Helen, you beauty...

We started at 4,800 feet. The temperature was perfect, in my opinion, 45/48° at the head of the trail. We registered our names and permit numbers and began our ascent. I was prepared for the snow, I had all the recommended food and water, I had the appropriate clothing for any possible weather the higher we got (cold, rain, wind) and was comfortably ready for some of the physical challenges that we'd encounter along the way. I had been training since May; it was time for Mother Helen. Only 100 people receive permits each day to make this climb and I was one of them. We were in a group of 10 and all of us were pumped and determined to tickle her crater top. [To make sure everyone is up to speed with what we were about to encounter: This is a 10 mile round-trip hike with roughly a 4,000 foot gain and 8,365 feet at the summit. Keep in mind...in 5 miles we were ascending 4,000 feet. That's no walk in the park. :)]

As we made our 2.1 mile journey through her wooded pass, it was intoxicating. [By the way, I will refer to Mt. St. Helens by using "her" quite often through this story.] It was intoxicating because it was sinking in that I was about to check off a huge goal that I made last year, I was on her, I was experiencing her, I was breathing her air and feeling the soil beneath my feet...I was here. Immediately we started weaving around her side and saw insane views that truly aren't justified through pictures. The sun was just about to come over the tree line, the air was crisp and I was in awe with every step that I took. Eventually, the trees started to thin and the snow was now in our sightline. We were leaving her tree protection and heading into our first 2,500 foot vertical climb over the boulder fields. The next mile and a half was going to get more challenging. 

As we began to navigate the rocks and boulders of ash pumice, I was grinning ear-to-ear. I couldn't believe that I was here, I was doing it!...and so far, in just my hiking boots and the gear that I wore. The sun had made her appearance, the air was clear/clean and there wasn't a wisp of wind. We couldn't have had better weather. We got through about 1/5 of the boulder field and found our first stopping point to eat, take some pictures, and rest for a moment. That's where we started to see more people turning around. We talked to a few of them as they passed and they said that they couldn't get enough traction on the snow and had to turn around. As we gathered our things and got ready to continue on, I noticed right away that my hiking boots were not cutting it. I was slipping even with using my trekking poles but I came prepared to reach the top and knew it was time to pull out the yaktraxs. (Yaktraxs are chains and mini spikes that you attach to your boot by tough rubber. They slip over your shoe; kind of like galoshes.) Night and day difference, I could accomplish anything in these!! I was even able to put my poles away for a while and just walk up with the yaks. We continued on and it was starting to become a bit tougher. We had to literally start climbing over some boulders using all four limbs. Mind you, we all have 20-30lb packs on us while doing this. With the snow covering our path and obviously falling in-between these boulders, every step was carefully executed. I could begin to see the deep crevasses where other people had thought the step was stable but fell through about a foot or two. That sounds serious, but it would be a deep step up to your knee or mid-thigh. I was thankful that others had made the journey before me and I could see (for the most part) exactly where to step or not step. I occasionally planted my foot first and gave a little push to test the snow before actually making a firm step. I was still on my "high" through all of this physical work because I had trained to be here and worked really hard to get to this point. I was also soaking in this opportunity for whatever it was going to provide me. I often spoke to Helen while on the mountain and thanked her for keeping us all safe and unscathed thus far. I told her how beautiful she was and thanked her for the opportunity to climb on her. :) [I mean, let's be honest, she is still an active volcano and you don't want to piss her off...]. 

In all of the trail reports I read, people would often write about the boulder field section, saying that it would never end and complaining of how intense it was. I felt that, sure, but I was still grinning and in awe and, at times, giving a "woohoo" that we had just climbed 500 feet, 1,000 feet...2,000... It was incredible and this was the only thing on my agenda for the day so why not soak it in and celebrate every moment. (Is that a run-on sentence? I don't care.) We made it to a point where we had about 2,000 feet to go. I was feeling great, we snapped a few photos; one of which is now my profile photo on Facebook, for those that saw. We had a snack and carried on. Most of us stayed together through the hike, though, naturally some of us are faster than others. I am typically a slower hiker, I take my time, I watch my step. We all met up for our breaks though and talked a bit, feeding each others energy and gleaning it, too. We had come to this point at about 6,800 feet and took a break to eat, shed some clothing as the sun was warm, and apply sunscreen. We looked up to see how far we had to go. It was a decent climb and we had already been hiking for about 4 hours. We packed up and hit the trail. I immediately knew something felt different. It was A LOT harder than it had been. I stepped to the side and allowed for faster people to pass me and then carried on and took my time. We were just about to this "shelf" that took us up and over to the weather station on the mountain and I could feel my heart was working harder and my breath became shorter. I instantly said (in the few breaths I had) "I can't do this." In come my saviors, Greg and Korby. Both of these men were part of our group, are experienced climbers, and always stayed at the back of our pack to ensure everyone was safe. Greg promptly started talking to me and coaching me through this. He helped me to breathe, take one step at a time and breathe again. The hard part was that this was a narrow part of the trail, so I couldn't really step to the side or I'd be falling off the side. I have never felt something so physically hard in my entire life. My brain was sending the message to my legs to move but it was slow to deliver; as if you're waiting for that website to load but your dang wifi is weak. I wanted to crawl, I wanted to sleep. My eyes kept closing. The ten more steps I needed to take to get to a spot to sit, were excruciating. I couldn't speak or if I did, I don't remember what I said. I just remember using all of my energy to keep my eyes open and forcing one foot in front of the other before I collapsed on the side of the trail; making it to the weather station at about 7,000 feet. I remember that Greg and Korby were talking to me but I don't remember things they were saying, I don't remember what I was saying. I just remember wanting to take a nap and saying that I couldn't go on, I couldn't do it. I also remember looking out at the view and feeling drunk, I closed my eyes. This was altitude sickness. This was it, I couldn't go on. I started to sob. I couldn't complete my goal. As I write this now, I am sobbing, I am shaking, I am sad. I was 1,200 feet and a mile and a half away from my goal and I couldn't do it. 

