volcano – The View from a Drawbridge

Kilauea Iki: Walking on a Lava Lake

“What a great adventure!”

The older I get, the more I take to heart something a friend once told me: “You can’t do everything.”

That applies especially to my travels. Gone are the days when I would be willing to climb mountains and conquer hardscrabble terrain. I’m not quite at the age where I’m in constant fear of breaking a hip, but I am at the age where a rough hike leaves me feeling as though I had broken one. That’s when exploring ceases to be fun.

A younger me would have loved to have joined Dear Husband on his trek across the hardened lava lake of Kilauea Iki. But that’s a 4 mile hike, with a descent and ascent of 400 feet, which is the equivalent of a 40 story building. Discovering that, the current, more pragmatic me declined, rather than force DH to walk more slowly, listen to me complain, and probably carry me back up the side of the crater like a dead moose. (Okay, I know there are no moose in Hawaii, but you get the idea.)

So I had a delightful evening in our room, reading a good book, which is a luxury I rarely have time for these days. Bliss. Meanwhile, DH went on his incredible adventure.

Naturally, I couldn’t write about an experience that I didn’t have, so I asked him to do so. What follows is written by him, unless it’s in italics. Italics are me butting in on the story. But I truly think he did an excellent job of allowing us all to feel as though we’re tagging along.

Thanks, DH! And enjoy, Dear Reader!

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With just 18 hours left in Hawaii before the flight that would take us home, I still wanted to use every opportunity to fully experience my first visit to the Big Island of Hawaii. The Volcanoes National Park had been a fascinating site to explore, and l decided there was enough time and daylight for one more adventure.

One of the many trails at the park gives you an opportunity to walk across a “once-molten lake of lava” in the Kilauea Iki crater. [In Hawaiian, Kilauea means “much spreading” or “spewing” and Iki means “little”. This is because the crater in question is much smaller than the nearby and still-active main caldera of Kilauea. But it’s still 3000 feet across, which is more than 9 football fields. What is “iki” from a volcano’s perspective is still nui (huge) from a human perspective.]

That sounded like the once-in-a-lifetime adventure I was looking for! Since I would be starting just three hours before sunset, I first stopped at the Visitors Center to talk with staff, to make sure I wasn’t heading for trouble. They assured me there was time enough before sunset to begin that hike and I purchased the $2 trail guide for a better understanding of how to achieve my goal and return unharmed.

Although this national park goes down to sea level, the park entrance and many sections are at an elevation of around 4,000 feet, and in Hawaii, that means it’s a rain forest environment. So, along with comfortable shoes, flashlight, water, camera and fully charged phone, I also brought a rain jacket and was glad for that. When I parked at the trailhead to review the guide, it was already 5 pm with the sunset around 7 pm, so I would need to step lively to complete the hike in the remaining hours of daylight. The printed guide recommended following the trail in a counterclockwise route, along the rim of the crater to the far side, and then down the inside of that rim to the floor. After crossing the once molten lake of lava, the trail would bring me back up the 400 feet to where the trail has easy access to the road.

As I began, I watched for the numbered trail markers, where the guide offered details specific to that location. The clouds were settled just a few hundred feet above me, with a light drizzle falling (much like what frequently happens back home in Seattle) and a comfortable 70° temperature. (Which doesn’t happen nearly enough in Seattle.) The trail was certainly wet but not soggy, and I kept my feet dry as I headed through the lush and very wet forest of tall ferns and dripping trees.

Occasionally I’d reach a break in the growth to my left, where I could peer over the steep rim and down onto the lava lake that was my goal. Frequently there were large puddles across the trail, stretching from four to eight feet across, with muddy soil surrounding each one. They were far too big for jumping across and the footing was way too slippery to even consider a leap. The trail was about five feet in width, and fortunately there were usually fallen branches at one side or the other that provided a stepping place and I could reach for small trees to provide a handhold. This method allowed me to take long, careful strides and avoid soaking my comfortable running shoes. Their thick soles provided protection when my steps took me down to the water level.

As I approached the far side of the crater, I met a family of three coming toward me. They were looking rather tired. My path crossed other trails and I was pleased to find them all well marked with destinations and distances, making me wonder if the printed guide was necessary. (But it’s a really cool, detailed guide which gives you a complete description of the 1959 eruption, complete with diagrams, so I highly recommend it. You can download it from the bottom of this page.)

When I reached the far side of the crater, the trail sloped downhill for a short distance and then headed over the rim, where I looked down onto the treetops below. At this point, a steel handrail had been installed, providing both support and a barrier beside the steep drop off. The entry to the floor of the caldera was at the base of this steep trail, built with switchbacks every 100 to 200 feet and with large (and tall) stone steps to lower oneself down the steep hillside. I was glad to be going downhill and recognized why the family that had just climbed these stairs had looked tired!

Near the last of the switchbacks, I heard hikers through the trees heading in my direction. When we met, I stepped aside so they had access to the handrail beside the narrow trail and they told me it was easy to find the trail, and to watch for the rocks stacked in cairns that mark the route. Those were the last people I saw as I reached the lava lake at the bottom of the rim.

