Washington: Safeco & Mt. St. Helens

With a few days left in the honeymoon, we crossed over the border in Washington State for the final bit of exploration in the grand six-state journey out West. We ate dinner at some overly kitchy seafood restaurant in Vancouver, Washington, but decided not to spend the night there (like we mistakenly did on our first road trip in 1999). Instead, we drove up Highway 5 to Kelso, one of the closest towns to Mount St. Helens.

Outside of a bit of footage from the explosion that dumped ash over the northwest, I didn't know much about Mt. St. Helens.

After following the long and winding State Highway 504, up nearly a vertical mile to the Johnston Ridge Observatory, I learned everything I wanted to know but was (or wasn't) afraid to ask.

The ridge and observatory were named after David Johnston, a young geologist who studied St. Helens for the U.S. Geologic Survey in 1980.

Johnston's last words, screamed into his radio from the blast zone, were "Vancouver! Vancouver! This is it! Vancouver! Vancouver! Is the transmitter still working?"

When the active volcano blew on May 18, 1980, the blast was so intense that it knocked down all the trees within 230 square miles. It happened so quickly, snuffing out the oxygen in the area, that the trees never had the opportunity to burn. That explained the endless sea of fallen trees that were strewn about for miles and miles--shown at right.

The north face of the 9,677-foot-high volcano exploded with the force of a 24-megaton atomic bomb. At near-supersonic speed, an apocalyptic cloud of 1,300-degree poison gas was blown out, followed by flowing 1,470-degree magma and rock, moving quicker than any car could outrun it. It was a nightmare of epic proportions.

Several weeks after our honeymoon ended, Mt. St. Helens made headlines again with a series of small eruptions. Below, Beth and I pose in the reflection of the observatory, the imposing outline of the volcano behind us.

Heading toward Seattle, I called old Kahn friend Sean, who I had seen only a few weeks earlier at the High Sierra Music Festival. Sean was living in Seattle and was one of my few contacts in the city. I asked him to recommend a hotel that was conveniently located and not too expensive. He offered his spare bedroom, and we gratefully accepted his gracious offer.

We drove to Sean's house in West Seattle, just across the bay from downtown. His wife and son were out of town for the night, but the dogs stayed at home. Below, Sean smiles at Beth with the Seattle skyline in the background.

The match-up was relatively uninteresting: Mariners vs. Indians, with very few players I genuinely cared about. The M's were on their way to one of their worst seasons--a last place, 99-loss affair. John Olerud, one of my all-time favorite athletes, had just been released. The only true story line the game had going for it was Ichiro's pursuit of the all-time single-season hit record. I concerned myself with exploring the ballpark while scrub pitchers like J.J. Putz were getting lit up like fireworks.

Safeco Field was a magnificent shrine to the sport of baseball: modern and sleek, but not overwhelming or without character. The retractable roof was retracted, exposing a starry sky and a summer night ideal for baseball and beers. The slugfest carried on, and Indians catcher Victor Martinez (a shrewd $1 pickup by Rob Elstein in my rotisserie baseball league) hit his third home run. The switch-hitting receiver was clearly the star of the night, going 5-5 with 3 HR and 7 RBI. Before the game was over, the Tribe had slugged eight home runs--tying a club record. The rookie hurler Cliff Lee (another $1 pickup for Elstein) was the victor, advancing his record to an impressive 10-1.

Sean treated us to the under-face-value scalped tickets, and Beth and I returned the favor by buying sushi--including a delicious "Ichiro Roll," which I thought should have just been called the "Ichiroll." Who would have thought sushi in a ballpark would be a good idea? It was nice to honor the artist known as Ichiro by eating raw fish named for him. Ichiro went 1-3, getting one more base hit en route to the all-time record of 262. Watching Ichiro at home during his record-breaking season reminded me of seeing McGwire at home in St. Louis during the season he hit a record-shattering 70 home runs.

The M's lost the game 18-6, a football score: In the first days after the All-Star Break, the true level of the team's ineptitude was felt citywide. I felt no pity for the team that had eliminated the Yankees from the playoffs in 1995--crushing my childhood hero Don Mattingly's only chance to win a World Series.

Sean was an incredible host, putting us up and giving us a complete tour of the city. Though we hadn't planned on it, having a friend in an unfamiliar city was a very welcome gift. We reminisced old times, and I recognized his photos of Phish at Red Rocks from my own Red Rocks Web page. And, fittingly, as the honeymoon began with old friends, it only made sense that it should end with old friends as well. I couldn't have scripted it better.

We returned the car, at way too early o'clock, with precisely 3,700 miles logged on the trip odometer. Then it was back on a plane, homeward bound.

Above, the Seattle skyline is shown, with Safeco Field and the brand-new Qwest Field (home to the football Seattle Seahawks) visible to the south with both roofs open.

I peered out the window of the jet plane, my nose and camera lens flush flat against the oval frame. Turning away from the Pacific and toward more familiar seas, I tried to capture the final images of the awesome adventure.

Turning to face my blushing bride, I discovered she was already fast sleep. I smiled at her peaceful face and reflected on our incredible journey together.

The honeymoon was officially over, but there was no doubt in my mind that it had really only just begun.