January 29th, 2019
My sister arrived last night, such a special treat. Our schedules lined-up so it worked out well. It’s a Tuesday in January and the weather is surprisingly agreeable. Totally blue skies and a high in the mid-40’s even at the mountain elevation we are headed to (3,000+ ft.). We pack our warm layers, a quick lunch of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, chips, and blueberry-fig bars, fill-up our water bottles and hit the road. It’s not too long of a drive to our destination and we have a fair amount of catching-up to do. You know, chatting like sisters do. Even with time spent apart- one reunion and we instantly click, giggle, and finish each other’s sentences. I’ve always enjoyed that. I’m used to turning on my favorite chill background music, but there is no need for that today. I’m not riding solo with my golden-fuzz sidekick. I’ve got company, and good company at that.
We ascend the road, The Spirit Lake Highway, to enjoy breathtaking views and winter hiking. As we talk, a red fox darts across in front of the car, it's thick bushy tail the most prominent feature. Our hearts stop for a split second, thrilled at the sight but thankful we didn't make contact. The rest of the day we are surrounded by heartily growing red-alder trees, young western hemlocks, Douglas-fir, and Noble fir, intermixed with a wide variety of understory shrub species. Every footstep passes salal, sword fern, and oregon grape, amongst other scraggly winter-worn species. The first two remain vibrant and green throughout these cold months, a testament to our moist soil and abundant shade. The oregon grape, however, is undergoing a phase of reddening. Not a vibrant red signifying the death of a stem or portion of the plant, but a pleasing dull burgundy hue generally seen in the Autumn. It seems a bit early to be experiencing this now, perhaps a result of the warm weather and lack of hard snow-pack so far this year.
As we look down, the trail is a mixture of dirt, ash, and chunks of dacite rock beneath our boots. It grinds against our sturdy soles, a reminder that Mount St. Helens is indeed an active volcano. We occasionally glimpse gray up-currents of ash, as the wind touches down, lifting the sediment in a playful and harmless vortex. Down again it falls, to collect once more into the weave of the topography, the mass of the hummocks. This land around us is truly a testament of time, an astounding natural recovery process that continues to progress every moment. It’s been 39 years since the big eruption, and though the environment shows scars of it, the regeneration of this dynamic ecosystem is impressive. This complex land is growing stronger and more diverse, the cascading trophic effect is apparent as the dance of flora and fauna is perfected. We are reminded of this as we pass numerous fresh beaver-chewed branches and downed trees. This critter has a voracious appetite and seems to have sampled from several locations. We also find a bird's nest, elk scat and many active ant hills swarming with their red-headed workers busily marching to their instinctive beat. There is life all around us. Here we are amidst this history story, experiencing first-hand the remarkable resilience of nature.
We end our adventure by the Toutle River, outside of the monument boundary. This is the best part of the day, the evening after a blue-skied afternoon where the sun sat high and radiated against all that fell within its reach. The sun begins to set, a moment that my sister refers to as “the golden hour”, and as I witness this, it truly is a fitting name. the river looks to be on fire, the sand takes on a yellow glow, and the drops of dew on the Lupine shine. Standing there I feel warm, my goosebumps are simply a result of the familiar and welcoming beauty I see, and not the evening chill. Time and time again my eyes have reveled in this light, amazed and comforted by the end of one day and the start of another. Today has been good to us- but now it’s time to return home.
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