The transition from the lush rain forest to the landscape of hardened lava is both jarring and abrupt. There is only a short distance where a few plants have succeeded in taking root in the harsh environment. Beyond the first dozen paces, the occasional plant was all alone and appeared foreign in the environment of sharp stone. And in those first steps, it was quickly evident that the floor is not at all level, but instead made up of jumbled pieces of sharp and porous rock that would inflict great damage to me if I were to fall. Despite an end to the daylight in just 90 minutes, there was incentive to step cautiously and not rush through this place.

The floor was like walking on the waves of a stormy sea, if they had frozen with the peaks and troughs at their extremes, often much deeper or taller than twice my height. Looking into the distance I saw a half dozen stacks of rocks showing the direction I should travel. There was no visible path or footprints from previous hikers on the hard, stone surface. Further along the trail, the large rocks had been reduced to crumbled gravel and the heavily traveled trail became visible.

I was surrounded by an exceedingly strange environment, and I realized that the sounds of the forest were gone; no birds, no rustling of the leaves or sounds of rain dripping from the trees. Instead all was silent. (Personally, I would have shouted hello to test for an echo, but that’s me.) The low clouds kept the rim of the crater hidden in most directions, so it appeared as though the hills surrounding me simply rose up into the clouds. It was truly an otherworldly feeling, alone in an environment that had been molten rock the year my parents got married.

One of the numbered markers referred me to the trail guide, which invited me to look at the perimeter of the lava lake and recognize the “bathtub ring” where the molten lava had once filled this crater. The pool of lava had risen and dropped several times during the eruptions, and it first cooled and hardened at the edges. When the pool dropped, those edges broke off, falling into the center or onto what had been a forest covered hillside. Looking all around, that ring was unmistakable, and, I thought, named appropriately. Apparently prior to the 1959 eruption, this had been an 800-foot-deep crater, not the 400-foot one that I had just descended.

As I continued my walk, the land became jumbled hills of black lava piled even higher than before, making me feel quite insignificant in comparison. At another of the numbered markers, the trail guide explained that this was the location of a cinder-and-spatter cone that came into existence in 1959. During that eruption, a fountain of lava shot 1,900 feet into the air (one of the highest eruptions ever witnessed by man) and all this jumble of rock was the spatters thrown out during that event. (Here are some historic pictures of the eruption.)

For most of my life, I’ve seen lava rock that was used in BBQ grills, or as landscaping rock in gardens. In those instances, it was from ½-inch to perhaps 2-inches in diameter. In this crater there were crumbs of that size, but they were dwarfed beneath the hills of rock, with chunks the size of my head and up to three feet across. The piles of these abrasive, black boulders surrounded me in a jumble of debris, often mixed with voids or even small caverns. I recognized that these boulders could easily shred my leg if I stepped into a hole, or perhaps even onto an unstable rock.

After passing through the steep hills of spattered lava, I reached an area that had a much more level surface. This portion of the hardened lava lake reminded me of an old asphalt parking lot where sinkholes or landslides had caused the pavement to shift or break. Except that this parking lot covered acres of land and there was no soil visible where the surfaces sank and broke. This surface provided great examples of the dropping pool of lava, where the support beneath cooled stone had disappeared, causing it to sink or drop, often ten, twenty or even forty feet. This was yet another example of the power of nature, where the land is currently motionless but has not always been so. To keep heading toward the next guidepost cairn, I frequently had to step over large cracks that provided and opportunity to peer down several feet into darkness. The path I walked was often meandering, in order to avoid crossing large gaps between slabs that I could easily fall into.

As I neared the halfway point in crossing the lava lake, the surface once again changed, but for the last time. The hills were behind me, and the relatively level surface finally looked like the lava lake I’d heard about. It was more than a quarter mile to each side and more like a half mile ahead of me, to where the trail leads out of the crater. The surface still had a rolling unevenness and the stone floor reminded me of the crust on a loaf of black, pumpernickel bread. The unevenness of this vast acreage was accented by the puddles from the recent rain and the shadows in the low places, contrasting with the higher spots. It also had a mottled look, due to the smallest of rocks and dust having been washed and blown around, leaving other patches of stone bare. An occasional plant stood about 24 inches tall, proud to be surviving and creating yet another eerie contrast as the daylight began fading.

The final few hundred feet of the lake surface was once again broken pavement, sloping up to the bathtub ring from where I could then look back to see some of the trail I’d just traveled. From a distance, it was evident that many people had crossed the same route and I realized I was fortunate to have had the entire caldera to myself for that hour.

Only a few steps away from the lava, I was immediately into the rain forest again, welcomed by a gigantic puddle that I had to skirt as I entered the canopy of trees that covered the trail. Again, it was a well-worn trail, but the path was a gentle uphill slope with an occasional step, built with a log across the trail as the riser to the next level. Sometimes the steps were twenty feet apart, at other times a hundred feet from the previous, repeated over and over, with an occasional switchback that allowed me to gently climb the hillside.

