Chapter Twelve

Mount St. Helens

Our son, Dave, had finished college and had taken a job with the Forestry in Missouri. His heart was still on the West Coast so when a summer opening at Mount St. Helen presented itself he jumped at the chance.

Dave invited us up, while he would be there. A state campground was across the road from where he would be working and we could all explore the park in his off hours.

Joan and I still like to tent camp. We're good at it and I imagine that's why we enjoy it. Actually, if the truth were known, Joan would probably prefer a good motel but she has always been willing to bend a little and I love her for it.

Mount St. Helen had erupted on May,18 1980, changing the land around it forever. The first reaction is to mourn the loss of life and the destruction of so much forest. Summer cabins and campgrounds, all gone. Fifty seven people and millions of trees and animals ceased to exist in a matter of seconds because of this monumental act of nature.

People who had lived in the area or camped and hiked and enjoyed the lakes and streams could be forgiven for asking why? Why had such beauty been destroyed? Why did God allow such a waste? I imagine their wish would be to put it all back, but this could never be.

When we arrived in the summer of 1988 our first impression was one of total destruction. As we studied the area, read the reports from the many scientists on the mountain, and looked at the beautiful displays at the visitor center our eyes were opened to the life around us. This was not just life but a new vigorous life that, with a small stretch of the imagination, could be seen surpassing all that had been destroyed.

I took it all in and understood that life is change. The closer we get to a static condition, the closer we are to death. All of nature must be the same. All of the Universe. All of the extinct species are now gone because they failed to change. Failed to adapt. To be really alive we must stay flexible and yielding, stay open to change.

It was to big to comprehend during our short stay but I would think and meditate on this experience for months and years to come.

All of my senses were sharpened and they fueled a desire to get closer, look into the volcano, be a part of this marvel.

Joan and Dave discovered a helicopter service that, for a fee, would fly them up-in-and around the Lava Dome that had formed in the crater. This dome was busy smoking and rumbling and doing what lava domes are meant to do and I'm sure flying around it in a helicopter would be a thrill. Joan and Dave saw it that way. Test Hop Clete, on the other hand, was having trouble seeing it as anything but a death wish and chose to stay on the ground.

I would like to make it clear that I don't have a real phobia about flying but, after my Air Force experiences, it just triggers the wrong set of juices. I have flown since leaving the service but never do so if I have an option and, I soon discovered an option at Mount St. Helen.

A hiking trail had been cut into one side of the mountain and, after registering at a local restaurant, a limited number of hearty souls were allowed to make the ascent each day. I have always wanted to be a "Hearty Soul" and if you put that desire with the excitement and eagerness to see more---well---I just couldn't help myself. Dave agreed to go with me and Joan would remain at the base camp and read a book.

Dave took care of getting us on the right list and we arrived at the restaurant early on the day of the hike. After a good breakfast we signed in and headed for the base camp where we would leave our car, and Joan, and begin our adventure.

On our return we would stop again at the restaurant and sign out. This proved that we were no longer on the mountain and the rescue crews could go home and have a beer. If we failed to sign out I guessed they would have to go up and check all the cracks to see which one we had fallen into. I suppose they would mark it and then go home and have a beer. I really didn't want to give this any serious thought as you can see.

The idea of someone with a serious disability climbing a mountain might, on the surface, seem a little overly ambitious.

In 1984 my other son, Phil, his cousin Jack Crocker and myself had attempted to climb Mt. Lassen in northern California. Joan had chosen to stay in the parking lot just as she was going to do this morning.

Joan had promised us each a pin that stated "I climbed Mt. Lassen" if we succeeded. This time Joan had no intention of reading a book and, unknown to the three of us, had positioned herself, with a pair of binoculars, to verify our progress.

We hadn't gone half the distance when Jack suggested that we hide in a grove of trees for a couple hours and then triumphantly return and claim our prize. Luckily two Gress' can out vote one Crocker and he was overruled.

(Joan would have nailed us! How did she know?)

We continued the climb with a great many moans and groans and each of us took turns in wanting to surrender. Each time the other two would overrule the pleads. Finally, still short of the top, we were all stretched across the trail, bleary eyed with sweat dripping and tongues dragging. Three more pitiful examples of humanity have never occupied this planet.

Suddenly, from somewhere below our position, women's voices clearly reached our pathetic ears. We sat up, not wanting to believe. As we watched, two women walked briskly around the bend, talking and laughing, past our graves and disappeared up the mountain, their lunch packs bobbing on their seventy year old little fannies.

Oh, Lord, how could you be so cruel?

Thus fortified by this massive infusion of ego we continued until the top was reached. I was fifty one years old at the time and probably would have survived being bested by two seventy year old women. I could have blamed it on Myasthenia Gravis. (Convenient?) Phil and Jack were both healthy and still in their twenties and, I know, would have died before giving up after the women's blatant exhibition. All in all I felt a real sense of accomplishment.

