If it weren’t for all the trees, I could probably see Mount Saint Helens from my house. On clear days, I do see it as I drive into town.

Those of you who are old enough probably remember the eruption of Mount Saint Helens forty-six years ago this week. I certainly do. I had just completed four years in the Navy and returned home with my British wife, Lorraine, and our infant son. I rented a house in town and got a job.

Kyle eats a hotdog during an eruption later in the summer.

The major eruption happened on Sunday, May 18, 1980. Fifty-seven people died that day. Many of the bodies were never found. But I knew nothing of the tragedy that morning—only the great show provided for our little town. Lightning and thunder resounded as ash rose sixteen miles into the sky and flowed east with the jet stream across the country.

Because of the winds, none of the ash fell in our area. A few days later, Lorraine and I climbed into our Volkswagen Bug and traveled toward the mountain to see what we could. Uprooted trees, mud, and gray ash clogged the Cowlitz River, but I wanted to turn east and head up along the Toutle River, closer to the volcano. That was not to be. When I turned off the interstate, the State Patrol had established roadblocks and waved all traffic back onto the highway.

While the mountain remained technically active, I remember thinking the eruption was over and our lives would soon return to normal. However, exactly one week after the first eruption, the phone rang in the morning darkness of my bedroom. Lorraine picked up the receiver and offered a sleepy, “Hello?”

“Lorraine do you have the windows open?” I could hear my mother’s voice over the phone.

“Yes,” Lorraine answered. It had been a warm night and several windows were still open.

“Close them. The mountain erupted again and it’s covering our area.”

In her robe, Lorraine hurried to close the windows as I jumped from bed and pulled on jeans and a shirt. Once dressed, I headed straight for the front door and stepped onto the covered porch. I’ve forgotten the exact time, but I remember thinking there should have been some hint of sunlight. I held up my hand. A dim light from the house provided only a shadowy image of it. Nothing else was visible. The power remained on, but why couldn’t I see the streetlights?

With one unseen foot, I searched for the porch steps and carefully moved forward into the front yard and a rain of ash so thick I couldn’t see either the street before me or the house behind me. I held out my arms and enjoyed the feeling of the unseen ash as it fell from the sky. Carefully, I moved deeper into the darkness. Then it occurred to me that I might get lost walking in my tiny yard. I turned around and, after several cautious steps, found my house again.

For the next several hours, I watched and waited as the ash cloud thinned and morning sunlight finally pushed through to the ground. Well into the day, the streetlights still helped illuminate a gray world. I ventured outside again. Like snow, the ash covered everything, but unlike snow, it would not melt and disappear.

On the radio that morning, a health department official advised wearing masks to protect our lungs. Lorraine soon walked to a nearby store, but their limited supply had already sold out. So she folded cloth into bandanas, and we used them for about a month.

The town council told residents to clear the sidewalks of ash, so I used a snow shovel to pile it up. Cars on the road created gray clouds of ash and fine grit that seemed to get everywhere. I stretched old pantyhose over the air intake of our car to help keep it out. I’m not sure it worked. Lorraine seemed to be constantly sweeping and washing, but the residue remained—even between the sheets on the bed.

There were more eruptions that summer, but they were all minor. Gradually, the grit and gray disappeared, and the grass, shrubs, and trees returned to emerald green. Even on the mountain, life recovered and continued on.

If you have a memory of the Mount Saint Helens eruption, please share it in the comments below.

Remembering the Eruptions