This was so much more comfortable than the steep bluff I’d walked down at the far end of this crater. And yet there was still an incline, so I stopped for a rest. This gave me the opportunity to listen to the coqui frogs chirping in the forest. (They are an invasive species which traveled to Hawaii from Puerto Rico on house plants in the 1980’s. I happen to love their sound, but it drives some people crazy.) They truly add to the unique sound of this setting, and I took the opportunity to record their voices as they remained hidden from sight. I continued up the sloping trail, back and forth across the hillside, as the trees hid all views of the vast openness inside the Kilauea Iki crater.

Sunset was almost upon me, and I considered breaking out a flashlight, but then I heard the sound of cars on the road that goes along the edge of the crater. Moments later, when I reached the road, I found several squirt bottles and a sign with instructions to spray and rinse the soles of my shoes, so I wouldn’t track any seeds or plant life from this location to other parts of the national park (and I did so.)

I checked the time, and I realized it was two hours after I’d started and I had covered just over three miles. In reviewing the trail guide, I discovered the route included crossing the road and continuing the hike to explore the Thurston Lava Tube, however we had visited that just a couple days earlier (read about it here), so instead I took a different part of the trail, back through the trees, that led to the parking lot where I had left the rental car. This turned out to be a great opportunity to peer back into the crater and take a photo of where I’d been. From this vantage point, the last half of the trail across the open lake bed was extremely obvious, however it was impossible to recognize the rolling surface. The many puddles along the way are evident and I took several photos during my hike, including one in which this trail is so visible.

The last half mile hike to the car was at dusk and beneath the trees, so I appreciated having the flashlight. At one point, there appeared to be a slope on the opposite side of the trail, and upon closer inspection I found it to be a large hole, with just a few ferns hiding it from sight. That’s not the kind of thing one should stumble into at any time, let alone twelve hours before any other people would be walking the trail!

This impromptu hike turned out to be one of my favorite experiences in Hawaii. (And no, I didn’t take that personally, as I was cuddled up with my good book. We were each in a happy place.) I doubt I’ll ever get the chance for another hike across the caldera of a volcano with no other people in sight or earshot.

“What a great adventure,” I texted to Barb, letting her know I was safely to the car and heading back to her.

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Mauna Kea

Look toward the future, but don’t trample upon the environment and the past.

Every single person we met who had visited the Big Island of Hawaii prior to our trip had the same suggestion: We should go to Mauna Kea. This volcano, which last erupted about 4,600 years ago, is now dormant. It is not expected to erupt again for many centuries. It is the highest mountain in the world at 33,476 feet, if you measure it from its base, which is well below sea level. Its peak is 13,803 feet above sea level. That’s really tall, no matter how you slice it. Because of that, the sunsets and stargazing and sunrises are unparalleled. So we added it to the itinerary.

The altitude is not for sissies. It’s highly recommended that if you plan to go up near the summit, you should stay for at least a half hour at the visitor center at the Onizuka Center for International Astronomy to get acclimated. This facility is named for Ellison Onizuka, an astronaut who was born in Hawaii and died in the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion. At 9,200 feet, it would be higher than I had ever been in my life without an airplane. Even Machu Picchu, the Inca citadel in Peru, is “only” at 7,970 feet, and many people who go there wind up requiring oxygen and immediate medical attention.

I didn’t relish the idea of altitude sickness, so I planned to follow all the rules. According to altitude.org, you have to breathe faster at high altitudes, in order to maintain the necessary amount of oxygen in your blood to preserve your vital organs. It’s important to drink a lot of water and not head up there on an empty stomach. Healthy people start entering the risk zone for altitude sickness at 8,200 feet.

And sure enough, during our 6 mile drive to the visitor center, I began to get really loopy. I got a headache. I started humming the theme song from Gilligan’s Island. (Ear worm! You’re welcome!) I have no idea why I landed on that particular song. I wasn’t making much sense, and the world around me felt exceedingly foreign. I got a little nauseous, and extremely sleepy. I’m glad Dear Husband was driving. I’ll never understand how people hike on trails up there. Madness.

Nerd that I am, I took our pulse oximeter on this trip. We purchased this handy tool in the early days of the COVID pandemic. It measures the amount of oxygen in your blood. Normally, I have a reading of about 97, give or take. But on this day, it dropped to 80. That’s a little scary.

It became increasingly clear that if this was how I felt before even arriving at the visitor’s center, I certainly was not going to make it to the summit. This would have been a crushing disappointment if it had been one of the 325 days per year that this area has clear skies. But no. We were socked in with fog and clouds, and in fact the authorities were about to decide to close the steep, unpaved road to the summit, because they were expecting a snowstorm up there. (If you’re planning to go the distance on this mountain, you need a 4 wheel drive, and for Pete’s sake, check the weather beforehand.)

No gorgeous sunset for us. No opportunity to view more stars than we had ever seen with the naked eye. No chance of gazing upon the mountain’s many astronomical observatories. (We’d have only been able to see them from the outside, anyway. The public isn’t allowed in, especially since the pandemic.)

As I sang about Gilligan’s fateful three hour tour, I was only able to form one coherent thought. I hoped I’d make it to a lower altitude before I threw up the delicious Kalua pork with cabbage that I had eaten just prior to the ascent. (I made it. Barely.)

