Climbing (literally and emotionally) with a bit of big city fun.

On our way out to St. Helens the next morning, we took a detour to Tongue Mountain. Since we wouldn't be climbing Helens until the next day, we had the time and the energy and mother liked the idea of preparing with a "climb".

As opposed to the last time I had visited tongue in November, wildflowers now bloomed in place of snow and running into Mountain Lions would be a little less likely. (Of course, we had no snow to document their tracks now.) Dad is not so much into the steep hiking but each of them pushed through and we made it to the top in good time. Once there, both were immediately convinced that it was worth it. While they reaped the rewards of the view, I was quietly reminded of how amazing my mountain home is.

The drive to St. Helens was long and hot. My parents had arrived in Washington amidst the stroke of a heat wave and this day had transformed into one of the heat-i-er waves. The road to Helens was winding and by the time we arrived at the Registration/Resort area, none of us were in particularly patient moods. Mother was on a reliantless ice cream mission, ceasing all responsibility of any unpacking and putting-away of things that had to be done. I was huffing, unable to communicate very effectively, and dad was taking his cautious footsteps through the middle of it all. Fortunately, road-weary moodiness subsided and we ended the evening with homemade (chilled) soup and a movie, retiring to bed relatively early.

...because at 4:30am, we were up once again. My teammate and local mountain gal Jordan had volunteered to act as guide to our trip and having already done the trek five times (one of those being the very week before) she knew how to best ensure a no-fail/minimal misery day. With most groups taking an average of 7-10 hours to climb the 8,366-foot pile of lava boulders and ash, it was best to start as early as possible and so we were to be on the trail at 5:30am.

We were pretty much on time, I got situated with a pack that Jordan had offered to lend me and we were off. Not really my dad's idea of a good time, he'd passed on the full climber's permit but was still allowed to follow us the first 2.5 miles up to the ridge incline, which was just an easy, standard trail through the woods with some beautiful views of the rising sun. Although there was a sign to signal his que to depart, I doubt it was needed. The abrupt halt of the trail and start of haphazard boulder piles to navigate would have surely deterred him enough. I looked to the top of the ridge where I could make out some colorful dots of even earlier risers, took a deep breath, and was ready to go.

The first climb to the top of that ridge felt exciting, if not a breeze. Jordan lingered behind at mother's pace and I skipped up ahead, mounting myself atop the highest of the rocks and then doing all I could to stay on an even level of jumping from rock to rock. Before I knew it, we were almost at the top and I could feel my teasing thoughts start to think "well, this is easy!" Mother wasn't too far behind and we were all smiles in the cool morning. As with many a thing, I hadn't really taken much time to comprehend what I was getting myself into. In fact, when the team had originally planned to hike the week before, I almost opted to sign up for both times thinking no big deal of it. (it was a lucky stroke of laziness in my stupidity, not a strike of intelligence that stopped me from that.)

I had done enough hikes however, to know that I was destined to be let down by at least half a dozen false "ends in sight", so I just breathed and trekked on.

In the porcupine mountains, there had been no way that I would have strayed far from mother. We were both in dire straights and the hike had served as an exercise in our partnership. But here, with Jordan taking the reigns as a sort of mentor for her, I felt apart, like I should continue on at my pace. I paused here and there when they got out of sight and would go "boulder bed shopping" for a rock that comfortably cradled my body. They would arrive and depending on my patience, I would wait for their break to end or I would immediately plunge onward to stake out the next point. After many paradoxically reliable "false hopes", I could finally make out the signature final stretch; a pile of ash stretching upward farther than the tallest of the Sleeping Bear Dunes. I paused at the last set of boulders, thinking that we would commemorate our completion of the ash as a unified group. When mother and Jordan arrived, they declared a snack pause and we pulled out some food from the packs. Mother took one bite and then announced a sudden dizziness. I immediately told her to sit and she was glad she did, as a passing nausea quickly set in. A forlorn and selfish disappointment began to creep in as she announced she didn't think she could make it. I lightly pressed "we're almost there!" but with Jordan's expertise weighing in, there was no arguing against it; she had reached her top.



