by Shawn Inmon
Joe still went to Al-Anon every week. Over time, he became one of the people who helped set up, laying out the books, scooting the chairs around, and making coffee. He saw new people come in, unsure of what they were getting themselves into. He opened up and shared more about his own life.
The time he spent volunteering at the shelter continued to increase. He went from one day a week to two, three, and four. Eventually, Debbie told him that she didn’t know how she had kept the place running without him. Joe fought a constant battle against taking a dog home from the shelter. He did manage to stop any of them from getting the needle, though. Once, that meant he had to do a four hour road trip with a little mixed breed terrier that was destined to be euthanized. He found a no-kill shelter in Medford and they said they would accept him if he brought drove him down.
He had acquaintances he was friendly with at the Al-Anon meetings, and he considered Debbie at the shelter a real friend, but he still didn’t have anyone he could really hang out with. JD and Bobby had gotten jobs, and Joe could tell they were drifting away. He estimated that in another few years, when wives and kids came into the picture, they wouldn’t speak much at all. And that, of course, depended on whether they died in the St. Helens explosion or not.
In March 1980, Joe began to see the news stories he knew were coming. At first, they were simply curiosity pieces—“Minor rumblings emanating from the sleeping giant known as Mt. St. Helens.” Over the weeks and months that followed, the updates about St. Helens became as common as the nightly graphic of the body counts in the Vietnam War had been a decade earlier.
A few rumblings soon turned into dozens, sometimes hundreds, of earthquakes per day, ranging from tiny to moderate. The attention of the world’s media turned toward St. Helens, and she rarely disappointed. Virtually every day in the late winter and early spring of 1980, she rumbled, burped, and belched smoke skyward.
St. Helens also became an odd sort of tourist attraction. An attraction, because how often do you get to see an active volcano belch smoke and ash. Odd, because how many attractions can kill you? It made a celebrity out of a cantankerous old inn keeper named Harry Truman. Harry was warned by authorities that he was in the blast zone, and that when the big one came, he wouldn’t survive.
Harry told the authorities, and any news media that would listen, what he thought of the “guvment” and their agents. He said repeatedly that he and his wife, who had passed away years earlier, had sworn they would never leave their home at Spirit Lake for any reason. Harry became a folk hero to many, songs were written about him, and he seemed to enjoy the attention.
The Forest Service blocked visitors to his lodge, but they couldn’t force Harry to leave, and so he stayed, tempting fate, and the mountain. Joe knew Harry was destined to die on the morning of May 18, when the big one did indeed come, and a one hundred and fifty foot wall of mud and rock swept down over his lodge and eradicated Spirit Lake.
As winter turned to spring, and April turned to May, Joe’s friends JD and Bobby began to talk more and more about driving the few hours up I-5 to see the volcano up close and personal. Joe remembered, of course, that was how they had died in his first life. But, he had also learned, through his interaction with Abigail Green, that it was hard to convince someone of the impossible.
So, he did his best to squash the idea of a volcano camping trip in more subtle ways.
JD and Bobby were headstrong young boys who didn’t much go in for subtlety, though, and every strategy Joe tried, whizzed by them without leaving a mark.
Finally, the third week of May rolled around, and nothing Joe had done had dissuaded them from taking the trip. They were planning on driving up to the mountain on Saturday morning, then camping that night and returning home Sunday afternoon. They wanted a story of how they had looked death in its unblinking eye and lived to tell the tale. Joe knew they wouldn’t survive the trip unless he intervened.
On Friday, Joe invited them over to watch the Mariner game. The Mariners were only in the fourth year of their existence, and they weren’t given much of a chance in the American League West. It was still a new experience to have a major league team in the Pacific Northwest, though, so people watched. That night, they were playing the Chicago White Sox in Chicago.
Joe’s apartment at RiverCrest had a small balcony, where he had an equally small barbecue. While big right-hander Jim Beattie was setting the ChiSox down in order in the first, Joe barbecued a thick steak for each of them.
