People often wonder what makes up holy shit day for me. Rarely, it’s one huge event such as being chased by a grizzly bear. (Check out my post called My First Holy Shit Day on the PNT.) Most often, holy shit days involve a series of events which evoke fear in me.

When I set out on my hike in Glacier, I expected some snow. The Rangers told me I would be camped in snow and I would have to cross a dangerous snow bridge as well as some other sketchy snow traverses. I made the decision when I left I would turn around if anything felt too unsafe.

I was thrilled to discover the high camp was snowless when I arrived on my second day of hiking. It entailed a 5 mile climb with 3000 feet of altitude gain to get there. Rather than snow, the difficulty I had was pushing for miles through chest high weeds. I had to be really careful where I placed my feet as I couldn’t see the trail through the thimbleberry. A missed step of 12 inches could cause me to step off the side of a cliff.

I enjoyed my night camped in that spectacular campsite, which at 7600 feet above sea level is the highest campsite in the park. I was in no rush to get going in the morning because I wanted the sun to warm up the snow. Some people prefer crossing snowfields when they are hard packed so their spikes dig in better and they don’t slide in the slushy snow. I prefer softer snow because I can cut steps into it and if I fall, the slushy snow makes for a slower slide down the mountain than hard packed ice provides.

It wasn’t long after I left camp when I was crossing my first snow field. It was a steep angled slope so I put on my spikes, but used my two poles instead of my ice ax. I had to focus on each individual step, cutting it in, not looking downhill, knowing if I was careful, I would make it across just fine. My legs were shaking from the strain by the time I reached dry ground, but I had crossed plenty of fields like that before, so I continued on. I lost the trail a number of times in the snow but nothing felt too uncomfortable until I realized that by following a series of carins up the mountain, I had gotten a bit too far off track for my comfort. The cairns were definitely leading somewhere, but I didn’t want to get too high on the mountain nor too far off where the GPS was indicating the trail was, so I backtracked and glissaded down a pitch until I was near the trail again. Glissading involves sitting on my butt and using my ice ax or pole to slow and control the direction of my descent. Twice I did roll over on my stomach to slow myself down, but I felt in control.

At this point, the trail was cut into the side of a really steep slope, and there were a number of places where it was snow covered. I didn’t feel comfortable crossing those slopes, so I sat down to take stock of the situation. I decided to get below the cliffs and aim for the trail I could see on the other side of the cirque.

The terrain was steep with many cliff drop offs. I sat a good while picking out a route I thought would work. The hardest part was at the top where there was about a seven foot drop off a cliff onto a lower-angled snow slope. This felt a bit sketchy because the only foot hold was about 5 feet down, and there were no handholds above me. In addition the snow had melted away from the base of the cliff leaving a cravasse that was about 2 feet wide by 8 feet deep running along the base of this cliff. I debated throwing my pack and poles down but decided against it, so I carefully dug my fingers into the minuscule amount of dirt at the top of the cliff and slowly let my feet dangle below me while I blindly searched for the hold. Once I reached this one foot square place to stand, I carefully turned my chest away from facing the cliff, lengthened my poles and tested the snow below me to ensure it would hold my weight when I made the leap across that cravasse. I slid a little bit upon landing. When I came to a stop, I felt relieved and satisfied I had pushed through something that was scary for me.

I felt proud when I reached the snowless edge of a switchback the trail made coming off the cliffs, knowing that while what I did had felt scary, traversing that higher, snow covered cliff would have scared me more.

I continued to follow the trail until it again crossed a really steep pitch. Once again, I sat down to evaluate the situation. Again I decided I could go down the snow slope to where it leveled out a bit. From there, I could cut across country and climb back up to meet the trail.

As soon as I started down the slope I began sliding in some loose rock so I sat down and pulled out my ice ax deciding to do everything to increase my safety, even when my forward progress felt painfully slow. I then sat down on the snow slope, spread my legs apart to increase the slush buildup between them, which would help slow my descent, and began to take off down the mountain. Three times I rolled over on my stomach, using the ice ax to slow my descent, but again I felt I was mostly in control of the slide. When I reached as low as I wanted to go, I stopped and took stock of the situation. I had a number of boulder fields to cross, so I took off my spikes, packed up my ice ax and pulled out my poles. I used this break as an opportunity to put some calories into my tiring body before cutting cross country back to the trail.

It was cut fairly well into the side of the mountain and while it dropped steeply down on one side, it was not snow covered. Rather than being afraid of what might lie ahead I decided to be grateful for every snowless step I had.

Because I was not worrying, I was able to enjoy the beautiful traverse around what’s called Hole-in-the-Wall camp. But when I stopped to enjoy the view and have a leisurely lunch, I was swarmed with bees.

I was quite certain by then I was out of snow, but I didn’t know that more challenges awaited me. Rather than snow, most of the remaining five miles to camp were covered in thick vegetation, some up to my armpits. Part of it was on a downhill, and a few times my foot caught in the weeds and sent me flying down the hill, flailing to maintain my balance. Thankfully I did not fall. I had no idea what the ground was like because I couldn’t see my footing and a few times I rolled my ankles when I stepped on rocks or into unseen holes. Then, just as it started to level out, I was painfully aware that under the taller thimbleberry weeds were stinging nettles having their way with my bare legs. I took my pack off, balancing in the nettles while zipping the lower portion of my convertible pants back on to minimize the sting. To make matters worse, my boots kept coming untied no matter how many double or triple knots I put in the laces. This meant I had to keep reaching into the nettles to retire, my shoes.

Finally, I reached my campsite for the night, which was a bit off trail and had another surprise waiting for me. I had barely taken my pack off when I was swarmed with mosquitoes and biting flies.

But through all of this, even though it was scary at times, if I knew exactly what it would’ve been like ahead of time, I would do it over again. Holy shit days are not a bad thing. They often leave me feeling very self-satisfied and accomplished at being able to push through fear and overcome challenges. I didn’t do anything reckless and days like this leave me more comfortable accepting that I am the badass other hikers refer to me as.