The thought of the Mt. Lassen climb gave me encouragement and I sensed another victory on today’s hike.

On the way to the base camp we stopped and picked up some good walking sticks. We both had day packs with a little food and of course water. I carried a pack stove with a coffee pot and coffee.

The morning was perfect. Cool, crisp air that felt chilly if one stood still but was a perfect walking temperature. Broken clouds over head moved fast enough to give long periods of sunshine. The first two or three miles were almost flat, through trees that had, somehow, survived the blast of the volcano.

Excitement propped up my LF and I felt strong.

The trail became steeper as we neared the mountain. Strange rock formations were everywhere. Fallen trees and ash, everywhere there was ash. We walked on. Ahead we could see what appeared to be a glacier and the trail seemed to be heading straight for the foot.

It was about here that I felt the first, very small, sensation of MG weakness. We had gone, maybe three miles, and it was too soon. The real challenge of the mountain still lay ahead. It was just too damned soon and, in spite of myself, I began to feel disappointment replace the excitement that held up my LF. My first impulse was to ignore it, as I looked around finding new wonders to marvel at. I walked on.

I wanted to climb this mountain. I really did. Others climbed it. Why not me? Why couldn't I be like others with strong legs and healthy bodies? Why did I have to always give in, to quit before I reached the top? Of coarse I knew the answer to "Why not me?” The answer was Myasthenia Gravis! All the self pity in the world would not change that.

The trail did, indeed, end at the foot of the glacier where steps, cut into the face, showed us our new challenge. At first, climbing the steps, using different muscles than those used walking the trail made the going easier. After a half mile the initial hope of going all the way turned to frustration. No amount of mind control was going to overcome the weakness. Oh, I could still climb by using my arms and shoulders with the walking stick. Dozens of hikes, however, had impressed one thing on my mind. Going up the hill was twice as easy as going down.

Most of the muscles used to go up hill are also used walking on the level. They get more exercise and are in better shape. The muscles used to hold us back as we descend a mountain are used less and are, therefore, weaker. This makes them more likely to experience MG weakness.

I could probably make the top of the mountain but would be very weak, making the return trip impossible. It would be more humiliating to be rescued from the top than it would be to not
make it so I motioned Dave to head for a lava outcropping to the left of the trail. We sat on the rock overlooking the valley and we were the only two people on the planet.

I had to give up. I had to quit. As many times as I've had to do this over thirty-five years you would think that it would get easier. It hasn't.

While I brewed a pot of coffee I explained to Dave my situation and he said that he understood. He could see that I was down and he sensed the magnitude of my disappointment. Dave changed the subject and we discussed how really excellent the coffee tasted and maybe this would be a good place to open a coffee shop. Half way up Mount St. Helen on the side of a glacier. We laughed, relaxed, and talked of everything and nothing. Finally we agreed that this outcropping was really the top of the mountain and, having achieved our goal, we could go home.

The trip back was uneventful if you ignore the five of six times that my legs gave out and I nearly fell on my face. My staff saved me.

I still had a lot to learn. Someday I would come back. The next time I would win. The mountain would not get away with such an easy victory.

As I later reflected on this day I realized that the mountain hadn't defeated me. I had defeated myself. All my experience with MG and I had fallen into the trap of giving in to negative emotions.

"The mountain was not my foe but was my instructor." And in this way I turned the negative into a positive.

The lesson was simple enough. I had thrown myself at the mountain relying solely on my enthusiasm to get me to the top. I had ignored every lesson learned in the past thirty years.

The mountain was saying, "Go back and do your homework, Clete. You aren't the average Joe with enough reserve energy to just "Will" yourself to do something and it will happen. To succeed you will need to plan carefully using every ounce of your knowledge. You will have to shift your gears at just the right moment and you will have to always choose the correct gear. Your automatic transmission hasn't worked in years, Stupid. Why did you forget."

Self pity is an interesting thing. Like hatred it can be very enjoyable and very addictive. It seems to be a part of all human nature. In the past I would have believed that I should suppress it. Demand that it get out of my life. Deny that it even existed. Anything to prevent the idea that I was capable of self pity or hatred. Today I accept these things as part of who I am. I am not perfect. Imagine. What a revelation. They exist and I can do nothing about that but I can look for ways to turn their negative energy into a positive force.

This idea of positive thinking has been written about in very good books on the market today. I can add very little to what has already been said. The one point I would like to make is that while hearing the truth and reading the truth and even agreeing that it is the truth is rather easy, making it a part of our life is another and more difficult thing. I think the current saying is "You talk the talk but can you walk the walk." Not an easy thing and worth a great deal of meditation. More fuel for the thought machine.