The Day The Mountain Blew What Started Out As A Bright Spring Day Turned Into A Dark Reminder Of Mother Nature’S Force

The sun was shining through the windows on May 18, 1980. Blue skies above, a few clouds drifting about and a gentle breeze blowing the pasture grass. What a beautiful Sunday it was going to be.

My husband John and I started breakfast and while the aroma of eggs filled the air our son, Dan, came driving in the driveway in his Jeep, to join us for breakfast.

Our talk drifted to the recent minor volcanic rumblings at Mount St. Helens. It was more than 300 miles away so we thought it unlikely we’d ever see anything except TV coverage.

The fact that we even had a volcano in our general area was unique enough. One usually thinks of them in Hawaii or off somewhere else, so the possibility of an eruption in our region was not something we thought about much.

Once breakfast was over, John grabbed his hat and made for the barn. We had a garden to work and an acre of lawn to attack. Dan took off to wash his car. A neighbor called to remind us that we were to get some young trees from them that day.

John started filling the truck with trash for our trip to the dump. I started for the truck, and heard the phone ringing. It was Dan saying that he’d heard Mount. St. Helens had just erupted in “an awesome display of destructive power.”

Dan said the ash fallout was heading our way on the prevailing wind. I assumed we were too far away for any danger. Even the chance of seeing the fallout seemed unlikely. But this was all new to us - what did we know about volcanoes?

We got in the truck, turned on the radio, and my views were hastily changed. This was not a simple quake or another steamy show - a 10-mile stream of ash and steam was rising into the sky! Towns were buried, rivers of mud and debris were covering roads and logging camps.

We made a quick trip to the dump and headed for the neighbors’ house. The sun still was shining but the wind was lifting and to the southwest a haze was beginning to fill the sky.

We pulled into the tree-lined driveway and were greeted by our friend with a shovel in hand. He and John went in search of the trees.

By then the wind was really blowing and the sky was losing that bright blue of the early morning turning gray and the gray was getting overhead very quickly. It was now about 1:30 p.m. and was in the 70’s.

John got the trees and we hurried home to batten down the hatches.

The recent rains had greened up everything at home, and blowing grasses and lovely lilacs were a treat.

We began planting the trees, with an eye to the approaching gray mass and aware of the quickening winds.

By 2:30 p.m., it was growing darker by the minute. We decided all other yard work would have to wait and put away the tools.

The cloud was now overhead, and a fine sifting of gray powdery ash was now beginning to cover everything. The lawn was taking on a gray look when only minutes ago it had been so beautifully green. My lilacs also were turning gray.

We began to taste it in our mouths, and our eyes began to burn. It was now 3 p.m. and was almost dark. We went inside and had to turn on the lights to see.

The wind carried the strange gray ash to every blade of grass, to the fence posts, the roofs. The cars were all gray.

The worst part lasted about an hour, and the dark mass moved slowly to the east. The sky was becoming light again, and we found by 5 p.m. the lights could go off.

The radio began broadcasting Civil Defense orders. We were to store water for several days’ use. We were told to stay in, and not drive. Later those who didn’t heed that advice were sorry.

The phone kept ringing. The sons and neighbors called to see how we were and if we were watching. What else could we do? We were glued to window and radio.

I finally took to the oven and baked a goodie with the fresh rhubarb the neighbor had given me that morning.

I called it my St. Helen’s Surprise. It was custard and rhubarb and a crusty top. It was so good I made three in the three days we were housebound.

Monday morning came and we wondered what to do. They said to stay in, but John was a mailman. All schools closed and so did the businesses.

John did not get the word, so with his bandanna handkerchief over his face, long sleeves and hat, he ventured out. He decided to try the truck, not wanting to ruin the new car. All the way to work, he saw stranded vehicles that had strangled air filters.

He returned home an hour later, slowly driving in the driveway in a cloud of ash. He brought more stories of the downtown area and the many stranded cars along the way.

The roads were covered in an inch of gray-black ash, and the slightest breeze made it a cloud, so that visibility was zero. And it still continued to sift down from the murky sky.

We noticed that the different layers were different colors - there were several shades of gray. It was really interesting and we were beginning to realize what a bit of history we were in the middle of.

Spokane was closed to all traffic. No one could leave Coeur d’Alene. Only emergency trips were allowed. The markets were open, and the main items being bought were bread, milk and beer.

Hotels and motels were filled. Schools and other buildings, as well as private homes, were opened to the stranded.

Air filters were scarce as were the masks. Most wore bandannas on their faces. Soon the local defense people were handing out surgical masks. We were to wear them all the time we were outside.

The radio finally reported on Wednesday we were not in danger, the water was not polluted, so we could begin the monumental task of cleaning up. The ash was soft and fine, like powder, and it was hard to scoop up dry. The streets were full of it, the street department was trying to clean up, hose down and sweep.

Then we were blessed with some rain showers. The rain lowered the dust, helped to wash it off the roofs, yards and streets.

Many of us had just begun to see our gardens spring to life. We tenderly brushed the leaves of new shoots and washed off our plants and flowers. The garden did prosper, but my lilacs never returned to their original selves.

When the wind blew, the ash came all over again. Some people would shovel piles of ash to the curb for the city pickup. They would put small flags on the top - so we had many small St. Helens everywhere.

Motels had slogans to help remember the day. Everywhere there were first annual St. Helens sales and specials.

After all, It was an event like we had never seen before - and hopefully would not again.

We made a point of gathering bottles of the ash to save, to act as a reminder of the masks, the slippery roads, and the eeriness of the dark day the ash fell on our little part of the world.

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Handle Extra from time to time will publish personal essays from Kootenai County residents. To submit an essay for consideration, e-mail Handle Extra Editor Ken Sands at kens@spokesman.com, or send a fax to 765-7149, or send the essay to The Idaho Spokesman-Review at 608 Northwest Blvd. Suite 200, Coeur d’Alene, ID 83814.