Camping with kids makes me question my sanity. I was overwhelmed with tasks. Set up the tent, lay out the bedding, and stack coolers on the benches. After a season of rain, the picnic tables are piled high with leaves. I stripped them to their skeletal outline and overlaid them on the nurse log. Forest doily. We brought bicycles. Our sons played with their bikes in the parking lot, which is safer than it sounds since so few campers dare to spend late spring at Seaquest State Park.
Homes are few and affordable along the Spirit Lake Highway on your way to Mount St. Helens. I marveled; Brian scoffed. That’s because this whole place was destroyed forty years ago. We timed our trip to coincide with the anniversary of the eruption and climbed up a devastated trail. The land once burned by lahars has now been transformed into a wildlife corridor that winds around the Toutle River.
Scientists did not expect life to return so quickly. Within weeks of the explosion, by July 1980, weeds were poking their green heads out of the ash and sprouting purple flowers toward the sky. The next year, I was born. We don’t always know where the hope lies. I spent forty years keeping a secret. Quietness is a fertile state. Of course, I published hundreds of bylined articles. But I rarely reveal my truth.
On this sunny weekend, I invited Brian and a couple I met in Seattle. Like him, they were from the Midwest. Friendly people. She and her two sisters sang at our wedding, one of whom was our officiant. A year after we met, they moved to Portland. We’ve remained friends, which is saying something because I’ve lost touch with people who live in North Seattle. Together we decided on the Hummocks Trail. It is only 2.5 miles long. I’ve worn it on month-long expeditions, but it’s the perfect length for short legs.
I had never heard of knolls before, it was the privilege of choosing to encounter destruction. Hills are fragments of mountains blown away during volcanic eruptions and washed down hillsides by landslides. When we arrived, they were already in place.
Seeds grow best when given space. I accepted the necessary alienation in order to heal my origins so that I could be myself and my mother. My parents couldn’t reconcile our facts. They prefer facades. But staying connected to falsehood is too heavy a burden. My narrative belongs to me.
On these rocks, ecosystems emerged. Beneath the alders, thick green ponytails swayed in the unusual sunlight. Their bright stems, notched like bamboo, are topped with long leaves that grow feathery like a squirrel’s tail. After more than 300 million years of evolutionary strategy, horsetails are difficult to remove once they take root. It doesn’t matter how many times you pull them. When they landed in my garden, I was hooked. There, as here, they grew tall enough to itch my children’s hands on the trail.
Our children threw sticks into the pond. These ponds are known as the lifeblood of the knoll and I read helpful plaques as I dashed off to keep the kids in sight, the ponds were more like seeps. or rainfall catchment basin. They were born when broken glaciers melted, forming pits filled with water that were then buried in ash. The hills are no longer held together by the mountainside, but are falling apart. Water dripped from the gray cracks. The pond is now exposed to the sky and covered with lush algae and cattails. Damselflies and dragonflies lay their eggs in the silence. In spring, toad and frog eggs hatch into tadpoles, squirming in the darkness.
Ponds are unstable and evaporate quickly. To survive in their home, these creatures must reproduce early and frequently. By the time I had my children, I was in my thirties and my self-esteem had grown. Every fall, frogs and toads bury themselves in the soil and wait for the arrival of spring. When I was a girl, I knew nothing about these metaphors. But I’m waiting for my season to come.
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(Steve Terrill/Getty Images) Mount St. Helens eruption
Weed has many uses. I can only give a few examples. Willow orchid has anti-inflammatory, bacterial and aging properties. What I can say about weeds is this – I know what it is to become strong in resistance and what it is to be a seed that blooms in the face of adversity. I work hard to overcome my tendency to be hypervigilant and the crises of criticism and anxiety that come with it. My husband has a hard time getting me to relax.
He has practiced. I’m wary of his tricks. But Brian loved my prickly spine. He didn’t show up to pick flowers. He needs time to water the roots. He opened the passage to the sun. He accepts sudden rains because they bring blessings. I am married to an easy going man. He believes in chance. Our sons ran along the trails with their friends, feeling safe in their innocence.
Mount St. Helens is known as Lawetlat’la, Loowit or Louwala-Clough, meaning “smoking mountain,” but it didn’t become new overnight. The eruption occurred on the same day in March that our oldest was born and Artis Passion Week ended. Lavatio. The public ceremony held after Hilaria cleanses the image of the mother goddess and is a time of celebration. Few, if any, continue to worship Cybele, but her rituals continue to exist in other forms. Images of the Madonna fill the streets of Catholic towns across Europe and South America. She bathes in petals gathered from the mountains, just like in pagan times. During the march, her image was exposed to public view so that she could offer protection to the community. She told them a story about herself with sad eyes and a mysterious smile.