Eager to let me finish, she urged Jordan and I ahead and after making sure she would be okay, we promised we would be back within an hour and a half. The last leg was brutal. I finally employed Jordan's advice to count your steps and pause at a set amount 97...98...99....100. Stop. At this point, any agility Jordan had on me was leveled out by sheer tiredness from two consecutive climbs and we were both about equally worn. With my feet sinking into the dusty slope, some of the steps were barely baby-sized and yet I used them as an excuse to count them anyway while Jordan decided that those did not count. When we were within feasible comprehension of accomplishment, we paused and watched a young boy ahead of us summit, his parents cheering him on all the while. We ditched out number system and dug out feet in rigorously, not looking up until I felt the hill crest. And then I looked up, and down, and around into a most incredible world. Hidden beyond this never-ending wall of explosive history was a most powerful heart. Where the mountain had erupted in the 80's spreading  its ash across the world, there now lay a dome of red-hot rock, thick deceptive layers of ice seemingly floating above it in a flakey layer while underneath the active volcano conjured up its pool of molten lava. It was only up here that you could grasp some gravity of the effects of the blast. Stretching as far North as you could see was an arid, brown landscape; this was the balding cousin of the South side, where we had been sheltered by trees for miles.

Jordan and I sat at the edge of the rim and ate lunch, snapped some pictures and then prepared for the decent. I'd packed my snow pants away weeks ago, thinking I would not need them until it was time for snowboarding next year. Yet there I was the day before the hike, digging through my clothes bins. Another thing I'd never have known to do without Jordan. Now we dug our snow pants out of our packs, slipped them on in the rising heat of the day, and approached the snowy valley that still remained locked in some slopes of the mountain. Glacading was ill-advised on the official mountain page, but almost everyone did it. It saved over half the time getting back down through boulder fields and ash. Like summer sledding, you simply sit on your butt and follow the sort of bob-sled trails that had been established by previous mountain goers. The risks ranged from getting lost sliding in the wrong direction to - around this melty time of year - happening upon thick snow breaking away into a rapidly forming river. Soundly trusting Jordan's estimations, I did not fear that either of these things would happen but I did fear being unable to slow myself down. That turned out to be the opposite problem I had. With the heat of the day beginning to slush up the snow, I was constantly working a soft pile up under my rump, stalling out and having to scoot forward much more than Jordan managed to get away with. When I was going fast, it was thrilling fun, but I wouldn't have been able to deal with the constant stalls much longer. Fortunately since we needed to make a pit stop for mother, we were only going to get a bit past the ash: still worth the detour.

We found her feeling a bit better - although she now had a headache - and in a shadier spot. Some kind hikers had noticed her helpless position and offered to help her move to a better spot. We checked in and gradually began to make our way down. I stayed closer by for longer stretches this time, feeling sort of a loss from being that guide that I had been in the Porkies. When we would pause, we got amusement from watching a large family group in front of us with two sons. One was the same young man we'd seen summit and the other seemed to be his sibling. The former was a natural, practically surfing down the snow standing, his sturdy legs never even faltering. The other was his exact opposite, hardly even trying to maintain himself. The parents were getting very apparently frustrated but we couldn't help but be entertained. We caught up to yet another situation; a man who had started out the same time we had and was now dismounting with the aid of a large group, having fallen onto his shoulder and breaking something. I'd gotten odd vibes from him in our brief passings on the way up and after finishing later, I heard stories from the generous helpers about his lack of graciousness in the situation. I didn't feel as bad that I wasn't one of the caring passers-by that sacrificed my time. On the contrary, as the sun got higher in the sky, my patience once again plundered. Every time I would stop and wait, I felt like I was loosing energy. I needed to keep going just to get through. Plus at this point, I knew I'd already gotten burned. It was apparent to mother that I was eager to be down (just as the rest of us, of course) and she gave me the complete go ahead to just get to the bottom. Once we could see the open landing where dad had bid us adieu almost 10 hours before, I bolted ahead, practically "running" over the last of the boulders once I cleared the crowds. Finally in the shade, we felt the journey nearing an end. Yet after a day of climbing a mountain, it is amazing how long that little 2-mile jaunt can feel. I thought it would never end. Eventually, after my half dozenth time of telling myself I couldn't go much further, I saw dad enter in the trailhead and I stumbled towards him with an exhausted, dazed smile on my face, falling into a big hug.