With 99 [or so] other people on the mountain that day, it is plenty safe for me to go back down on my own. (Mom, please don't freak out, just keep reading. xo) You encounter people on the trail all the time, so it was safe and crucial for me to go back down and feel better as soon as possible. I remember Korby handing me strips of colored tracking tape to attach to every post on my way down so that they knew I got off the mountain safely. They repeated to me that it was very important for me to tie this on every marker so that they knew I was okay. I stuffed the tape under my arm and closed my eyes. A few moments later I remember feeling a little better and seeing Rob coming up to meet me. He sat and talked to me. I started to feel a little better as I began to acclimate to the elevation level. He wanted to ensure that we had our wedding photos as this was our plan: to reach the summit and have this epic wedding photo (a tradition that we've done every year; to take a photo in our wedding outfits wherever we are in life that anniversary year.) After all, we had carried our 4.5 and 5lb. outfits up with us in our packs. A quick side note...it wasn't even a thought-out plan that we were going to hike on the 22nd of September for this specific event, the 22nd was one of the only days left that had permits for purchase. It was meant to be. 

As I drank a little more water and started to feel better, we changed out of our hiking clothes and into our wedding outfits and immediately drew a crowd of paparazzi taking our photo. :-P We told people of our tradition and they snapped a few photos in amazement. We completed our mission. Now it was time to get back down the mountain. I started to tear up again thinking my journey was over. Two amazing people (you know who you are) decided they had experienced enough of Helen as well and turned back down with me. I encouraged Rob to move forward and make it to the top and told him that I would be okay. I was so close, yet so far away. Even though I was starting to acclimate, it would've taken me hours to reach the summit because I would've had to sit every couple of feet to re-acclimate. I knew that wasn't safe for anyone as time and health are both imperative to get back down. And as my fellow mountaineers would say, "Going up is optional, coming down is mandatory."

As we started back down, almost instantly I started to feel better, but climbing down big boulders and rocks was insanely difficult. On the way up you needed every limb, same going down. You also had to be extra careful as gravity was now another factor. It seemed to go on for days. An hour would pass and we would only be down a couple hundred feet. By the time we reached the tree line, we almost fell and started kissing the flat ground. If we knew we were going to be able to get back up, we would've done just that--haha. It was emotional in many ways. We had made it, we had hiked over 8 miles and nearly 2,500 vertical feet of elevation. We were unharmed but the journey was coming to an end. 

As we drove back to our cabin in the woods, I felt many emotions. I felt defeat and failure that I didn't make it. I felt joy because I experienced most of it; something I had set out to do for over a year and trained carefully to accomplish. I felt happiness that I traversed with incredible people and probably couldn't have done it without them. When we arrived back at our abode, I was tired but sadness rushed over me. I was disappointed that I had come this far and couldn't reach my destination. I cried out of despondency and exhaustion. I needed to go through this form of grief but I felt so aware. Aware of myself because I learned something new about ME. I learned more about my body and mind; I learned so much. I was grateful that Helen taught me that, along with so many small achievements throughout my journey. I was grateful that I was alive and unharmed. Sure, my muscles were tired, but I was okay.

When we got back to Seattle, I started thinking through and planning my next attempt at the summit. We watched a documentary called Meru and it inspired me to move forward with my plans until I started doing research on altitude sickness and then, that halted my pen. All of the reports/articles I came across said that it is not safe to ever go beyond that feeling and try to persevere. Your symptoms can get worse and even lead to death no matter how long you wait it out to acclimate. So I accepted my newfound quality and started to make my list of other Washington hikes [up to 6,000 feet] that I would accomplish in my future.

The journey continues...