“I swear to God, man,” JD said, “it’s like you’re a freakin’ adult anymore. Living on your own, cooking for yourself. Next thing we know, you’re gonna tell me to stop smoking so much weed and get a better job.”
Bobby nodded, but as Joe handed him a plate with an inch-and-a-half thick steak, he said, “But I do no object to this sudden onset of adult skill sets.” Then he looked at JD and snickered his stoner’s laugh.
I can’t say that you guys are the greatest friends of all time. You’re always doing stuff without me, and you never even started to grow up, but I’d like to give you a chance. Not to mention, you’re still the best friends I’ve got.
The Mariners were off to a surprising start in 1980. When they closed out the Sox in the bottom of the ninth for the victory, their record was dead even at seventeen wins, seventeen losses. It was a brief mirage in an otherwise hopeless season that would see them go on to a 58-103 record.
The game finished a little after 7:00. It was a perfect late-spring evening in western Oregon, and the sky was just starting to darken.
“Well, dude,” Bobby said, “Are you sure we can’t talk you into going with us tomorrow. You can bring that little barbecue and cook us some more steaks like that, for sure.”
“Before you take off, hang on for a minute. I want to talk to you.”
“Sure, man,” Bobby said, sitting back down on the couch. “What’s up?”
Joe drew a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to think of any other way to accomplish this with you guys, but I haven’t come up with anything. There’s nothing to lose now, so I’m just gonna tell you.”
Bobby and JD didn’t focus on many things, but they both met Joe’s eyes.
“What’s going on with you?” JD asked. “Everything okay, man?”
“Yeah, everything’s okay, but. It’s about to not be, at least for you guys. Listen, do you remember when you came to see me a couple of years back, and I told you that you were both dead?”
A look of utter blankness resided comfortably on both JD and Bobby’s face.
Joe sighed. “Never mind. Here’s the deal. If you guys go camping up at St. Helens this weekend, you’re not gonna come back. That mountain is going to blow on Sunday. It’s going to be way, way bigger than everyone is expecting, like a global event. It’s going to happen pretty early on Sunday morning, which is good, because that will be a nice day, and more people would have been out hiking around and gotten killed if it had blown its top in the afternoon.”
“So, it’s gonna be nice on Sunday?” JD asked, which made him laugh again, and Bobby offered him up a congratulatory high-five. “Just kidding, Joe. I can see you mean this, but how in the world could you possibly know that? No one knows when it’s gonna blow.”
Any time traveler that was around here in May of 1980 will remember this date.
“I could tell you guys, but I promise you won’t believe me anyway. Can I ask you a favor? Will you guys just put off going up there until Monday?”
“Can’t on Monday. Gotta work at the gas station,” JD said.
“Yeah, I gotta work too,” Bobby said. “Monday’s no good.”
Lord give me strength.
“How about next weekend, then?”
The whole area will be shut down next weekend, and hikers won’t be allowed into the area for a long time, but I think they’ll be good with that once they see what happened.
“You sound like a crazy man, Joe, like Nostradangus or something.”
I should jus
t let them die.
“If you guys will wait until next weekend, then I’ll go with you. I promise. I’ll go and buy a crap load of camping equipment this week, then we can go camping in style next weekend. Maybe I’ll even buy a Winnebago or something, and we can camp in comfort like the old people do.”
JD looked at Bobby. Bobby looked at JD. Finally, Bobby shrugged.
“All right, man, if it’s that important to you, we’ll just wait.”
Joe felt an immense sense of relief. “Okay then. Now, I’ve just gotta find some eighty-year-old that wants to get off the open road, so I can buy their RV from them.”
Bobby shook his head. “I gotta say, sometimes I just don’t get you.”
“But, we’ve got a deal, right? You guys will wait until next weekend?” Joe held his hand out, palm up.
“Sure, why not,” JD said, giving him some skin. Bobby did the same.
“Well, maybe I’ll call Beth up and see if she wants to go to the drive-in this weekend. The Shining is supposed to be playing,” JD said.
