Everytime we catch a view of the flat-topped Mt. Saint Helens I see the ghost of that snow cone beauty when we first moved to Portland in 1978. Then May 18th 1980, and half that magnificent volcano blew; today is 41 yeaars since that event; it remains fixed in my memory. Beacause the ash was frequently blowing in Portland during subsequent eruptions, I needed to wear a mask. In fact I used wet bandanas to breathe through so I could protect my lungs. Ash blew across the streets and sidewalks looking like powdered snow, landed on foliage and hardened itself onto the leaves. Beautiful glass objects were made from Mt. St. Helens ash. I have a pair of earrings and a gorgeous glass egg as treasures. But my best treasure is my image of that snow cone mountain next to the crystal clear deep Spirit Lake, and memories of camping there with our sons.
July, 1979 my husband and I drove up to camp beside Spirit Lake on Mt. St. Helens. It began to snow. A ranger advised us that an eccentric gentleman, Harry Truman, might provide us a room at his lodge. Paul knocked on the door; no answer. We were about to head back to Portland, when Harry, a lean 80-ish man, opened the door and beckoned us inside. The dark room littered with empty liquor bottles and reeking of cat urine worried me, but Harry led us to a clean fisherman's cabin near the edge of Spirit Lake. One lightbulb swung from the ceiling; the bed was sans linens or blankets, the bathroom was outside off the porch.
But the cabin was beside the crystal clear lake reflecting the snow-cone mountain top. "I turn off the generator at 10:00 pm," Harry told us. We were so entranced by the beauty of the area, we returned to Spirit Lake the following month with our two sons to canoe and camp. From our canoe. or a floating log we could see down through the water of Spirit Lake and clearly view things at least 30 feet below us. The effect was dizzying as if we were peering down from a great height to a canyon floor, not easy for those of us with a fear of heights.
On our last morning, before breaking camp, Geoff, then in 7th grade, snagged and lost a favorite fishing lure, given to him by his Grandpa Herman. He could clearly see the lure snagged on a submerged log 30 feet below the canoe. "Dive for it, Dad," Geoff pleaded; but because time was limited, they opted to draw a map and get it the next year.
On May 18, 1980, Geoff and I were returning from an architectural school field trip to Seattle. Our caravan of kids and mothers had taken an early morning stop in Enumclaw Washington to see a contemporary home belonging to one of the fathers. Looking East the sky was filled with a black heavy spread looking like a thick of coal dust. “What is that?!!!” I exclaimed. “Haven’t you heard? Mt. Saint Helens erupted.” a parent replied. “They’re warning us not to take I-5. Half the mountain blew and it might create a flow of debris across the freeway.”
Barb was driving in the car we shared with her son and my Geoff. We risked the closing of I-5 knowing the Toutle River might flood debris onto the highway, or threaten the bridge. Other parents had cut off to the coastal route. Fortunately, I-5 was passable. Since the ash had blown East, the sky was brilliant blue as we neared the Toutle River. We were awed to see the five mile high mushroom of mountain debris billowing into the sky.
I remembered that there has been warnings to evacuate and our host Harry had refused. Rest in peace, Harry Truman, I thought, you went the way of the mountain. As Geoff looked at the cloud, he mused: "I guess years from now some archaeologists will find my fishing lure."
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