The Words To Move Me

Husband is the frosting on my brownie, the lace on my curtains, the giant panda at my state fair.  His energy keeps me going and his hugs keep me warm.  However sometimes his advice is about as helpful as drilling holes in a sinking boat, filling those holes with dynamite then blowing up the boat before it actually sinks, which it would have done far more slowly without the holes or the dynamite.

The opposite of helpful, is what I am getting at.

Johnston Ridge Trail, Mount St Helens, August 7, 2011.

Elevation: About 1300 m about sea level (4,300 ft)
Slope pitch: 30 degrees
Trail Description: "Experienced hikers in excellent physical condition will find this trail moderately challenging.  Not recommended for hikers who are not goats."

The trail head was a parking lot filled with families, laughing children, bus loads of tourists from seniors travel groups and a Boy Scout troupe from Seattle.  They were all heading to the interpretive centre.  No one was wearing anything more sturdy than flip flops on their feet. I laughingly thought this would be a breeze.  I said as much to Husband who was stuffing a kit bag with extra coats, a compass, water bottles and granola.

'Mmm-hmm.  Sweetie, do you know if I packed my PLB?'  Husband always packs all sorts of acronyms with us on a hike. They act like talismans to keep away the bears, cougars and mosquitoes.  I hoped they worked on volcanoes too.

The trail started out as a broad footpath and we encountered groups of those same families and Boy Scouts along the way. It was desert-dry, our feet kicked up puffs of soft, white dust and soon, like Pigpen, we were covered up to our knees in a thin film of it.  But as the groups of families dwindled we found ourselves on a narrow track about as wide a dinner plate.  


The slope on our left was formed of granite and covered in loose pebbles of pumice, blown there during the violent eruption in 1980 when Mount St Helens woke up.  The further we hiked, the narrower the track became until we reached a point that had clearly been the site of a small slide.  Husband danced across this funky little spot with the sure-footed grace of a dancer.  I looked down at the puffy clouds below me, at the tiny ant-like elks on the valley floor and, naturally, froze solid.

Quietly, so I wouldn't startle the volcano, and hoping he had an acronym in his pack which would transport me back to the hotel jacuzzi, I called out to Husband.

'Sweetheart. I am having a problem.'

Without hesitation, Husband was back at the slide.  His darling face radiated confidence in my ability to deal with this situation. I gazed into his eyes and knew the next words out of my sweetheart's mouth would unlock my frozen legs and un-curdle my blood.


'Don't worry.  When you fall, you'll probably only go as far as that outcropping before you slide to a stop.'


Pure shock and outrage propelled my body across the slide, hands outstretched to throttle.  To his credit, Husband 'misinterpreted' my reaching grasp, returned my 'hug' proudly, then turned and carried on up the path.