Laughing in the Face of Danger

Mt St Helens

Forty years ago, my family chose a dubious course of action prior to the Mt. St. Helens eruption. This particular event stands out in my memory since I was way too close for comfort.

I remember my parents and extended family members discussing that a mountain was erupting soon and why don’t we check it out? I should have asked, “Pray tell, why are we planning a camping trip in the shadow of an imminently exploding volcano?” However, I did not, because it was only weeks until my fifth birthday and I assumed the tall people around me were guided by wisdom.

My parents loaded our station wagon, and we met the rest of the clan at a campground. I’m sure I did the usual kindergarten-age camping stuff; throwing rocks in the river, digging in the dirt, and roasting marshmallows. Nonetheless, these mundane activities were not burned into my brain forever.

Our Family Car covered in ashImmortalizing our Foolishness

What I do recall, was a Park Ranger storming into our campsite in the middle of the night, shouting “You have to get out of here! The mountain is erupting!” My parents, two sisters, and I leapt from our sleeping bags. A pattering noise on the outside of our old canvas tent elicited disappointment, since I assumed it was raining.

Much to my delight, instead of rain, I discovered a powder floating down from the sky. In my limited experience, the only solid white substance that fell from the sky was snow, and that meant good times.

My frantic parents tossed us in the car, followed by our hastily broken down tent and camping gear. My sisters and I discussed how cruel it was to be forbidden from frolicking outside, even if it was still dark. We caravanned with the rest of the extended family to a nearby picnic shelter. Dawn arrived, everyone gathered under the protection, and broke out the beer and cards–because that’s what you do in the event of a natural calamity.

“Mom, can I go play in the snow?” I gazed out at the accumulation. This was going to be fun.

“It’s not snow, honey. It’s ash.”

Ash. Snow. Whatever. “Can I?”

“I suppose. Who’s turn is it to deal?” My mother turned back to the game of Milles Bornes that had begun.

The snowfall wasn’t nearly as cold as I remembered snow feeling, and when I gazed up at the sky it drifted into my eyes. “Ow. Mom, the snow hurts.”

“That’s because it’s ash. Come here.” I should have expected something was up. My mother was a nurse, and wasn’t afraid to practice on me. Soon, water was poured into my eyes to wash out the grit. Afterward, I was sent back out to play, with admonishments to not look up. No problem there. I had learned my lesson.

After enough cards and beer had been enjoyed, my family headed home. We have a plethora of jars filled with ash and pumice, as well as photos of our family car covered in ash as souvenirs. 

As I aged, I was proud to have partaken in a moment in history. As I grew even older, I realized two things. How foolhardy it was to drive toward an erupting mountain, and ash makes lousy snowballs.