Some other bits and bobs about Mauna Kea: Its summit is now home to the Mauna Kea Observatories, located at 13,796 feet above sea level. The thirteen existing telescopes are becoming increasingly controversial, because the “Astronomy Precinct” where they’re located is within land that’s protected by the Historical Preservation Act. This area is very culturally significant to native Hawaiians.

Mauna Kea is the most sacred summit in Hawaii. It is seen as the region of the gods. In ancient times, it was forbidden for all but the highest chiefs and priests to visit this place. The volcano represents the beginning of life on earth. 223 archeological sites have been identified here including 76 shrines, a few of which we had the privilege to see from a respectful distance. To this day, many rituals are still performed on Mauna Kea. Toward the very top, there is a bluish-green lake, and many Hawaiians have the tradition of taking the umbilical cord of a newborn child up the mountain to place it near Lake Waiau to symbolize the family’s connection to the Earth. Since the lake is considered to be the place where spirits enter and leave the world, many chiefs are buried near there.

Eight years ago, when it was revealed that there were plans for a Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT) to be built on the mountain, a lot of protests broke out. Their concerns were not only for the desecration of the land, which was bad enough, but also for the potential damage to the fragile ecosystem and the contamination of the water supply. Thirty-three Hawaiian elders were arrested during a protest in 2019. The Supreme Court of Hawaii decided in 2018 that construction could continue, but that three smaller telescopes would need to be removed, and that the TMT would be the last telescope to be built on Mauna Kea.

I have mixed emotions about this controversy. I am a firm believer in science and in progress, and this is a prime location for telescopes. The air is thinner and drier and there is no light pollution, so we are able to get an unprecedented view of the galaxy, and that will teach us much. We’ll be able to gaze at parts of the universe that we’ve never seen before. The current telescopes on the mountain helped locate the first Super Earth. A group of scientists working on this mountain were awarded a Nobel Prize because of their research related to supernovae, dark energy, and the expansion of the universe. Those are valuable contributions to our knowledge base, and they will become increasingly valuable because we seem to insist on destroying this planet. (Don’t get me started.)

On the other hand, the wholesale theft of land on these islands, and their subsequent environmental devastation as evidenced by the disappearance of Mauna Kea’s forest on its lower slopes due to sheep and cattle ranching as well as sugar cane plantations, is a remnant of colonialism of which we should be ashamed. Viewed through that lens, the TMT is a symbol of the rampant injustices that have been visited upon native Hawaiians since the late 1700’s. At what point to we start righting these wrongs?

I hope a compromise can be reached. Scientists, by nature, are very sensitive to the environment, and I’m sure they’d agree with the natives that they need to mitigate their impact wherever possible. At the same time, sacred sites and rituals must be preserved and protected. There should be certain guarantees that the people will directly benefit from the existence of this telescope. Through the compromises made on this mountain, we are reminded that it’s very important not to trample upon the environment and the past as you look toward the future.

Most of the photos from our visit are predominantly grey and uninspiring due to the inclement weather. Here are the few that seemed worth sharing. Believe me when I say that the one with me in it makes me look only about half as stoned as I felt. Purple haze, dude.

Additional Sources:

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Chaos Reigns

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!”

On January 15^th of this year, my cell phone sprang to life. It was a message from my county informing me of a tsunami advisory. I’ve always lived near one coast or another, but this was my first tsunami advisory. It kind of set me back on my heels, to be honest.

The natural disasters I’ve had to deal with the most have been hurricanes, back when I lived in Florida. They move slowly. You get plenty of notice. Once you know a strong one is headed your direction, you’d be a fool not to get out of the way if you are able to do so. Sadly, there are a lot of fools in this world.

Tsunamis are a bit different, though. It’s really hard to determine the height they will reach when they hit land, and the closer you are to their source, the less notice you have. There’s no tsunami season, and anyone near water is potentially at risk. As far as I’m concerned, tsunamis are nature at its most raw and unpredictable.

According to our county’s Emergency Operation Center, this particular tsunami might not hit us at all, or it might be three feet high. That’s a huge margin of error. Naturally, my first thought was for myself and Dear Husband, but we were both well inland, and our house is high on a hill. While a mile-high tsunami might take us out, a three foot one would not. So I did my best to spread the word to friends and coworkers.

My next focus was to find out what the heck had caused this tsunami in the first place. When I saw the aerial photography of the massive volcano eruption near Tonga, I was horrified. Those poor people probably didn’t know what hit them. Their islands would be devastated, both from the water and from the ash. This kingdom is so small and remote that most people, including me, rarely give it a thought. But we’re talking about more than 100,000 people with absolutely nowhere to run. This was going to be bad.

Satellite images from JMA show the volcano eruption in Tonga on Jan 15, 2022.

But in the following days, all hell broke loose a work, the pandemic raged on, I came down with strep throat, and became increasingly muddled in my thinking. I sent a snarky text to a friend who understands my humor, only to discover that I had accidentally sent it to someone who barely knows me, and was sure to misinterpret the message. I was mortified. She was gracious about it, so all I can do is hope it didn’t irreparably damage our brand new friendship, because I really do like her and her husband a lot.

