It began simply enough…

August 5th, 2000. It was the thirty-third year celebrating the day of my birth. I was heading back from a trip up north through Oregon to Washington to Canada and back again. On that day I awoke to a warm morning sun just north of Mount St. Helens National Monument.

It was my plan to hike around the Mountain Ridges North of the recently (in geological terms) exploded mountain, take in the glorious views and take photos of the abundant flora that was repopulating the area, giving color to the gray, lifeless landscape. Then I would scale down to the foot of the mountain, walk in its broken shadow, climb back up to the last overlook provided for autos, and hitch a ride back to my car before nightfall.

The planned hike was to be no more than eighteen miles, a full days work.

By days end I had hiked thirty-three miles (my own age in miles), ran out of water (not once, but twice), and climbed a total elevation gain of seven thousand feet (that’s seven thousand feet up, and seven thousand feet down)!

The details of my idiocy are not important. I misjudged the difficulty, misinterpreted the maps, and misled myself into believing I knew what the hell I was doing. It was nearly four in the morning before I slid into my tent and slept the sleep of the dead.

Oh well, I got some nice pictures though…