Kokanee Glacier Standing at the trail head in my shorts, already at an elevation of 5,038 feet, I look up to my destination, another 4,000 feet up. I have been anxiously anticipating this day for two years. My cousin, James, was finally familiar with the myriad trail to guide me and my family to the icy peak. I grab a can of bug spray and place my heavy backpack full of water bottles, sandwiches, a couple delicious Canadian candy bars, and a useless cell phone down. Conspicuously missing from our packs are any semblance of weatherproof clothing. Already getting swarmed by annoying, buzzing mosquitoes, I coat my exposed skin in the sticky, citrus scented liquid. The early morning air is brisk and the wet substance causes all of my hair to stand up. I take one last refreshing gulp of water, and embark on my long-awaited journey to the glacier. It seems that the trail has been zig-zagging across the side of the mountain for ages. I feel as if I am getting nowhere, as the slope right now is ever slowly increasing. I claim my spot next to James, deciding to be the first to behold the beauty of the climb. At this point, the path is bustling with other hikers who are, like me, beginning this feat, and others who have already finished the daunting task. The ancient trees are soaring high like skyscrapers. I feel like an ant in this enormous world. The roaring river cuts the dense forested slopes, like the jagged tear a rusty nail makes after ripping the skin. Rushing waterfalls explode over nearly vertical rocky ledges. We are higher now, and the trees thin as they give way to the blanket of small shrubbery surrounding the trail like a lush carpet. With the trees gone, the breathtaking view can be fully appreciated. Layers of innumerable blue mountains converge into an infinite valley below. My heart skips a beat as I look in awe. Every peak is visible, but I have only just begun. As we get closer to the sky, the farther we get from the crowded trail. The majority of hikers follow the well-worn path to the lake and cabin while my family and I take the road less travelled, which is an avalanche chute, leading to the glacier above. The air is thinning and breathing is a challenge with every additional step I take; my lungs beg for oxygen. My legs ache, my muscles burn, I feel like a marathon runner on the twenty-sixth mile: the end being so close, but still out of reach. Having my mind focused, though, I refuse to slow my pace. We are almost there, my heart pumps like a race horse on the home stretch, but my heart is pumps for excitement, not solely exhaustion. The landscape is changes from the forest we left below, to slopes covered with an abundant amount of boulders the size of small cars. I see everything now. This area is home to the native marmot, an extremely large, gopher-like rodent. They are hidden beneath every boulder. Having never seen one, I am on the lookout, like a cheetah stalking his prey. My younger cousin, Jared, finds one, and makes it his mission to touch it. Creeping his way to the mammal, he takes every step with precision and caution, as to not startle it, until his trembling hand brushes its matted, sandy fur. As the day continues, and the sun was inches up the sky, we leave the marmots and march on. We reach the literal end of the trail (as evidenced by the signpost), and now create our own path. There is no more grass, no more plants, and I easily see that I am in an avalanche chute. Light gray boulders, matching the ominous clouds now pouring over the peaks above, engulf of what remains of the mountain. Beneath these rocks rushes the sinuous river. As the sound of the flooding water fills our ears, fear for stepping on a loose rock fills our minds. Now rain is starting to fall along with the temperature, so we find a large boulder to lean on as it also shields us from the wind. As I rest, a deafening clap, louder than thunder echoes between the mountains. Confused, I look up. To my right, on the other side of the chute, a cluster of boulders had come loose and now race each other down the side of the mountain, eroding the landscape. My mom begins to fear the thought of continuing on. What if it begins to snow? What if rocks fall on us? We will be squashed out of existence, like a bug under a size 12 shoe. Without the proper attire, any drastic change in weather can be detrimental. I, pleading to finish this feat, convince the group to go. We stand up, stretch, remount the backpacks, and head up. Piles of pure white snow randomly assemble all the way up. What a sight to see: snow in July! At this point, we are using our hands along with our feet, resorting back our infantile state of crawling to make it up; now I know I am almost there. We find the spot where we wanted to reach, and decide to turn around. My cousins Jared and James, my sister Sophie, and I climb one last boulder, the biggest one yet. Together we sit on the edge to gaze, struck with awe, at our accomplishment. Here, 9,000 feet high, on top of the world, I witness the wondrous beauty of the earth that not many get the chance to experience. The anticipation of this moment flows out of me like the waterfalls below. I no longer notice the wind chilling me to the bone or the rain seeping through my jacket; my mind is at peace and my heart is full as I stare in complete admiration. I made the summit.