Toutle River

An excerpt from Chasing Eden: a Memoir

It had been five years since Mount Baker had let off steam, but all the hype had evaporated along with the plumes. I wasn’t worried about Mount St. Helens since Mount Baker was still standing.

Daddy drove us to Mount St. Helens on a Saturday afternoon. We loaded as many people as we could fit into our roomy van and headed for the mountain. It was an hour away as the eagle flies, but it took a couple of hours to get there.

The road to St. Helens was lined with signs. It seemed everyone had something to say. I read one handwritten sign out loud. “Mount St. Helens is alive and well,” and everyone in the van laughed. The idea that any of our sleepy Pacific Northwest mountains would wake and turn into a volcano sounded like a conspiracy theory.

Some signs warned people to stay away from the mountain, while others joked about old man Harry Truman who lived at the Spirit Lake Lodge. The newspaper reported he’d been knocked out of his bed by an earthquake, but he refused to leave his many cats and the lodge, which had been his home for decades.

The closer we got to the mountain, the slower the traffic. Lots of people were sight-seeing with us. We anticipated seeing steam or some sign of volcanic activity, but we ran into a roadblock long before we got to the mountain. Daddy stopped the van to read the warning sign.

“No entry beyond this point. This area has been designated as an unsafe zone. All unauthorized access is prohibited.”

I stared at a patch of wildflowers on the other side of the barricade. The purple flowers were a picture of tranquility—not even a breeze stirred them. The warning seemed out of place. I begged Daddy to drive around the barrier like we saw other cars doing, but he insisted on turning the van around.

“We need to get home–it’ll be getting dark soon.”

One week after our trip to Mount St. Helens, I slipped into the backyard to wander through the garden. I was pushing some raspberry canes back under the twine to hold them in place when Jake came flying out the back door, yelling:

“Jesus is coming! Jesus is coming!”

I looked up at the blue sky, half-expecting to see Jesus and his angels coming in a cloud. My stomach lurched, and my breath caught, while I silently screamed, “Noooo! I’m not ready!” I thought of all the nights I’d lain awake trying to remember my forgotten sins. And now, Jesus was coming, and it was too late.

Mara ran out the door behind Jake, “Mount St. Helens just blew up! It’s on TV!”

I tried to comprehend her words as I followed my siblings back into the house, leaving the garden gate wide open behind us.

We must’ve watched the replay of the mountain erupting ten times. Then came the stories. Only three people had died in the red zone–a scientist, a reporter, and old Harry Truman, who was obliterated along with his cats and the Spirit Lake Resort.

The rest of the people who died hadn’t even crossed the barricade. Many were campers. Later I heard of one family of four who recorded their conversation on the way up the mountain on a cassette tape. They were joking much like we had the week before. When the kids asked their parents if they would see the mountain blow up, the parents reassured them it was safe. They all died from hot ash filling their lungs. The only difference between their fate and ours was one week.

Daddy’s face grew serious. “We need to make things right with God.” For family devotions, he read a passage from a religious book and gave a long prayer asking God to forgive us for our sins. At the time, it felt like God was a dragon, breathing hot lava and ash down our necks. I went to bed before anyone else—mostly so I could sit up, rock, and pray begging God to save my soul.

A couple weeks later, when we moved yet again, we drove past what was left of Mount St. Helens. I’d seen pictures of it on TV, but seeing it in person was a shock. It was like seeing a disfigured friend for the first time after an accident.

We could smell the Toutle River long before we saw it. I pinched my nostrils shut and breathed through my mouth, but the stench of death was so palpable, I could taste it.

When Mount St. Helens blew on May 18, 1980, it forced the North Fork of the Toutle River to change its course forever. Pyroclastic flows of melted ice and snow created mudflows, washing away bridges on major rivers downstream. Thousands of animals died, and 57 people lost their lives. The stench was a disgusting soup of animal carcasses, mixed with houses, cars, trees, and boulders. A snow-like coating of ash whitened the landscape.

Looking out across the flattened landscape, I felt a kinship to the river. Just as the Toutle had to reroute and twist its way through uncharted territory, carrying the stench of death with it, due to no fault of its own—I had to reimagine my own life, and go with the flow, due to my parents’ stinking choices. As innocent bystanders, we were both forced to leave our comfort zones—and forced to forge a new path beyond the destruction of Mount St. Helens.

There was life on the other side of the volcano, but it was altered. I knew one thing for sure—Daddy’s rules no longer made sense. It was time to find my own true north.

From Chasing Eden: A Memoir

© 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.