Heading back to the resort, there was a bit of tension between mother and I. I didn't know how she felt about the day and my distance and I was also too physically drained to be as considerate of her predicament as I would have liked. I realized I was also holding onto a comparative standard. When hiking with Mary or a friend, it had become traditional to "reward" ourselves with merriment in the form of drink and food. With her altitude sickness (a diagnosis that could actually have turned out to be much worse had she continued), I knew there was no hope of experiencing this celebratory tradition with her. This begrudging tendency is not one of my finer qualities. But once we were safely back, I let her do what she needed and I sought out a couple ciders down the road, bringing them back to crack one open next to her after we'd both had showers. She smiled and held out her hand for a taste, finally feeling like she should try to eat something. We opted out of the pizza idea, knowing we'd be in Dusty's realm tomorrow and ready for some kick-ass 'za, but she did go for some munchables inside and we finished our movie.

The next morning, we got an early start again (although not quite as early as our mountain climb time) and packed up to head out of the boonies and into the big city of Seattle!

It was quite a contrast to our last few days. When we got into town, we checked in at our beautiful Airbnb, home of a talented artist named Sarah.

Neither of my parents had ever been around Seattle before so we started our day with the quintessential Pike's Place visit, which Sarah actually happened to have a booth at. We covered more of the market than I'd ever had in my three trips down there and tried more tastes than I'd ever known to be available. I showed them the infamous gum wall (to which we pondered the quirky fadisms of human beings) and mother and I both got one of Sarah's snazzy t-shirts.
Finally, I got a long-awaited call from Dusty to let us know he was free to meet up! He wasn't far from the market so he came down and we took a small walk through the sculpture park before piling back in the car to go for pizza. In addition to the pizza plan, Dusty had remarked that we could partake in some Karaoke that night at a local haunt he'd been frequenting. Parents gung-ho, we finished up and walked the few blocks down to a quaint little bar with very much the low-pressure vibe of the Spruce, perhaps even moreso. This was perfect, as it would be my first time singing solo Karaoke outside of Packwood. It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, from hearing Dusty belt out 'Let it Go', to singing my own tunes, to listening to the regular that sang all Disney hits to finally topping the night with a haphazard yet delightful attempt at a 'Picture' duet with Dusty. Smiles all over, we dropped him off with hugs galore.

Sarah's snazzy shirts

Dad meets the original prototype of his favorite caffeination station

These guys had been plain' a week and a half together and were wrecking it..in the best way

Cherry Republic ain't got nothin' on these guys

DUSTY!

Our final day in Seattle was less graceful. Perhaps a combination of tiredness from the late night before, I was also experiencing my first health discomfort since my parents had arrived (a good track record though!) and was otherwise inexplicably oversensitive, moody and indecisive. I'd started out right with some yoga and had a brilliant plan for how we could spend our day but was quickly derailed when my mom considered a home-visit massage. suddenly, I felt like my out-and-about plans that I was so excited about would not be shared with equal fervor. This morphed into a sort of day-long funk coupled with stomach qualms and fatigue. There were highlights though, which were more easily felt once I disclosed some of my struggles with mother.



We started out in the International District which actually held quite a heavy history of Japanese influence on the city.

A lantern donated by Kobe,
 Seattle's japanese sister city

Seattle had once been resplendent in Japanese culture and the tides had quickly turned during WWII with the Japanese internment camps. Since then, the population had slowly revitalized itself in the form of these neighborhoods. One of the more known stops was a store called Kobo at Higo which had once been the Higo Variety Store owned by the Murakami family for over 75 years before the war took hold. Through the care of it's patrons and family members, the store had seen a resurrection in the form of a local artisanal gift shop and museum of the family's artifacts. Even in my funk, it was a treat to glimpse a taste of this rich cultural history and see some exquisite local works.

After the store, we strolled but I was pretty checked out and uncommunicative, feeling distraught with no explanation. We stopped in a tea shop, mother trying to offer me a break by suggesting we sit with a cup of tea. I complied but the cup of tea ended up being a dozen, a traditional style tea tasting with constant interjection by our kind-hearted host. I felt extremely awkward, being in no state to interact with known persons, let alone strangers. Mother and father were cordial for the three of us and I just tried to be as polite a fly on the wall as possible until a window of opportunity to leave. I was pretty much over it by then but we went down to a giant market that Dusty had suggested which was like a Japanese style fast food court. Mother got some Adzuki bean treat and then we booked it back to the car to get to our lunch reservations at Farestart. This hip, contemporary looking restaurant was in the heart of Seattle and staffed completely by active culinary program students. All of the people enrolled were either homeless or otherwise struggling to get on their feet whether it be from drug abuse or unexpected effects of the financial crisis. All of the money spent there goes directly back into their training programs which upon completion, usually land individuals in a secure job placement and well on their way towards a secure livelihood. The menu was seasonal, fresh and unique, designed in part by the students themselves. Mother and I both got the fresh vegan burger with a salad topped with untraditional fixings and dressing which was al very flavorful, albeit the burger a bit dry. I would still recommend the place to anyone looking for a memorable dining experience. Hopefully more places like this begin to pop up. The restaurant is a part of a larger coalition to end homelessness but the effort certainly could do to expand!

