Attacking a volcano

Thirty years ago Mount St. Helens went on the offensive, showing the region all it could do.
Recently I went on the offensive, against the volcano. I wanted to show it all I could do.
In the battle of man vs. mountain, nature vs. nurture, good vs. evil - evil prevailed.
My good friend Sam Jones and I set out to conquer Mount St. Helens on April 24, less than a month away from the 30-year anniversary of its devastating eruption.
Our ascent to the top was delayed by our lack of planning and lack of attention to detail, specifically my ignoring of the check-in guy's directions on how to get to the base, thus leading us on a 30-minute scenic, waterside detour. He gave us these directions when we bought our $22 permits at 9 a.m. while some guy behind him was wolfing down an early morning bowl of clam chowder.
When we finally set foot on the trail, at 10:08 a.m., we were ready to make it to the top. After all, the reports we'd read suggested we'd make it to the caldera in anywhere from 6-9 hours: We had plenty of time.
Little did we know, we had plenty of snow as well. And as it turned out, we certainly did not have plenty of gear.
In the parking lot we saw about a half dozen other folks preparing to trek up the crag, all of them outfitted in snowshoes or skis. Sam was wearing his gortex-lined, vibram-soled, brown Asolo hiking boots and I my black and silver, synthetic fiber running shoes.
Luckily he had an extra pair of Gators - what looks like a leg warmer but really keeps snow out of your shoes. That helped.
"We're minimalists," he said. Or fools... who really knows?
Soon into the trip, I realized the workout was going to be extreme. My training included a walk from Pittsburg Road to St. Helens High School and a round of disc golf at Pier Park in Portland. Not exactly heavy duty. Also, neither of my two warm-ups included snow.
Mount St. Helens this time of year likes having snow. Before long we found ourselves sinking to mid-shin every so often, which really hampers a climb.
The wildlife decided it best to be tame on this particular day. On our ascent through the timberline, we didn't see or hear many woodland creatures. That could have been a result of the people ahead of us, our constant chatter, or Sam's squeaky knee brace. Whatever the cause, we missed that part of the adventure.
"Now we're going to start going up the mountain," Sam - a much more experienced mountaineer than myself - said an hour or two in. The thing about that was, I thought we already had. Instead, we were just getting into the steep part.
And we were still nearly up to our knees in snow at some points. I had the fortune of following in his footsteps, quite literally, most of the way. This kept me on top of the snow after he had the fun of packing it in.
To this point, our turnaround views of what lay beneath us left us wanting more. Thanks, gray skies.
The snow swirling around us did, however, create a magical ambiance amid the silver fir trees. Jimmy Stewart's snow globe wouldn't compare.
But after we got out of those fir trees and above the timberline, the mountain became steep. Very steep. Steep enough we stopped to eat some trail mix and a half a sandwich each.
Even the raisins in the trail mix tasted good on this day.
After our mini-lunch break, it was time to head up the ridge, aiming for the top.
We scaled one tall ridge amid the clouds and moved on to the next one. But while heading to the top of this one, my joints were acting up, my legs were heavy, and, worst of all, it was becoming very difficult to see.
We found a pair of rocks to give us somewhat of a landmark, but they were just a pair of pepper grains inside a salt shaker at this point.

Just then we saw a snow-shoer heading down the mountain and talked with him a bit. As it turned out, a 30-time climber of the mountain said this was the worst conditions he'd ever seen, and he was turning back. It was then we decided we weren't going to make it to the top on this day.
It was just then that my hands started thinking they didn't want my brain to know they were there. I wiggled my fingers more than St. Helens High School students do theirs while Zach Sweeney's shooting free throws.
The two of them - brain and hands - made contact again.
Somewhat defeated - though not entirely, as this was both of our first mountain - we slipped and slid back down the mountain. A lot of the trip down came in the sitting position. I'm not as good at sliding on my butt as Sam is on his, but it was still a good way to end the day. Not quite as good as the skiers we enviously watched glide past, but good nonetheless.

About 3 p.m. we reached the parking lot, changed into dryer clothes and headed back to the clam chowder store for refreshing drinks and warm food. There, we learned we'd climbed about 2,000 feet and made it basically half way to the caldera.
In pretty deep snow.
So, Mount St. Helens, you may have won this time, but it's not over. We'll be back. And this time we're coming when your layer of defense has disappeared, leaving nothing but rock and trails for us to slip and slide on.