I also watched as my democracy continued to crumble, as evidenced by the erosion of women’s rights and the steady chipping away of everyone’s ability to vote, all while our environment circles the drain. Covid tests have been hard to come by, fools are still not getting vaccinated, putting us all at risk, and I am feeling misunderstood, unsupported, and exhausted.

So, I’m ashamed to say that when I saw this article about the desperate state of Tonga after the eruption, I realized that I had forgotten all about this crisis. And it had only been five days. What the hell is wrong with me? (Well, yeah, strep throat. But, I mean, besides that.)

It’s so unlike me to forget things like this. I genuinely do my best to help others when I can, as so many people have helped me along the way. But this horrific event had popped out of my mind like a soap bubble.

And then I realized what it was. Chaos.

The reason people make up and spread conspiracy theories is so that they can watch everyone else scrambling around in a panic, while they make great strides toward their own agenda. Unfortunately, that chaos can have dire results. It can do even more than divert your attention from what really matters.

For example, convincing people that public health should be politicized and that vaccines are dangerous and/or an assault on your freedom results in the deaths of the most vulnerable amongst us. And while the rest of us try to talk sense into these manipulated people, others can be above it all, trying to destroy our democracy and wring as much money out of the world as possible without any resistance from us.

In this era of unfiltered social media, you can create chaos in a wide variety of ways. You can incite insurrections and block desperately needed legislation. You can convince people that immigrants are the sole source of our problems, that they’re the enemy, that they’re going to steal our jobs and rape our white women. You can refuse to fill critical governmental positions, or fire people once a month to deprive governmental protection agencies of their continuity.

Chaos allows the convincers to scurry around in the background, raping our environment for maximum profit, widening the wealth gap to an unprecedented degree, and creating a supreme court so biased that our laws won’t reflect the will of the majority of the people for many generations to come.

With all this going on, we forget the “minor details”, such as the total devastation of a distant island nation, or the total devastation of our human rights. We can’t work up the energy to maintain the proper level of concern about anything. And that is exactly what the people in power want.

Once you start looking for chaos, you spot it everywhere. (There was never any critical race theory being taught in public schools, folks. Not ever. It’s a distraction.) “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!”

We are turning against each other, rather than uniting to put a stop to the corrupt, evil people who are pulling our puppet strings. And it appears that a great deal of us are quite content to suckle on a steady stream of sugary misinformation as the world crumbles around us all. When this era is studied by future historians, it will be considered the beginning of a very dark age; one in which things took a drastic turn for the worse. They will most likely still be trying to dig out from under our rubble.

Surely I’m not the only one who finds that terrifying.

If you would like to help those suffering in Tonga, please check out this article for legitimate sources of support.

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Mount St. Helens

How it’s doing 40 years after it erupted.

If forced to choose a favorite day of our Roamin’ Holiday, I’d have to say our day trip to Mount St. Helens has that distinction. I love any opportunity to look nature in the eye and say, “Yeah, you win. It wouldn’t even be a fair fight.”

When this volcano famously erupted on May 18, 1980, I was 15 years old and 3000 miles away, on the other side of the continent. I was fascinated by the event, and read everything I could about it, but somehow it didn’t seem real to me. It was something that was happening “over there”, in a place that was practically a foreign country, and one I was certain I’d never visit. I knew no one who had witnessed the event, and it didn’t impact me directly in any way.

Little did I know I’d be gazing upon this very volcano two days prior to the 40^th anniversary of its eruption. And what a stunning sight it was. I don’t know what it is about Western vistas, but the horizon seems 10 times farther away out here, and this mountain is so… mountainous… that it makes me feel even smaller. I love that feeling. It makes me realize how insignificant my problems actually are, in the overall scheme of things. A short respite from my cares and worries is always welcome.

Thanks to the pandemic, I didn’t get to see the state park visitor center at Silver Lake. There was, however, a little shack that had been converted from a snack bar to a gift shop, so I was able to remotely point at and purchase a magnet for my fridge and a postcard or two. The Forest Learning Center, operated by Weyerhaeuser, was also closed, as was the Science and Learning Center operated by the Mount St. Helens Institute, and the Johnson Ridge Observatory operated by the U.S. Forest service. I also couldn’t get my coveted National Parks Passport Stamp at the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

All of this was a disappointment, as I do love visitor centers. They teach me a great deal, and therefore enrich the travel experience, but hey, there’s still the internet, and the interpretive signs at the various overlooks along the route were still there. I just had to wait, patiently, and properly bemasked, at a distance, if anyone had arrived there before me. And for the most part, we had the park to ourselves. The Pandemic certainly has changed the travel experience.

But the star of the show, the volcano, was certainly there, and we were lucky enough to be there on a day when it wasn’t obscured by clouds. Some of the photographs that we took at the time appear below. As good as I think they are, they don’t really do it justice.

What really impressed me was how much the area has recovered in the last 4 decades, given the scope of the destruction. I’ll let Wikipedia describe what happened.