With a few more hours in the afternoon, we made it over to MOHAI . Even with just a couple of hours, it would be worth it to show them the cute video of the Seattle fire of 1889. We didn't spend more more time looking at the standard history that the museum highlights because the special exhibit there was Chocolate. The smell of exhibition room alone was enough reason to linger. It smelled like you were bathing in the stuff. Straight forward and kid-friendly, the exhibit included a great overview of chocolate's history, from its start as a bitter drink of the Mayan's, on through its regaled history as currency for the Aztecs and finally to its reclamation by good 'ol brits and Americans as a sweet drink and confection. We learned about the natural producers such as the various trees and particularly shady/humid climate conditions conducive to a good Cacao, the seed-spreading birds and monkeys and finally the vital pollinators: the midge (which despite their invaluable contributions to a treat I much enjoy, I would soon come to coil at with a bloody disgust). We also learned about the dark trails that chocolate can derive from as the exhibit took its turn, talking about the spanish first discovering and coveting the plant on a voyage and then the brits and Americans finally getting in on the deal and monopolizing through slavery and forced labor to beef up the product into the modern candy bar we have today. Capitalist Nestle even went as far as to go into classrooms to present to children on the health benefits of the stuff. As the history progressed into this era, you could feel the sinister taint of all your blindly-eaten chocolate bubbling up inside. Fortunately, the conclusion of the exhibit was how chocolate's popularity has morphed into a trend for companies to create the confection in the most sustainable and equality-driven way possible. With such complex trade policies, it is hard to always trace forced labor but certain programs are making it more and more feasible to enjoy a guilt free piece of sweet mouth-glee. The exhibit also showed the barebones process of making chocolate which proved to be interesting in and of itself (and I finally learned that Chocolate Liquor does not mean alcohol but rather the liquid separated from the nibs once the cacao bean has been peeled and shelled). Of course, we ended our visit in the chocolate shop with a purchase of one of the local companies' Jamaican cocoa mixes.

that little brown turfy bit in the middle is what gives us our chocolate...

An Aztec guide to unique currency.
The nugget things are sacks of cacao beans

The migration trail of trade from the 1500's when Cortez conquered the Aztecs
 to the 1700's when wealthy Europeans got in on the action

Europeans and ancient cultures alike honored chocolate
via decorative vestiges for it

after it was discovered that chocolate was a more popular product
when marketed in dainty decorative tins, companies went wild

The Nestle school presentation

Mayan symbol for "chocolate" 

Before dinner we took a brief rest at the waterside, each of us needing some time to ourselves. I thought I was reset for the evening but I got thrust into an immature bout of grump when, while waiting for a sushi take-out at a place we should have made reservations for, mother informed me that I would not be able to share with them the delectable experience of a Chocolate Margarita from Dilettante later; they were beat. My initial reaction had been one of short-sighted disappointment but after an off the cuff comment made by my mom as to my lack of gratefulness, it morphed into a deeper self-loathing which manifesting in more irrational pout. By the time we were headed home with our food, I was uncommunicable again, knowing where this was going; they would try and talk to me and i would feel unworthy, which they would take as disrespectful pouting. I was officially removed: they the put-together make-the-best-of-it adults and I the child fraying at the seams. And all I wanted was to be equal, yet how to scramble back there at that point, I didn't know. I was in bed as soon as possible to put the day behind me.

We began afresh the next day with a focus: to get dad comfortably to his flight and to get mother and I comfortably on the road eastward!

It seems that as we shifted gears towards this leg of the journey, the tension dissipated and I re-established a determined intention that I had not to let our trip be as sullied by tiffs as some had been in the past. We briefly returned to Packwood to return the car that my landlord had generously lent us and to get my car fully packed. With a fresh cup of coffee and some last goodbyes, we headed East over the mountains, the furthest down 12 that I'd ever gone. With a new landscape splayed before us fresh to both our eyes, the slate felt clean. We were off.