Mount St. Helens collapsed into three separate blocks, the first of which rushed toward where we were hiking. Standing in the sun, passing snacks around, it’s hard to imagine the ground feeling solid beneath your feet, spinning down a mountain at 155 mph like before.
A few seconds after the first block slid, the second broke through, fueled by the release of pressure and magma pouring from below. Before Mount St. Helens erupted, scientists didn’t know how far apart onlookers should keep. Geologists think volcanoes blow their tops upward, rather than sideways. The mountain didn’t go according to plan. For this reason and others (some decided to wait), 57 people died that day in May. Decades of subsequent research showed that Earth retains this knowledge for us, but we don’t see it.
Scientists have noticed mounds near other volcanoes, but they believe they were formed by mudflows or glaciers. But in fact, they are evidence of disaster. In New Zealand 23,000 years ago, an avalanche of debris from Mount Egmont traveled 19 miles. Closer to California, a debris avalanche traveled 30 miles on Mount Shasta. In Japan in 1888, a debris avalanche moved seven miles from Mount Bandai into the hilly forest that people now call home. The summit of Mount St. Helens can be seen gleaming in the sun from these hillocks, located 14 miles from its source. Melting snow spreads like tentacles from the crater.
My home in Seattle is 3,093 miles from the island of my youth. It would take forty-six hours to cover the distance by car, or forty-two days to walk diagonally across a country that doesn’t always feel good enough to protect me. I made my way along my beloved jagged coast. This place has helped me become who I am today, a woman who carries on stories for generations to come. May they understand greener times.
Seeds grow best when given space. I accepted the necessary alienation in order to heal my origins so that I could be myself and my mother. My parents couldn’t reconcile our facts. They prefer facades. But staying connected to falsehood is too heavy a burden. My narrative belongs to me.
When this book was published, I expected that my family of origin would no longer speak to me. While the attraction to my parents was real, the separation also brought comfort to my body. Do these hills miss their brethren who have been pushed up against the valley walls? Their silt and silica flow down the hillside grain by grain.
While the attraction to my parents was real, the separation also brought comfort to my body. Do these hills miss their brethren who have been pushed up against the valley walls? Their silt and silica flow down the hillside grain by grain.
Most entanglement is quantum. The Toutle River’s braided river resembles the pattern of the Missoula Flood, visible from astronomical heights, revealing the history of our land: a massive ice dam that was overrun again and again by the water it trapped. I’ve been trying to pry open the fractals that trap my relatives into repetitive errors of varying magnitudes. In order to move on, I let go of the belief that my happiness depended on our unity. They didn’t need to show kindness in order for me to heal. They have their reasons for being puzzles that I no longer need to solve. Forgiveness does not mean reconciliation.
Releasing them allowed me to hold space for my own story. My liberation stirred resentment and dissent. you hurt usthey accuse, meaning, you hurt our opinion of usand this idea is all we have. In these pages I remain connected to my ancestors, who no longer define my future. Our shared memories make us a family, like a river melting snow into the sea.
Leaving the path laid out for you can be dangerous. On the hill, with an unobstructed view, I left the trail and slid down the gravel, peeling my calves into shining ruby constellations. I’m too lazy to protect my legs from the sun. My scars remind me that shaping desire lines can be dangerous. The same goes for failing to follow through on your hopes. When I think of my family now, I look for the roots that I have grown into the earth. They are strong enough to bear witness, a welcome signal to you, I embrace your presence but cannot see it.
Our communication comes with responsibility for what happens next. This is something I accept, but not control. The path to the goddess breaks you down. Our journey is never linear. Find the whole in the fragments.
Dusk fell over the grove surrounding our tent. A cinder cone reconstructed itself on the horizon beyond my sight. Here, I can safely revel in the twilight. The evening is ritualistic for parents. We remain open to the world and ignore the routines of our daily lives. Ritual is formed through repetition. We feed our children and tell stories. Nothing much to do yet. In the forest, there is no place to bathe except for beauty treatments.
Our kids stay up late. The bonfire warmed their little faces. Wet wipes will keep your hands looking clean after eating s’mores. Fathers’ job is to go to bed on time. My sons kissed good night and walked into our tent. My husband zipped the door shut. From the fire ring, I heard their whispers and laughter, mixed with the gentle rustling of sleeping bags. My friend smiled, her eyes shining with patient hope. She was ready for our song time. The night was silent except for the crackling of sap. We sipped from metal cups, sparks flying to the stars.
Lines of Desire can be purchased in print from Red Hen Press or as an audiobook narrated by the author, who is currently on a book tour.
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