Mount St. Helens is most notorious for its major eruption on May 18, 1980, the deadliest and most economically destructive volcanic event in US history. Fifty-seven people were killed; 250 homes, 47 bridges, 15 miles (24 km) of railways, and 185 miles (298 km) of highway were destroyed. A massive debris avalanche, triggered by an earthquake of magnitude 5.1, caused a lateral eruption that reduced the elevation of the mountain’s summit from 9,677 ft (2,950 m) to 8,363 ft (2,549 m), leaving a 1 mile (1.6 km) wide horseshoe-shaped crater. The debris avalanche was up to 0.7 cubic miles (2.9 km³) in volume.

An eruption column rose 80,000 feet (24 km; 15 mi) into the atmosphere and deposited ash in 11 U.S. states and significant ash in two Canadian provinces. At the same time, snow, ice and several entire glaciers on the volcano melted, forming a series of large lahars (volcanic mudslides) that reached as far as the Columbia River, nearly 50 miles (80 km) to the southwest. Less severe outbursts continued into the next day, only to be followed by other large, but not as destructive, eruptions later that year. Thermal energy released during the eruption was equal to 26 megatons of TNT.

Hundreds of square miles were reduced to wasteland, causing over $1 billion in damage (equivalent to $3.4 billion in 2019), thousands of animals were killed, and Mount St. Helens was left with a crater on its north side.

So, yeah, I’d say that this destruction was rather a big deal. And you can still see evidence of it everywhere. The mountain used to be a relatively uniform cone shape. Very picturesque. But the eruption reduced it’s height by 1314 feet. To put that into perspective, the shorter of the two twin towers, prior to 911, was 1362 feet. So that was a heck of a lot of mountain to be there one minute and gone the next. And now there’s this giant lopsided crater marring the previous symmetry. And you can see where the slide went in many of the photographs below.

It’s also quite obvious when you enter the blast zone. That area has been reforested, for the most part, but there’s a very abrupt change between old growth forest, and, for example, the acres of trees planted by Weyerhaeuser, which are so identical in height and shape that it makes your eyes do a blurry double take. You can also see a lot of dead and flattened trees still floating in the area waterways.

But life will out. The trees are, indeed, growing. Wildlife abounds. The waterways flow again. It would be easy to forget if we had no video of the disaster, and no written history. To the untrained eye, there would only be hints here and there. For example, the A Frame house pictured below still stands, and the upper floor can still be seen. The mud flood that came through there, just two days after that house was built, was 5 feet deep and 100 degrees. It was the consistency of wet cement and was traveling at about 35 miles per hour. Now that whole area is at a higher elevation, and people, ignoring history and wanting to profit from tourism, have rebuilt all around it.

If I could sum up what I learned from this trip in one sentence, it would be, “Time marches on.” And when it’s nature that’s doing the marching, you’d best get the hell out of the way.

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Lava Cast Forest

It was a very surreal day. We were in a place we hadn’t planned to be.

It was a very surreal day. We were in a place we hadn’t planned to be. Even if the weather hadn’t been strange, if it had been sunny and clear rather than dampened down with a thick blanket of fog which rendered everything mysterious and quiet and slightly creepy, it would still have been a surreal day, because we were wandering through a surreal landscape. I kept expecting Dug, the talking dog from the movie Up, to burst from the shadows to tell us he loved us. And on top of that, my sister was wearing a hooded grey coat that made her look like the ghost of Christmas yet to come. Shiver.

The Lava Cast Forest just south of Bend Oregon is a land trapped in time, just as Pompeii is, in Italy. And for much the same reason. About 6000 years ago, one of the many volcanoes in the area erupted, for the last time to date, leaving a gigantic badland of lava rock and cinder cones in its wake.

In its destruction, it left behind a very interesting feature: casts of the trunks of trees. You can even see the pattern of the bark in the lava. Some of these casts are upright, showing where these ancient trees once stood, and some of them are long and horizontal, showing where the tree was knocked over, or perhaps already lying on the ground at the time of the eruption. It’s really fascinating, because you’re standing in the midst of quite obvious devastation, but you see proof positive that there was once a thriving forest here. It really makes you reflect on how impermanent everything is.

So here I was, enshrouded in fog, trying really hard not to reveal how desperately sick I was with the sinus infection from hell, and I was picturing a forest primeval, wondering if all of this was a fever dream. There were also strange twisted living trees, here and there, that have adapted to the minimal soil by twisting so that the water and nutrients distributed by the trunk would be shared equally by all its sides.

And to top it off, I learned a new word from one of the informational signs that were scattered along the excellently maintained loop road. The sign said that mosses and lichens had recently appeared, and that “they started a chemical process which caused rock to break down and organic soil to form where native grasses, forbs and a future forest will grow.”

“What’s a forb?” I asked my companions, in my croaky, sinus infected voice. None of us knew. And, as if by magic, two very friendly park rangers appeared from the mist to answer my question. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

A forb, it seems, is an herbaceous flowering plant. (Your homework assignment is to throw that into a sentence today and see if anyone notices, and then give me a full report in the comments below.) So I learned something new, but the whole experience made me even more convinced that I might be delirious.

