Of Apes, Cougars and the Lake at the Bottom of the Cave

** The following words are a record of my personal journey and are not intended to replace or circumvent any recommend guidance provided by your health care provider. Before starting any life changing endeavor, such as a diet and/or exercise regimen, please start by having an honest conversation with your doctor. Oh and please don't ask for cave locations. Believe me, if I can find them, so can you.**

I've lived in the Pacific Northwest my entire life, camped, hiked, hunted & fished with impunity and I had no idea about the secrets that weave down the slopes of Mt St Helens, beyond Ape Cave. Hidden by the forest floor and armored by government policy, a series of lava tubes lay in wait like gold flecks hiding in river sands.

But that shouldn't be the case, right?

I remember the 1980 eruption clearly. A tender 4 years old, my grandfather drove my mother, infant sister and I fifty miles south west to the Columbia River Gorge that Sunday afternoon; in a move that shocked my mother in its self, church had been calmly canceled for the day. Although we were still ninety miles off from the foot of the emerging ash cloud, it was clearly visible, towering over on the Horse Heaven Hills that stood between us like a dark specter of vaporized rock. Streaked black and grey, the ash column looked like it had been painted on the horizon, as if we were insects trapped in some ornately crafted glass jar. 

I remember asking where all the hot lava was, fearful of dodging a flow of molten rock in a real life game 'the floor is lava'. Would we have enough time to move our loved ones from it's path?

My grandfather's reply? "I don't think it's that kind of volcano, kid." His words, as always, were filed away as immutable fact in my mind. A TV full of talking heads, blasted coverage day and night under black blanketed skies, all agreeing that 'Mt St Helens isn't that kind of volcano, ' all the while displaying stock footage of iridescent orange Hawaiian-style eruptive material to soothe a worried public in a campaign of self reinforcing assurance. As if it was some how such a distraction was more shocking or impressiveness than local mountain that turned a swath of the Gifford-Pinchot forest into a dead, grey, baked moonscape by forcing its own innards up from some unseen crack in the planet. 

A May has not passed since that day that the eruption is not regurgitated in the local media, with each iteration watering down the stupefying immense event that it was; in less time than it takes to flush a toilet, a mountain literally collapsed on its self, uncapping its gas charged magma guts and exploded to the northeast, taking a good deal of the peak (and anyone/thing in the way) with it.

As a young adult, my focus turned more to Mt Hood, given its closer proximity and the fountain of recreational opportunities it offers. Hot springs, waterfalls, old dirt roads - all the usual distractions that attract twenty-something bachelors held me magnetized to the thick green apron of the old stratovolcano as often as I could spare. But that year since I'd been caving re-centered that. As I drenched myself in books, blogs and research papers, the truth of the matter became far less a stance of perspective: yes, Mt St Helens can be, in fact 'one of those kinds of volcanoes'. Maybe not right now and certainly not in any of the cone building activity, but the landscape none the less bares the unmistakable marks of hot, runny liquid rock oozed about like an unchecked toddler in command of a bottle of chocolate syrup was let loose in a garden center. So do much of the land to the east and south, easily providing blatant evidence of that which we are told is not supposed to be in the Cascade Mountains to anyone with more than a casual interest in looking at the scenery.

*****

A year, nearly to the moment passed before my brother, an old friend and my sons ventured back to Mt. St. Helens for an extended weekend caving. We rented a cabin in the retired logging village turned gas and beer outlet known as Cougar, a hard stone's throw away from where we'd be exploring for the next three days. The next morning before dawn, we set out to Ape cave, deciding unanimously to hike to the top and take the path less taken. We had started here the year before, finding it less crowded and far more interesting. And harder - we all moved down the buried river valley at the rate of the (s)lowest common denominator: me. This year was different in that I had taken the chance to quit smoking, which did help, but hauling my muffin top down the infamous eight foot frozen lava fall was still a chore, and I was embarrassed that I need assistance navigating the obstacle. 

 

 

The eight foot 'lavafall' in upper Ape Cave. The knotted cotton rope was fix to an anchor that had been set in place before establishment of the Mt St Helens National Volcanic Monument in 1982. Photo by me.

After heading back to lick our wounds and recover the calories we'd burned, we decided to go back to the place where I'd caught a glimpse of purpose in the dark the season before: Lake Cave.

The evening before, I'd sheepishly set out a year of research neatly bound and organized in several volumes for inspections. Feeling a need to prove or justify my obsession, I set out to show off the collapsed entrance to my eldest son and friend, Steve. In an odd turn we became lost for a sum of 10 minutes heading back to the car. In a discussing meant to keep our spirits up while we relocated the trail, we decided that any way one cut the cake, we were having a blast and regardless of our current predicament, we would do this undeterred... as a club.  

Lake cave could be considered a lower extension of Ape cave. And once you have it plotted on a map, its conspicuousness is betrayed, as is the likely location of an even lower run, known as Ole's cave. Much less 'technical' and out of the way, Lake cave is nearly pristine and still invites those explorers as smitten as we.

As we ventured further than we had the previous season, passing under the jumble of rock that my nephew so adored, we noted differences in the rock face that could only be the result of several overlapping flows. Some grey with silica, others runny and green with olivine sandwiched between dark, rusting basalts deposited in layers. Confirming the growing truth in my mind, none of it beyond the sand and pumice that covered the floor, washed in from the 1980 eruption agreed with the public perception and accepted stance on what Mt St Helens was. 

It was still early in the season and ankle-deep water freely flowed down the grade, cascading from a collapse in the eastern wall. The surface of the irregular opening, some 6 feet above the cave floor, had been worn smooth by more than just this seasonal snow run off; rounded stones of granite and shists littered the area, intermingled with bits of red river clays and the remnants pumice worked into pea-size pieces. I found myself wondering if perhaps we stood in the carcass of the alpine stream that carved the valley before it was the highway for molten rock. Maybe. I felt wise in feeling that I knew enough to know that I really didn't know anything, but fancied the idea of finding out for certain. Playing to safety, we ended our venture before reaching the namesake lake that covers the terminal lava plug a the lower end. 

We hiked and explored over the next afternoon, examining contours in the terrain that are difficult to interpret on any map, vowing to return or travel to whatever smudge on the map I could find. We signed the guest book at the cabin "Dead Canary Caving - We had a blast!"

My resolve reinforced, I could not wait for the adventure to come. 

Kai and Collin waiting to carry stuff for the old guys Aren't kids useful? Picture by Me.

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