It was a normal Friday in May. Brad and Steve were loading up their Jeep in Vancouver for a visit to the United States, Ted Johnston was digging yet another hole near his camp to bury a ground trembler detector, Harry Truman was giving an interview to the press as to why he absolutely would not be leaving his home, while Diedre and I were packing for a geology camping trip with thirty others to study lava flows. I picked up my new contact lens on the way out of town and left my glasses at home. In less than 36 hours each of us would be sharing in a piece of history, but no one had a clue - even as late as Sunday morning what was to happen. And, I would be very sorry I had left those glasses at home!
Sunday morning was bright, warm and clear. We had just finished breakfast and I was snapping some pictures when the first explosion echoed through the campground. There was no way of knowing where it came from but as there was a road maintenance crew in the area, we figured it was probably dynamite.
Seconds later, with the camp gear stored in the cars, I was putting a polarizing filter on my camera - when the second explosion echoes could be heard. I was discussing with my friend Mike, how something was wrong with the filter as there was no contrast to the sky, when Diedre ran up and asked if we had felt the earthquake. But, neither of us had. Mike quickly decided the filter was ok and something was terribly wrong with the sky. We all looked up and wondered what on earth was going on. I felt in my spirit that we had to flee and turned to the group leader and told her, we must leave now! She, as a Christian, knew me very well and understood that I "know" things others don't - much to the chagrin of most people around me, though she told me later her first thought had been we should stay! All of us were in our cars and speeding out of there in less time than it has taken to type this sentence.
David Johnson had just started to make breakfast when his detectors went off. He may have even had a chance to look up before he was thrown one and a half miles at 300 miles an hour, then bathed with 1,300 degree flaming gases.
Brad and Steve checked their cameras and the ground trembler trigger, and took a nap on the warm rocks in the sunshine. When the alarm went off, they ran for their jeep as fast as they have ever run in their lives. They never even looked back to see what was coming. Their cameras caught the action as Mt. St. Helens collapsed behind them, engulfed the mountain ridge David Johnston was camped on and their run for the jeep. The cloud over took them and crossed the next ridge to the north - all within a matter of seconds.
The cloud, deflected by the ridge, climbed over the top of us. Day became night. The sweet perfume of country air became choking with hydrogen-sulphide as hot volcanic gases replaced the air in our lungs. Our car engines coughed and shuddered as they fought harder and harder to operate. No matter how you looked at it, we were in a bad spot.
There were thirty in our group, Brad and Steve collected another eighteen by the time they had driven out, I know of another three survivors - two were in a camper (last seen careening down the road in reverse!) and there was a newsman whom walked out several days later. We were the lucky ones because we were headed out when the blast hit, we only had to survive the poisoned air and powdered mountain that fell from the sky by the tons. Fifty-seven others were not so lucky. Of them, only twenty-one bodies were ever found.
Who could have thought that the mountain was going to erupt that beautiful spring morning? Even when we heard the explosions we had no idea of what was about to happen. But, in my spirit, I knew we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, that prompting from the Spirit, was all that got us out and onto the road before it became impossible to travel - with the bridges being washed out by flood waters and roads blocked by downed trees. It was literally seconds that separated us from the same fate as the others.
AS A FOOTNOTE TO HISTORY:
Harry Truman, the grumpy old man of the mountain, probably never even woke up Sunday morning. Nothing has ever been found of him or his home.
Brad and Steve still have not published their photographs, which clearly show the mountain's double explosion. They spent the next three days winching their way through the chaos of timber, mudslides and stream beds to reach a serviceable road. With them were five other jeeps full of survivors they said.
David Johnston has a memorial to his memory at Mt. St. Helens. It was years before any piece of him or his camp was found.
My eyes were swollen shut for three weeks as they healed from all of the grit that went under my new contacts. To this day I cannot put a contact back in. At least my nickname at work went from flake to Mole-Man! Makes me sound like an action hero. Think so?
Of all of the cars in our group, none had an engine left by the year's end - ouch!
Diedre and cousin Suzie, only seconds away from the explosions. And, moments later this was all that was left to be seen of the sun.
Fifty-seven people met God that day - they had no warning or choice. Of the survivors, I only know of one whom did actually change his life for real. Though dozens in our group were willing to make a life's change the instant the cloud went over us......
And, one could argue it had a bit of an impact on our lives and faith as well.
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