And so I leave you with photos from a surreal land. At least my head is no longer in a fog. Check out the Lava Cast Forest if you’re ever in the area. It will be waiting for you, frozen in time… if the forbs don’t take over.

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Crater Lake, Oregon

It’s always exciting when you get to cross something off your bucket list.

It’s always quite exciting when you get to cross something off your bucket list. I had seen images of Crater Lake for decades. Its almost painfully turquoise blue waters, purely fed by nothing but rain and snowmelt, formed from a collapsed volcanic crater, was a sight that I’ve always longed to see.

And here we were. Gazing down at it from the national park’s visitor center. The water was more slate grey than turquoise, because of the cloud cover, but it didn’t take away from its majesty. Photos don’t do it justice.

When the volcano erupted 7,700 years ago and it went from a tall mountain to a deep crater in less than 48 hours, it must have been a sight to behold. Now the lake is approximately 1932 feet deep, but it varies with evaporation and seepage. Still, it’s the deepest lake in the United States. That’s pretty impressive.

Sadly, the rim road around the lake was still closed. I couldn’t believe the amount of snow that was still up there, given that it was 72 degrees at lower elevations. At the top, the snow rose well above the cars in the parking lot. Children were sliding down the side of the visitor center roof, because one could easily walk more than halfway up the side of the building.

Crater Lake2

I just love visiting our national parks. They need to be preserved, supported, and experienced by all. I cannot believe that that concept is even controversial, but then everything is in this current political climate. Visit while you can, folks. It’s worth it!

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Exploring Washington State–Mount Rainier National Park

As we came around the curve, a bald eagle landed in the road right in front of us; an opossum clutched in its talons. Upon seeing us, the grand bird flew away, leaving its prey behind. Its wingspan was wider than the lane in which we were driving. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, and yet there was no time for pictures. I didn’t want to look away, even for a second, as its strong wings elevated it ever skyward. The white triangle of its tail spread wide. This was an angle I’d never seen before. It was so unexpected, and so, so close. This was nature at its most beautiful. I felt as though I had been given a special gift.

And here’s the thing: we hadn’t even arrived at the park yet. So this adventure was beginning on a high note, as if the universe wanted to make sure I was in the proper state of awe for the experience to come.

Mount Rainier looms large in the Pacific Northwest. On sunny days, I get to gaze upon it from one of the bridges where I work. I quite often get a glimpse on my commute home as well. I’d always wanted a closer look, but sensed that it would be too incredible to see alone. Some things, the most amazing things, should be shared.

According to the National Park Service, Mount Rainier is “the tallest volcano in the Cascade Mountain Range and the most glaciated peak in the continental United States.” We weren’t going to make it to the 14,410 foot apex. Many of the roads were still closed for the season, and neither of us are climbing fit. But we made it up to the visitor center in Paradise, which is at 5400 feet. More than a mile above sea level. Higher than Denver.

There are currently 25 glaciers on Mount Rainier, which is pretty impressive. But if you look at the timeline here, you can see that they’ve been steadily shrinking. This could be a very effective teaching tool about global warming, but unfortunately the entire National Park System is under a gag order thanks to our current resident in the White House, who is of the minority, self-serving opinion that climate change doesn’t exist, or at least isn’t our fault. Oh no. Can’t be. Then we might have to do something. Sigh.

So I looked at these amazing glaciers, and the accompanying waterfalls, and the gigantic old-growth trees, and realized that they would probably never again be as grand as they were at that very minute. It was a privilege to bear witness.

Thank goodness, at least, for elevation. Before entering the park, it was a sunny 77 degrees. At the visitor center, it was 44 degrees and hailing. Hail. In late May. And at the same time, steam still rises off the mountain’s crest, to remind us all that it’s still an active volcano.

Nature is the most amazing thing we have. Why are we so hellbent on destroying it? I’ll never understand.

Homeward bound, we drove back along the stretch of road where we encountered the majestic eagle, and I was pleased to see that he’d long since come back to retrieve his meal. The circle of life continues. At least for now.

I’ll leave you with these photos, which do not do the place justice, but will at least give you some idea of why I’m so in love with our national parks.

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Tragic Nostalgia

As I write this blog entry, I’m watching video footage of the eruption of Mexico’s Popocatépetl volcano. It’s about 50 miles southeast of Mexico City, and I have been on its slopes. It has erupted about a dozen times since then, and it always brings me back to that long ago visit.

Although I didn’t reach its summit, I know I reached the highest elevation I ever have in my life, because the air was so thin I could barely function. That is something I never experienced before or since. I contented myself with taking in the view, which included her sister volcano, Iztaccihuatl. That was an amazing day, one for my bucket list.

Whenever Popo blows her top, I worry for the people in the surrounding villages. These people were very warm and welcoming to me. They made me feel safe and comfortable. It pains me to think that during times of eruptions, they themselves are far from safe and comfortable.

When a tragedy causes you to have feelings of concern mixed with nostalgia, it can be very hard to reconcile those contrasting emotions. During times like these I feel helpless. I also better understand why people take so much comfort in prayer.

