Springer's Journey

There are places that become famous because something terrible happened there.

But before tragedy…

…they were simply beautiful.

When people hear the words Spirit Lake, many think of floating logs, ash, and the eruption of Mount St. Helens.

I don’t.

I remember another Spirit Lake.

The one I knew as a little girl.

Crystal clear.

So cold it would take your breath away.

The kind of water that reflected the mountains so perfectly you weren’t always sure where the lake ended and the sky began.

While my parents sat on the enormous porch of the Spirit Lake Lodge visiting with friends, I had very important business of my own.

I carried a bucket.

Not for fish.

Not for water.

For treasure.

I wandered slowly along the shoreline searching for little pieces of “fool’s gold,” completely convinced I’d discovered riches every time one caught the sunlight.

I wasn’t looking for gold. I was looking for wonder. At the time, I didn’t know there was a difference.

That was enough.

No television.

No phones.

Just a bucket…

…and all afternoon to wonder.

The loudest interruption on that peaceful lake wasn’t a motorboat.

It was the sudden splash of a trout leaping from the water to catch its dinner.

Looking back now, I realize those sounds were part of the heartbeat of that place.

My dad had known Harry Truman from their logging days.

To the rest of the world, Harry became the man who refused to leave.

To me…

…he was simply part of Spirit Lake.

I remember him saying,

“I will never leave my home. My wife and I spent most of our lives here. I can’t leave her memory here alone.”

Whether those were his exact words after all these years doesn’t matter as much to me as what they meant.

That’s how I remember his heart.

A week after my nineteenth birthday, on May 18, 1980, I stood at my bedroom window and watched Mount St. Helens erupt.

The ash cloud towered into the sky.

I remember looking at it and thinking only two words.

Uh oh.

The world changed that morning.

The Spirit Lake of my childhood disappeared.

The mountain changed.

The shoreline changed.

The forests changed.

But the memories didn’t.

No eruption can take away a little girl carrying a bucket along the shoreline.

No ash cloud can erase the laughter from the lodge porch.

No geological event can silence the splash of trout on a calm summer afternoon.

That’s the Spirit Lake I carry with me.

…I got to know her that way.

The one before the world knew her name.

Polished with help from Professor Headquarters, Ferrari, Mayday Murphy, Stick, Morris (who still insists he would have loved that crystal-clear water), and a little girl carrying a bucket full of fool’s gold.