“Hey, I can grab Cheryl, and we can double,” Bobby said.
“Double date at the drive-in? That’s not what drive-ins are for, doofus.”
They headed out the door, still arguing.
When the door closed behind them, blessed silence reigned. Joe moved around his small apartment, collecting dishes and ruminating on the evening.
So far, so fine, I guess. It will be interesting to see what they do, given a chance at a longer life. I don’t think either of them are likely to cure cancer or write the great American novel, but they could grow up eventually and build a nice family that never had a chance to exist in my last go-round.
SATURDAY WAS ANOTHER blue sky and sunshine spring day. Joe packed himself a few sandwiches in a brown bag and drove down to the park with his copy of Heinlein’s The Door Into Summer. He read and worked on his tan for a few hours, then packed up to head back to the Rivercrest. On the way home, he drove past JD’s house. A beat-up old Camaro was sitting in the driveway, so Joe pulled in behind it.
When he knocked on the door, Evelyn McManus answered. “Hello, Joe. How are you?”
“I’m good, Mrs. McManus. Is JD around?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. He and Bobby went camping up by the mountain.”
Chapter Sixteen
Godammit. Are there just things that are going to happen, no matter what I do?
Joe put on the best face he could. No sense in worrying her more than is needed. She’ll have enough to worry about soon.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. They mentioned they were thinking of heading that way. Did they say where they were going to camp? Maybe I’ll see if I can catch up with them.”
“I think they’re damn fools for going up there, and you’d be a damn fool to go looking for them.” She looked at Joe’s earnest face and softened. “Oh, you boys and your adventures. It’s a wonder any of you ever live to adulthood. They said they were going to drive to a spot on the North Fork Toutle River, but I don’t know anything more than that.”
“Thanks, Mrs. McManus. I’ll head up that way, then.”
But not because I want to. I’d rather stay home and watch baseball and read, or go by the shelter and see the dogs. That can all wait until Monday, though.
Joe glanced at his watch. 3:05.
If I’m going to go, I better move it. I don’t want to be looking for them in the dark.
Just in case he needed it, Joe swung by his apartment and retrieved a backpack, made a few more sandwiches, and grabbed a flashlight and extra batteries.
I’ve got a lot of questions and not many answers. Where the hell is the North Fork Toutle River? What time did the mountain blow, exactly? Damned if I can remember. It was sometime Sunday morning, but I can’t remember exactly when. Better plan on getting in and out of there tonight, just to be safe. If I can’t find ‘em, I’ve done what I can.
Joe pointed the Olds north on I-5. Three hours later, he was through Portland and had crossed the Columbia River into Washington state.
And now what? I’ve never been up here. This would be a helluva lot easier with GPS. That’s one of the few pieces of technology I miss.
Joe pulled over at a Union 76 gas station and topped off. He went inside and bought a map of Washington. He spread it out on the hood, found Vancouver, then located where he was, and inched his finger eastward over the map, looking for the Toutle River. He found it, then plotted out a route.
He patted the hood of the Olds. “Sorry, old girl. It looks like you’re in for a rough ride tonight. I’ll take you into the shop and make it up to you next week.”
A few miles north of Castle Rock, Joe saw an exit onto Highway 504. He turned off, then followed 504 east. In just a few minutes, all thoughts of the freeway, hamburger stands, and gas stations left his mind. The road narrowed and twisted and roamed through first farmland, then, increasingly, forests.
I should have stopped at a fast food place before I left civilization behind. While he drove, Joe fished around in the backpack beside him and pulled a bologna sandwich out. He washed it down with some cool water from his Thermos. That’ll get me through.
He looked at his watch again. 7:15.
Shit. It’s gonna be dark much sooner than later.
He stood on the gas a little, pushing his speed up to ten miles an hour over the speed limit. He turned his headlights on, even though he didn’t really need them yet. He passed a sign that read “Spirit Lake Highway.”
The closer he got to the mountain, the more Joe’s stomach flipped and rolled. He thought he might need to find a place in the woods to hunker down and relieve himself.
