May 18, 1980. The day Mt. St. Helens blew up. It's one of those events
that a person always remembers. I was in Spokane, over 200 air miles
across Washington state from the mountain. But it got pitch-black in
mid-afternoon. We were buried in 3/4 of an inch of volcanic ash, which
is finely-powdered silica the consistency of flour. There was quite a
mess for days and weeks to come. I didn't have a good camera then, as
I'd sold my Leica M2 to help pay for my bassoon. But I do have one
photo of myself taken with a rudimentary film point-and-shoot the next
morning.
<https://www.flickr.com/photos/24844563@N04/49910974171/in/dateposted-public/>
Today I commemorated the anniversary by photographing the jar of ash I
saved that morning.
<https://www.flickr.com/photos/24844563@N04/49910974146/in/dateposted-public/>
I was doing a lot of freelance writing then. The eruption gave me the
opportunity to write a first-person account of what happens when a
volcano dumps on your city. If you'd like to read it, use the two links
below, and view large. Reading it today, I was struck by how similar
people's behavior was then and now. Click on the photos to view large,
and the text is quite readable.
<https://www.flickr.com/photos/24844563@N04/49910453643/in/dateposted-public/>
<https://www.flickr.com/photos/24844563@N04/49911270277/in/dateposted-public/>
--Peter
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