I was eight years old and most of a continent away, but even I heard about Mt. St. Helens blowing her top in mid May of 1980. And still today, she is the subject of one of the first questions anyone from back home asks me about living in this place. Any news about the volcano? Aren't you worried about the mountain blowing up again? I think my grandmother has apocalyptic visions of life on the West Coast; I only hope my gruesome death doesn't haunt her dreams.
But I have to admit, as slim as the chance might be, the threat of a major eruption adds something to the mystique of living in the Portland area. To me, that juxtaposition of urban/suburban living with the uncontrollable brutality of natural fury produces a welcome reminder of our impermanence. I'm not making light of the dozens of deaths which resulted from the 1980 eruption. I quoted the last recorded words of David Johnston, USGS vulcanologist who lost his life in the blast, in the title of this post because they haunt me. At one of the video exhibits tourists now flock to on the mountain, a recording of his voice opens a stark display of the havoc wreaked by this mountain those thirty years ago. I've heard that brief recording maybe half a dozen times now, and I can't get the sounds of Johnston's voice out of my head when I look at the mountain. It's there every time I commute north on a sunny day; it was there but louder a few years ago when St. Helens was letting off that dome-building steam.
For me, I guess, in all of this paradise in which we live here in Oregon, we're confronted with our mortality. It's only appropriate, after all. This city we've built is stunning and well considered and a wonderful place to live, but it's not permanent. And I rather like having the awesome beauty of St. Helens and her mythological suitors Mt. Adams and Mt. Hood standing around as sentinels to that very important truth. I'm just sorry it worries Mamaw so.
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