A travel comfort zone is really a safety zone. But stretch a little and you enter the oh! zone

I awakened with a jolt from a peaceful sleep, roused by my parents, who insisted I see the moose that had wandered into our campground in Montana’s Glacier National Park.

The creature seemed a fitting reminder of the danger that lurks in the wilderness or, really, anywhere in the unknown.

Shortly after our animal encounter, we set off on a nearly 12-mile hike on the Highline Loop. I don’t think my parents realized just how strenuous this trek would be, and that could have been why they stopped so often to take pictures.

I urged them to pick up the pace, because at this rate we would never reach the end of the trail. They told me to quit rushing them and to enjoy the hike.

Clearly, our styles were a mismatch, so I hiked ahead.

Finding new friends

One thing I learned from hiking in seven national parks during the summer: The longer the trail, the friendlier the people.

You keep running into the same folks over and over, and it’s awkward — and nearly impossible — to ignore them, especially if you’re walking 12 miles.

That’s how I met Jacob, who was college age, and Joe, his uncle. I fell in step with them, enjoying a pace that put even more distance between my family and me.

As we chatted, I learned that the previous day they had hiked nine miles to a glacial lake. Jacob apparently waded in and reported that the water was so cold his legs nearly froze and broke off. Joe disputed Jacob’s (perhaps slightly exaggerated?) take on the temperature, offering his own perspective: He had dipped a finger in the lake and pronounced the water “mild.”

This good-natured quibbling went on until we reached a crossroads, where a loop would lead to an overlook whose star attraction was a glacier.

My parents and I had talked about this before we left the campground. One guidebook said it was the hardest part of the trek, so we had decided to bypass the 1.2-mile detour, called the Garden Wall.

But I was now so far ahead of my mom and dad that I realized I could hike the loop with my new friends. Still, I wasn’t sure I should do it. The loop intrigued me, but I was worried about finding my parents. What if we couldn’t reconnect?

On the other hand, the glaciers in this national park are melting because of global warming, scientists say. If I didn’t go now, I might never get to see them.

I decided to take a chance.

We started up the hill, and yes, the guidebooks were right. It was excruciating.

Jacob and Joe zipped up, and I brought up the rear. My heart was hammering, and my lungs ached as I tried to take in enough oxygen from the thin air. I felt like curling up in a ball and rolling myself down the mountain.

But I didn’t give up. Joe cheered me on, reminding me to drink plenty of water, offering me sunscreen and joking that a McDonald’s awaited at the top.

I persevered, and I was soon enough rewarded for my efforts.

I have felt on top of the world before, but I have never been on top of the world until I reached that summit.

I saw bare peaks worn down over thousands of years. The glacial lake below was a pigmented blue, frosted with snow around its edge, and I saw the Grinnell Glacier watching over the valley below.

The hike had been breathtaking in the literal sense; now the views were breathtaking in a mystical one.

Back down the trail

Finally, we started down. Just as Jacob, Joe and I arrived at the chalet that my parents and I had discussed as a lunch spot, here came my mom and dad.

My worries about losing them had proved groundless.

It’s always easier to stay on the same path. Maybe that’s why we teach ourselves to play it safe and convince ourselves that anything outside the comfort zone is not worth pursuing.

But this time, my reward for trusting my new friends and a new route was a visual feast I otherwise would have missed.

That’s the thing about traveling: It teaches me over and over again that the unknown isn’t as dangerous as my mind perceives it to be.

It’s a good lesson to revisit as we begin a new year.

Michelle Hattersley is a student at Huntington Beach High School. Departure Points, a monthly column, explores the ways in which traveling changes us, whether it’s a lesson learned or a truth uncovered. You may submit a first-person essay of 700 words or fewer to travel@latimes.com with “Departure Points” in the subject line. Please include your first and last names and your contact information for editorial consideration.

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