Hiking Mount St. Helens

I’m typing upstairs right now, looking out at the gorgeous maple trees that line a field behind my house, their leaves brick red—peaking now, before my eyes. Is that why we love fall so much—because of this peak of beauty around us? Maybe it makes our own spirits peak a bit, with nature, and then slowly settle and still into quiet peacefulness that comes with the short days of winter.

This weekend a group of friends and I trekked out to Washington and spent Saturday hiking Mount St. Helens. This volcano is a natural disaster I’ve been obsessed with since I was young. Some people love to tour museums boasting of what men and women create, but I’m always much more intrigued with what nature creates—what the earth paints. It’s so much more humbling and, as Allie said it best, “Sublime.”

We woke up in Portland at four am to begin the adventure of climbing this historic volcano. After filling our stomachs with bagels and hot coffee, we drove the hour distance to the small town of Cougar, Washington, where we registered our names in a binder outside the Lone Fir Resort and picked up our permits. We were all giddy with excitement and clueless of the challenge that lay ahead. I asked the man behind the counter, dressed in a khaki shirt and cap,
“Have you hiked to the top?”
He stared at me like I was crazy. “I have no desire to hike in that much ash,” he told me. I shrugged and stared down at my permit, valid proof that I was finally going to set foot on Helen, a strong, unpredictable mountain, known to have a violent temper.

(The group of us after we checked in)

We drove to the trail head, using the Monitor Ridge Route from the Climbers Bivouac. At the parking lot we filled our packs with enough water (or so we thought) and food to get us through the ten mile hike (estimated to take about ten hours). The trail head begins around 3,800 feet. It’s roughly a 4,500 foot rise in elevation to the rim, definitely a feat to accomplish in one day and a challenge none of us were prepared for.

(Mount St. Helens from the tree line)

(The six of us, Team OH [Operation Hike]. Here we are goofing around at the beginning of the hike--we were the only six people on the trail that day, there wasn't another person hiking the summit.)


(Stopping to rest along the hike.)



(Doing our "Wow Mom" impressions, it's a long story)

The trail started out slow and easy—like a warm up for our muscles. We winded through tall pine trees and dark forest. At a few points the tree line broke to catch glimpses of the coastal range to the west and wide rivers in the distance.

We continued on and when the devastation of the volcano’s eruption became obvious, it was a terrain I couldn’t have even imagined.

(Hiking into the clouds.)

The volcano blew over 230 miles of forest and rock and these rocks, I witnessed first hand, are now piled on top of each other for miles. The debris forms a sea of black, rolling rocks stretching as far as my eyes could travel. We boulder hopped for about an hour, and as always, my imagination got the better of me. These round boulders have daunting cracks between them, and in the cracks all you see is a dark, black abyss. I looked down and could only imagine what deep crevices and hollow caves lay underneath us, just waiting to swallow us if a stone should slip from under our feet. I also imagined what would happen if just one of these rocks shifted. I thought about dominoes and how manipulating one piece topples every other piece in the group. I shook my head and tried to erase the image of my friends falling through the shifting rocks to be sucked in the earth's crust. I also couldn’t help but notice the texture of the rock--the unforgiving, sharp, rough surface of each stone. Catching a boulder too fast or with too much pressure scratched my fingers as if I rubbed them against course sandpaper. I tried not to imagine what falling on my knees or face would do.


(Trying to maneuver over the rocks.)

This wasn’t a difficult portion of the hike—but it was a challenge. The trail disappears and lonely, white posts of wood in the distance are the only way to mark what general direction you want to “hop.” Some of the rocks were loose, some too sharp to insure a good foothold. It felt like a dance, stepping carefully from one rock to the other and trying to find the right rhythm and balance to keep your footing to make it all flow.

(I fell into a lava flow. I'm okay, I'm okay)

(View from the trail of the Coastal Range and the mountain's rocky cliffs.)

After we made it through the section of rubble, we walked along a level trail of grey pebbles and sand. We ascended above the tree line towards the south side of the mountain, finally coming to a spot where any official trail, or even post marking, abruptly ended.

(Reaching the tree line of the mountain.)

A tall, rocky mountain peak stared down at us, daring us to move. This is what the website refers to as the “scramble” portion of the hike. Every man and woman for themselves. Good luck. You’ll need it. I blinked up at the tall, rocky goddess in front of me and shrugged. The south side of the mountain was mostly naked, with a few narrow ribbons of snow clinging to the slopes, dusted in dirty grey ash.

Until this part of the hike, the trail was relatively easy and gradual. The boulder hopping was a little intimidating, but it wasn’t overly strenuous. While we were hiking that portion of the trail, we confidently asked each other, “Man, when does this get hard? I thought we were climbing a mountain? When do we go up? I just want to go straight up. This is so easy.”

Well, Mount St. Helens must have heard our impatient complaints about being “bored” on her slope and she answered back to us, “IT'S TOO EASY, IS IT?? YOU REALLY WANT TO CLIMB? OKAY, LET'S DO IT. BRING IT ON. LET'S SEE WHAT YOU GOT NOW!!!" (side note: I imagine the voice of Mount St. Helens to be low and powerful and can best see it performed by an angry Meryl Streep.)

