| A Visit to A Volcano | |||||||||
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| Mount St. Helens is an eerie place to visit. Elemental forces of enormous power have exploded violently here, tearing away over 1300 feet from the elevation of the mountain, and flattening over 230 square miles of forest. Close to the blast, huge logs lay flat out on the ground as though tossed by giants and then covered in the light gray gritty ash of volcanic fallout, while farther out, skeletal trunks point crazily to the sky. The sheer immensity of the devastation is truly awe-inspiring. There is a sense of raw power lurking under the surface, waiting to come to life in an instant. I was uneasy being there, as if trespassing into a moment of creation or destruction not meant for human eyes. My mind warned me, �tread lightly, lest you awaken the sleeping giant�. Although there is a building with models of the mountain before and after, and a seismograph recording each tremor in real time, as an attempt by man to control and understand the elemental forces at work, the devastated landscape told the story with little need for interpretation. Everything is covered in ash and grit, the color of the moon. I almost felt as though I was not on earth anymore. It is a place haunted by its own cataclysmic power. Near the summit the wind sings a metallic other-worldly note, that lifts the hair straight up from your head. A warning from some demi-god perhaps, of something yet to come. I felt that I should be making an offering to the inhuman powers that caused this, to appease them, so that they might spare my puny existence. Such a vast moonscape of destruction, mile after mile of ash covered logs, and in the distance, disquietingly, the steam still rises from the huge crater. I knew it was not going to erupt while I was there, at least all of the instruments indicated this, but my primitive brain was screaming from underneath the facade, �leave, leave while you still can get out, while you are still alive!�. Meanwhile, on the surface, I was calmly looking at the exhibits and the scenery, not wanting to give into this unreasoning fear reaction that the mountain had inspired in me. It is as though the terror of the people and animals vaporized in the violence of the eruption still lingers in the air. The image of hell, with its fire and brimstone, perhaps fits a little too closely to a volcano. Even the 22 year old echoes of it were too much for my imagination. I felt an irrational need to get away! On the way out, at the very bottom of the mountain, I stopped and bought a Mount St. Helens souvenir coffee mug. |
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