Taller Than the Trees
On the morning of May 18th, 1980, a
5.1 magnitude earthquake detached Mount St. Helens' north face and hurled it
down the terrain at 130 miles per hour. Lava followed moments later engulfing
an area of 230 square feet. Congress declared the 110,000 acres surrounding
Mount St. Helens a national monument to preserve the area for future scientific
study (YorkVid, 2015). The national monument has miles of hikes ranging in
difficulty from beginner to expert. I discovered a passion for hiking after
several deaths occurred in my family and the passing of my fiancé over the last
several years. In nature, I found peace, healing, and strength. Hiking Mount
St. Helens' summit is on my bucket list; however, I was unable to obtain the
required permit. October is not the ideal time to attempt the summit due to
inclement weather, so I settled on the Boundary Trail. One can learn a lot by
rising to a challenge of trekking a 12-mile trail in solitude. One learns to
trust their instinct, gains personal satisfaction by testing their limits, and
nurtures the perfect distraction-free environment needed to promote meditative
healing. A famous quote attributed to Henry David Thoreau states, "I took
a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees" and I presumed
this adventure would be equally uplifting.
I packed granola, jerky, a pocket
knife, paracord bracelet, raincoat, winter hat, gloves, a Swiss Army knife, and
several bottles of water. I meticulously loaded the knapsack with the
essentials needed for any emergency while also considering the weight of the
pack. I set the alarm for 3 a.m.; if I did not leave the hotel before 4 a.m. I
would spend most of the day gridlocked in Seattle's rush hour traffic.
Additionally, I wanted to see the sunrise at Mount St. Helens. At 7:30 p.m. I swaddled myself in my blanket
and fought my pillow for a comfortable position. Gradually I calmed my
excitement and closed my eyes.
The alarm scraped across my eardrums
like a third grader practicing the recorder. I arose from my alternative-down sarcophagus,
fumbled toward the coffee pot to power it on. The machine bellowed out an
exasperated hiss and sigh in protest, finally dripping liquid into the pot. I
dressed quickly to evade the chilliness of the room. I brushed my teeth, filled
my thermos, grabbed my backpack, and proceeded to the rental car. I left the
hotel parking lot and drove south from Mukilteo, occasionally searching the
inky sky for stragglers of the Orionids meteor shower. I sipped coffee while I scanned radio
stations. While crossing the bridge entering Seattle, I admired the electric
glow of the skyline. The city hummed like a forgotten "open" sign.
The Space Needle proudly flashed its beacon in the distance. Cars shifted
lanes, buzzing past like fireflies. Even though traffic was accumulating, I was
relieved to avoid the worst of it. With a hundred miles to go, I tipped my
knit-hat to Seattle and turned up the radio.
As the rental car crept up the
mountain, the atmosphere lightened from black to cerulean like a mood ring. The
closer I approached Mount St. Helens, the road became curvy, and the temperature
on the dashboard thermometer dropped. At 2,000 feet in elevation, the
temperature read thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit. I no longer doubted packing my
winter hiking boots. The sky continued to lighten, and the silhouettes of
massive fir trees emerged like monsters from shadows. I passed a sign that read
"9 miles to Johnston Ridge Observatory." Full sunrise was at 6:21
a.m.; I drove on racing the sun.
At 3,000 feet altitude, the next
serpentine unveiled a massive structure on the passenger side of the car. The
clouds resembled a dessert, white and pink lines swirled around the mountain
and peach clouds floated like fruit suspended in gelatin beneath a clear royal
blue sky. The sun peeked from behind the clouds and illuminated Mount St.
Helens. I stopped at the first available viewing area, forgoing my coat, to
enjoy the view. The air was crisp and clean as it whipped through my hair. I
stood in awe. I felt vulnerable, yet
simultaneously strong. I reflected on a passage from The Pale Blue Dot; "Our posturings, our imagined
self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the
Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light" (Sagan). That moment was breathtaking, and I finally
knew the meaning of that word. Cold from the elements, I returned to the car
excited to reach the trailhead.
I pulled into the secluded lot and
parked. I put on my boots, wool sweater, and raincoat and gathered my gear. The
wind was calm. My cheeks were warm from the sunlight. The sun glistened off the
thawing dew which refracted red and gold hues. Mount St. Helens stoically stood
in the distance wearing her snow-capped crown. I slipped on my knit hat,
hoisted my backpack over my shoulders, and proceeded to the footpath.
The crunching sound of pumice pebble resonated beneath each boot step. I followed the route imagining what the land looked like thirty-seven years ago before and after the eruption.
Trees remained toppled over from the blast like a field of fallen soldiers. Plants and saplings were growing from the gravelly soil. This contrast unearthed emotions that I meditated on as I proceeded down the mountainside.
The crunching sound of pumice pebble resonated beneath each boot step. I followed the route imagining what the land looked like thirty-seven years ago before and after the eruption.
Trees remained toppled over from the blast like a field of fallen soldiers. Plants and saplings were growing from the gravelly soil. This contrast unearthed emotions that I meditated on as I proceeded down the mountainside.
The mountain trail ended at a grassy
intersection to the Hummocks Trail. A landslide occurred during the volcanic
eruption which formed the Hummocks. This two-and-a-half-mile loop has
hill-sized boulders throughout low-lying valleys. Realizing the path ahead
would trap me between a hill and swamp I picked up several rocks and proceeded
cautiously. After a few miles, the pathway looped back through this confined
area again. Only this time the overpowering scent of carrion hit my nose. I
quickened my pace to find fresh air when suddenly, on my right in the dense
brush, a loud growl reverberated. My heart leaped into my throat and was
planning its escape through my eardrums. I wanted to run and scream, but
without missing a beat, I took a deep breath and threw a rock towards the
sound. I will never know what the noise was; I only peeked back to assure
nothing followed. I saw greenery shake as something traversed the opposite
direction, and that was enough to ease my mind.
The rest of the hike was inspiring
and peaceful. It was the perfect environment to reflect on unexpected events
that occur in life. The eruption site of Mount St. Helens Monument is a
testament to resilience, and I drew strength from that. I learned I could trust my instinct to keep
me safe. I gained satisfaction and self-confidence in completing the arduous Boundary
Trail. Like the national monument, I experienced unfathomable devastation from
which it seemed I would never recover, yet slowly I crawled from the ash and
rubble stronger. The experience was a tribute to how amazing life is. The
journey served a reminder that people and nature can overcome enormous
tribulations and thrive. As the sun began its slow crawl behind Mount St.
Helens, I returned to the car feeling not only taller than the trees but taller
than the mountain.
References
Sagan, Carl. (n.d) The
Pale Blue Dot: Short Recording. [Audio file]. Retrieved from the Library
of
Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/cosmos000110/
Unknown Author. [YorkVid]. (2015, October 9). Volcano: The Eruption and Healing of Mt. St.
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