An Unforgettable Day

Day 218: For weeks, we'd been listening to the daily reports of activity at Mt. St. Helens, convinced that an eruption was imminent. Every time my mother rang our phone, I expected her to tell me she'd just heard the news on her radio. I'd answer, "Did she blow?" and then we'd discuss the frequency and intensity of the swarms of seismic activity going on below the mountain. I'd stood on her summit only a few months previously, a winter climb which was always one of my favourites for the magnificent and varied ice formations we'd encounter en route. A year or so later, I found out that I'd been the last woman to stand on the peak, but that's another story. I'd close our conversation with our by-word: "The pumice is coming!" but in fact, the eventual eruption exceeded any expectations any of us might have had.

On this particular morning of May 18, 1980, the phone rang, and as I picked it up, I looked out the kitchen window toward the east where it seemed a massive rainstorm was building as black mammatus clouds were rolling up from the south. Certain that it was my mother on the other end of the line at that hour of the day, I answered the call with, "Did she do it?" My mother's utter glee was infectious as she announced, "Yes! She did!" The rest of that day is history...big history...but before it was over, my husband was insistent on having a piece of it, in the most literal sense. At great risk to our car's engine, we set out for Morton via Centralia, but only made it as far as Cinebar where we collected fresh volcanic ash before deciding to turn back. The cloud of pulverized rock blew east, engulfing Yakima and eastern Washington, but missed our home entirely (a circumstance we failed to avoid in later eruptions). Even more remarkable was that we were in what the Oregon Museum of Science termed the "Cone of Silence." Even though we were only about 35 miles from the mountain, we didn't hear a thing, although friends hundreds of miles away heard a roar similar to a sonic boom but longer and stronger. May 18, 1980 was a day I'll never forget.

The Way She Was

Day 320: To look at me now, you might find it hard to believe that I was a climber in my younger days, and until this point, my proof has been locked up in a few fading prints and a large box of slides tucked away in a cupboard. A friend loaned me her brand-new, never-been-used, slide scanner (compatible only with Windows XP) and I spent the morning installing it on the semi-retired computer in the crafts room. I thought it would be appropriate to present my documentation by featuring another old gal who ain't what she used to be: Mt. St. Helens.

Getting fogged in on the Dog's Head was something Bruce and I experienced on many occasions, regardless of the season, but one of the most memorable was our very first climb of "The Lady" on the Fourth of July 1978. It was one of those ascents when you could barely see your partner at the other end of the rope, let alone tell where you were going (top left).

Bruce and I rarely climbed with anyone else, but on the day we did the Forsyth Ice Fall direct, another friend accompanied us. I led the climb, being the lightest and least likely to break through fragile snow bridges, belaying the men when it came turn for them to cross (lower left). After I had called "Belay on," the guys moved forward. On seeing the bridge, they looked at each other and said, "She's got to be kidding!" The two photos on the right were taken earlier that day.

In our opinion, the best time of the year to climb Mt. St. Helens was in the winter. The ice formations we saw on the upper mountain varied from crusts of bubbles to long, feathery plates so fragile that the slightest touch made them crumble. Although the center photo was taken on a climb in November 1978, I hold the distinction of being the last woman known to have climbed St. Helens before she blew her lid in 1980.