our day.