We all looked at each other and up at the peak, still thousands of feet in the sky.

“Let's do this!!” We yelled and dove, body’s forward, full speed ahead up the mountainside. This is where the struggle officially set in.

There was no snow for traction. There were no rocks for footing. No trails. It’s basically hiking up a mountain of sand. Every time you step forward, your feet slip and you slide right back. Not to mention, you’re climbing straight up. No gradual winding. Not a lot of oxygen. It’s straight up or go home.


(Beginning the ascent.)

The first 500 feet we were pumped up and made it without too much trouble. We scrambled on all fours, we huffed and puffed, we sweat and swore and took a water break after a half hour. We all sat and stared at each other, our hearts racing, our faces flushed. We barely made any distance in a half hour. We blinked up at the top of the mountain. Our pleasant moods turned serious with determination. This is when the cursing began.

(We actually took this picture at the end of the hike, when we were bitterly angry with the mountain.)

We sucked it up and climbed another several hundred feet. The mountain kicked us on our asses. We fell, we grappled, we meandered back and forth, searching for any rocks to give us footing. Just when I thought I found a rock large enough to hold my weight to pull me up a full foot, it would slip under me and roll down the mountainside, picking up ash and other rocks along its course. I broke up from the rest of the group at this point, as if they were stealing my oxygen. I panted—breathing about three times for every step I took. When I took time rest, (about every five minutes) my breaths came out in wild huffs, my lungs begging for oxygen, my legs and ankles burning, my muscles pulled to their limit, my chest screaming. All the time I looked up at Helen and thought, “I never knew this about you. I knew you had a temper, but you’re altogether ornery, aren’t you?”

(Fighting our way to the top.)

Five hundred more feet. I thought my ankles were going to explode. My body was wet with sweat. I found a large rock cemented into the side of the slope and climbed it. I sat up and gusts of wind tried to blow me over. I smiled at Helen and thought, “I love getting to know you, but apparently you don’t like me very much. Could you give me a hand here? Maybe some actual footing? A rock to climb on, ANYTHING!?”

(Stopping to catch our breath and strike a pose for a Northface catalogue.)

Five hundred feet and another hour later, the gusts of ash came in. Some of the ash could have been from the crater itself (it produces small steams of ash on dry/windy days which is what we were facing). The ash was everywhere—in my mouth, my nose, my ears and eyes. I bit down and tasted ash between my teeth, a gritty, sand-like texture. I stopped on the rim of a butte that jutted out from the slope and sat down, hungry and losing energy. When I drank from my water bottle, I could feel the tiny grains of ash on my tongue. I ate some sausage, which collected ash before I got it in my mouth. My friend climbed up the butte, her head poking out from behind the rock. We stared at each other, exhausted, breathing too hard to speak, invigorated, pissed off, aching and tired.

(Hating life at the moment.)

The rest of the climb we fell, we panted, our muscles screamed from the chore of shoveling our feet through the dirt. In order to get any foothold, I had to dig my boots a foot into the ash, or my steps were worthless. I was literally building small stairs through the mountainside with every step, which were soon washed away in the wind.

(The black ash landscape of the peak.)

This hike was the most difficult thing I have ever physically done in my life, but like all challenges you face, when you get passed them, the work is worth it in the end. We sat on the top of Mount St. Helens and looked out with amazement at the cloud line beneath us. People wonder why hikers feel compelled to climb mountains and volcanoes. Some climb because, “It’s there.” Some people do it for the rush, or the work out, or the bragging rights. I do it because it’s the most spiritually powerful moments in my life. It proves to me that God exists. It’s as if I climb a little bit closer to him, to a piece of heaven. Every step on the slope of Mount St. Helens I was humbled. Awe-inspired. I saw greatness and beauty literally swept around, below, above and in front of me. Climbing a mountain is truly a spiritual experience. It teaches you to be humble enough to fear things yet, faithful enough to face them. It teaches you to believe a power beyond our comprehension is really in control.

It’s in these moments I feel so alive and I feel a connection to something so much greater and bigger than me. I feel immaterial. Just a tiny atom in this world. It puts me in my place and makes all my problems as small and inconsequential as the dust in the mountain wind. It's the important things that are magnified. Love, beauty, the world, hope, life. That’s why I do it.

(The group of us on the peak.)

On the way down from the summit, we surfed the side of this beautiful mountain. The slope is so steep, you don’t even need to take a step. You simply lean forward and the gravity propels you through the ash. I got to surf the side of Mount St. Helens. That, by far, was the coolest part of the hike and why I would do it again. I loved that sense of balance, that dance I got to perform. I held my arms out and let my feet take me on a ride down the mountain. I watched the ash rise up and spill around my feet as my body caroused down the slope. We all screamed out, we fell, we laughed. The struggles we faced on the way up, made us appreciate the slide down. Rocks flew past us that were uprooted with our descent, sometimes boulders big enough to knock us over. We surfed around them, dodged them and cruised along, flying with the earth. Wow. What a fantastic experience.

(We survived!!)