Spirit Lake took the worst of it. Nothing around that area survived, right? Animals, people, buildings, entire forests, wiped out in an instant. I don’t want to be anywhere near here in another twelve hours.
He drove with the windows down. It was so peaceful—a warm evening, birds singing and insects chirping—it was almost impossible to believe the destructive chaos and power that would be unleashed.
At one point, he drove around a curve, and there she was, the sleeping giant, ready to awaken. He knew he was still miles away from it, but he’d never seen St. Helens so close, and it took his breath away. He was used to seeing pictures of her after the blast, with the deep hole where the crown had been. Here, in front of him, it still looked like a perfect round snow cone. So peaceful, and about to become so deadly.
After another long stretch of crooked, winding road, Joe came to a small, solid bridge with a green sign that announced “North Fork, Toutle River.” A bit beyond the bridge was a wide pullout, where half a dozen vehicles were parked. He did a quick inventory. A camper van, a VW van, a dusty Toyota, and three pick-ups.
There it is! That’s Bobby’s old truck. I’d recognize it anywhere.
Joe pulled in beside it and hopped out. He peered in the passenger-side window. Sure enough, the seat was covered with a familiar striped car seat, and there was a roach clip with a blue feather hanging from the rear view mirror.
Okay. That’s gotta be half the battle, right? They seem to take the easy way out, so hopefully they haven’t hiked in too far.
A sudden thought occurred. No matter what I did, I couldn’t talk them out of coming. What if it’s the same when I find them? What if they won’t leave?
Joe slung the backpack over his shoulder, locked up the Oldsmobile and set off down the most obvious trail.
If that’s what happens, then I’ll leave them and hike out of here as fast as my feet will carry me.
Almost immediately, Joe realized he had forgotten his mosquito spray at home. He was dive-bombed repeatedly, and in the still, windless night, a small cloud gathered around him. They drew blood at will. Joe swatted and waved, but knew he would be an itchy, bumpy mess of bites by morning.
He estimated he had hiked in at least a mile, when he saw the first sign of humanity. Off to the right of the trail ahead was a clearing with a tent, campf
ire, and people. It was too big, and too well-organized to be JD and Bobby, but Joe approached anyway.
“Yo, weary hiker,” a man said. He sat in a folding chair facing the fire. He had a long gray-black beard and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. A short, round woman emerged from the tent, smiling, and two kids were playing around in the trees.
“Yo,” Joe answered. “Mind if I borrow your fire to keep the mosquitos away for a bit? They are eating me alive.”
“Come on in,” the man said. “I’m Merlin, like the magician. This is my wife Sapphire. Those two druids dancing through the trees are our offspring.”
“I’m Joe. Nice to meet you.” He stepped off the path and into the glow of the fire, which crackled and smoked.
Merlin offered his hand, then said, “Oh, brother, you are truly providing a buffet for the winged army of St. Helens. Saph? We got any DEET?”
“On the way,” Sapphire said, digging through an old army knapsack. She pulled a can out and approached Joe. “The fire keeps them away when you’re near it, but venture away at your own risk. Do you mind?” she asked raising the can.
“I do not mind in any way, shape, or form. I am grateful. Thank you.”
Sapphire sprayed DEET over his arms, his neck, then up and down his back and front. She turned him like a dress mannequin. “Close your eyes and hold your breath, now.”
Joe did, and she blasted him right in the face. She nodded with satisfaction. “There. That’ll hold you for a few hours.”
“Thank you so much. Can I ask how long you’ve been set up here?”
“This is our third day,” Merlin said. “We’ve got to head back to civilization, tomorrow. Well, if the hamlet of Winlock counts as civilization, which is up for debate.”
“Did you see a couple of guys about my age, long hair, probably goofy smiles on their faces, come along here in the last few hours?”
Merlin laughed, a high, piercing laugh that was surprising in a man so large. “You mean the stoners? Yeah, they came through here, then stumbled off in search of magic mushrooms, I figured.”
