Arrow-right Camera

The Spokesman-Review Newspaper The Spokesman-Review

Friday, October 30, 2020  Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883
Partly Cloudy Night 35° Partly Cloudy

Tag search results

Tags let us describe our content with keywords, making it easier to find what you're most interested in. Use the search box to look for tags, or explore our coverage with the lists below.

Summer Stories: ‘What Rises Beneath’ by Jess Walter

It was quiet for 140 years. Then, in March, the mountain began to rumble: earthquakes, bursts of steam, blue flame, ash clouds that sparked 2-mile bolts of lightning. All spring, the volcano seethed, spewed and shuddered, magma bubbling up its throat and pushing the north flank out 5 feet a day.

Summer Stories: ‘Ashes to Ashes’ by Julia Sweeney

It was a Sunday morning in May, and Ben had just left Angela’s dilapidated Seattle apartment building in good spirits. After a year of flirting, yearning and maneuvering (and with the aid of some Jack Daniels added to the espresso they sipped while playing chess at Last Exit on Brooklyn the night before), he’d finally gotten Angela to invite him home.

Summer Stories: ‘Saint Helen and the Spokanites’ by Samuel Ligon

Paw Paw said it was just hippies on the mountain got smote. And fornicators. “Nary a Christian among them,” he said. “What about my Grandpa Murphy’s camp,” I said. “Closed,” Paw-Paw said. “And they was Catholic anyway – not Christian.” “Catholic is Christian,” my mother said. “And it’s not just hippies up there.”

Summer Stories: ‘Bandits’ by Sharma Shields

When Mom fell in love with the man of ash, we tried, at first, to be happy for her. We vacuumed, we mopped, we sang. We swept up the ashes without complaint. Even then the thin film of him settled beneath our fingernails or whirled up at us from a plumped cushion, catching in our eyelashes.

Summer Stories: ‘Red Zone’ by Ben Goldfarb

Hank went down to the dock before dawn. Dirty spring snow lingered along the cobble path that led from cabin to lakeshore. The mist hung so thick that he heard the canoe before he saw it, the rhythmic clunk of aluminum on wood. 

Gardening: Volcanic ash helps keeps soil very fertile

Monday marked the 40th anniversary of the eruption of Mount St. Helens. I was mowing my yard that day before a really big (or so I thought) thunderstorm moved in. My geologist husband missed the career high point. He was in New York City and was not happy to miss it. All I had was an old Instamatic camera with half a roll of film to record it. For those of you who didn’t get to experience this event, just imagine everything covered with a heavy, gray talcumlike powder. This rock powder contained a lot of abrasive silica. It got into everything and wore down engine and machinery parts very quickly. The city street crews had to mix it with damp sawdust to be able to scoop it off the street before it plugged storm drains and turned to something that resembled concrete. Wheat farmers in the Palouse got yields of over 100 bushels an acre that summer but they had to sharpen their combine blades after each trip around the field.

For Spokesman-Review photographer, the St. Helens eruption is seared in the memory

The entire horizon was filled with the eruption and everything was a shade of gray. No color. No beautiful forests or lovely lakes. No backwoods roads or logging camps. Total destruction from the mountain blowing the top 1,300 feet off and throwing out 3.7 billion cubic yards of debris at temperatures above 600 degrees.

Summer Stories: The Thick Darkness by Shawn Vestal

It came as Father said it would come, a shroud over the sun, a night in the day, a black pall upon the earthly coffin of the wicked. At the campground, the Forest Service man came and asked for $16.