Exploring Seattle — Part Six

It was a beautiful day, and probably the last one for a while, so I wanted to do something outdoors. Feeling like a bit of a broken record, I went to visit yet another park. As I was driving there, I was feeling a bit ambivalent. Parks here are gorgeous. I mean, absolutely gorgeous. Kind of an embarrassment of riches. But I’ve seen several. I’m starting to feel jaded by all this beauty. I couldn’t imagine that this one would present me with anything more spectacular than the others.

On the freakin’ contrary.

Upon my approach to Seward Park, I was treated to a sweeping vista of Andrews Bay. Two things you miss out on in most cities are distant horizons and the feeling of open spaces. This view was fabulous. I sat on the rocky beach where swimming is allowed and I fully intend to take advantage of that next summer. The water is crystal clear.

After feeling my blood pressure drop considerably, I decided to wander over to the alpine-like building that houses the Audubon Center. There I had a nice chat with a gentleman who gave me some great advice about attracting more hummingbirds to my feeder. Hummingbirds live here year round. Something that’s pretty obvious but that I never thought about is that hummingbirds can’t walk. They expend a great deal of energy having to hover and fly at feeders, so it’s better to get one that has a perch that they can stand on and rest. So there will be a new feeder in my future. I enjoyed my chat with this guy. I was tempted to ask if he was single. But I chickened out, which is, if you think about it, rather apropos when talking to an Audubon guy.

After that I headed over to the Lake Washington side of the park to begin the 2.4 mile waterfront loop. And when I looked up I gasped audibly, which is what I always do when presented with Mount Rainier. I’ve only seen it three times since I’ve been here, and when I do, it stuns me every time. You don’t expect a volcano to sneak up on you like that, but somehow it does. BAM! There it is.

I sank down to the grass, which turned out to be wet but I didn’t care, and just gazed at this magnificent spectacle. I’ve seen a lot of gorgeous sights in my life, but this is right up there in the pantheon of magnificence, if you ask me. I was almost reluctant to start on the loop road because I knew it would eventually swing back around to Andrews Bay and the mountain would go back to where ever it is that mountains hide.

Incidentally, I’m itching, absolutely aching to get out into the mountains around here, but that would be no fun to do alone. Some day.

But I soldiered on, gazing at the million dollar houses that line the far shore, and briefly visiting a land of make believe where I actually some day get to live in one and wake up every morning to a view like this. How could anyone who lives in a house like that not be grateful every single day? I would be.

What I absolutely adore about this park is that this loop road is flat, flat, flat. Glory, glory hallelujah! I could walk it without having a coronary. But for the more athletically inclined, there are hilly, woodsy paths in the interior of this 300 acre park. For that day, at least, I was quite content to hug the shoreline.

Half way around, I passed an attractive older gentleman who said, “Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” Indeed it was, I said. I wish I could have said more without looking like a nut. He looked nice. Ah well. One has to hike before one can hunt, I suppose. 🙂

Seward Park is my absolute favorite so far. I have no doubt I’ll be back. As added incentive, there was a Baskin Robins on my route home. It wouldn’t do to burn off too many calories, after all. It was a delicious afternoon all around.

Have we Overstayed our Welcome?

Aw, jeez, I need to stop surfing the internet. I just came across a website called Recent Natural Disasters, and it gives you all the reported disasters all over the world, 24 hours a day. I have a hard enough time avoiding my tendency to anthropomorphize nature, especially when it seems as though the planet is becoming more and more pissed off.

Typhoon Haiyan has certainly displaced thousands of people, but it’s only the latest in what seems to be an increasing number of natural disasters, from the expected to the downright bizarre. I mean, who expects flooding in Saudi Arabia? But that’s been happening, too.

And I’m stunned by how many of these events have escaped my notice up to this point. Here are but a few of the headlines from the past few months:

Massive landslide in Denali National Park, Alaska – Could take 10 days to clear

Indonesia’s Mount Sinabung volcano eruption prompts evacuation of 3,300

Mudslide traps 20 in Cross Rivers, Nigeria

Very severe cyclonic storm Phailin: India’s biggest evacuation operation in 23 years, 43 killed

Eurasia’s highest volcano Klyuchevskoi spews ash up to 3.7 miles

40,000 evacuated amid Gujarat flooding

7.7 magnitude earthquake in Pakistan kills 400, Awaran declares emergency

Flooding in Bunkpurugu, Ghana kills 1, displaces 6,000

Shanghai heat wave 2013: Hottest temperature in 140 years!

Spanish Mallorca forest fire: Worst fire in 15 years evacuates 700

Namibia African Drought: Worst in 30 years

Yarnell, Arizona Wildfire 2013: 19 firefighters killed

Central African Republic gold mine collapse kills 37, national mourning declared

Himachal Pradesh, Uttarakhand flood 2013: At least 5,500 killed

Colorado wildfires destroy 360 plus homes, 38,000 evacuated

Whether you believe in Global Climate Change or not, don’t you sometimes get the feeling that we as a species are no longer wanted on this planet? And if so, who could blame Mother Nature? I mean, we take and take and take, and what we give in return is pollution, destruction, and devastation. If a guest in my home were behaving this badly, I’d kick him out, too.