O n one of these thin ridges, a narrow trail snakes its way up through gigantic old growth stands of Douglas and Noble firs, many over 30 feet in circumference. At times, just a few yards to either side, lay 10 square miles of total devastation, a mind numbing geographic juxtaposition of ancient vegetation versus sterilized rock. D own low, the perfect needle-covered single track winds slowly up through a rich maple and alder forest, thick with sweet huckleberries and vibrant colors in the fall. Prime Bigfoot country. Mt. St. Helens looms into view every few minutes like a 5000 foot tidal wave.
Steam rises from hidden vents near the summit.
Bigfoot is watching as the mountain above snores. T he trail emerges suddenly at the top of the ridge when the ground turns suddenly from black earth and pine needles to white pumice and dust. It's as if you've come to the end of the first reel of Dances With Wolves and the projectionist puts on a reel of Star Wars by mistake. Just a few feet off the trail, a 20 foot wide vertical slot in the rock plunges several hundred feet into the canyon below. I lean over the edge and peer down, looking for a trace of that sneaky devil.