Josephine Moore
Fabulous Woman Story
Josephine Moore
I Will Never Leave You
by Josephine Moore

When I last saw my father, it was almost four years ago. The arrangements for the flight to New Zealand had been hectic -- a real whirlwind of phone calls and miscommunications that all but thwarted my plans to get home in a hurry. When I finally arrived at the Auckland Airport, my four brothers were waiting for me with outstretched arms while my mother and sister waited vigilantly at Dad’s bedside. It was November, 2004, and I had come home to bid him farewell after the affects of cancer had all but surrendered his small, frail body to the inevitable.

Dad’s suffering finally came to an end on January 31, 2005, two months after I returned to Washington. During the last few hours we were together, holding hands and sharing smiles, I asked my father to promise me one thing . . . to never leave me. His embrace was warm and tender and his voice barely audible but his tone was strong, "I will never leave you."   

News of his passing came to me early on a Saturday morning as I stood in a windy parking lot in Issaquah, Washington.  Surrounded by mountaineering buddies, who had already weathered many storms with me, I took comfort in the fact that I was going to be surrounded by men of velvet and of steel throughout the day. Biting back the pain that was gnawing at my heart and choking my airways, I tried desperately to keep the tears from spilling down my cheeks. I did not want to leave the mountains -- I needed them today.

At the summit of Mt. Defiance, I carefully unfolded the white handkerchief my father had given me the previous November. The memories of that day flooded my soul, consuming me in deep thought and recollection. My father was never without his handkerchiefs. He was always wiping at the corner of a tearing eye or giving one away. I had held the handkerchief in my hands earlier that morning as I had packed for the hike. That small white piece of cotton with the brown stripes made me feel so sad, yet so happy. Dad had given it to me as a parting gift. It went with me everywhere, including, and especially, the mountains!

In the solitude of my bedroom that morning, I had asked permission of my father to hike on this rainy, January day, knowing full well that his ailing body was now battling the last few days of life. I felt somewhat irreverent leaving for the mountains without any possible telephone contact with my loved ones in New Zealand but I heard his voice loud and clear . . . "Go to the mountains. Don’t worry about me."

So, this is where I was and this is was why I needed to be here -- Dad knew I would need the strength of the mountains and the strength of my good friends to get through the day.And, so it was, as I stood on top of Mt. Defiance, the handkerchief now unfurled and waving in the wind as I held it above my head. I looked skyward into the misty, swirling, clouds and quietly whispered, "Dad, this one’s for you -- fly high. I love you."

Three years later I found myself on the summit of a different mountain, hugging a complete stranger who was whispering quietly to me, "Thank you for not leaving me behind. I will always remember you." During that embrace, I remembered my Dad’s last words to me . . . and, that is where this story begins.

Springtime in the Pacific Northwest can be excruciatingly diverse. You never quite know what kind of weather you’re going to be hammered with from one day to the next. As an avid hiker, the weekends, and the weather that goes along with them, play a big part in the kind of adventures I experience. During May, 2007, I attempted my first climb up the south face of Mt. St. Helens to the crater rim with a small group of climbing buddies. The weather was perfect for an adventure.

With an early departure needed the next morning, we had decided to drive down the night before and spend the night at the Marble Mountain Sno-Park, approximately 40 miles off I-5 on Highway 503 near Woodland. I spent a warm, yet somewhat uncomfortable, evening in my vehicle. The rest of the group had opted for tents, along with about 30 other hikers at the trailhead. Truth be told, even fabulous women snore and I didn’t want that kind of reputation following me up into the mountains! The downside, however, was that I missed out on all those wonderful bedside adventure stories. Ahhhhhhh, I thought as I snuggled into a mass of nylon and down -- tomorrow will be full of adventure. If not, I will most certainly create my own.

The sun’s first rays cast a warm, strange light into my vehicle as they refracted off the ice that had grown on my windows overnight. It was time to get up. Arising, somewhat stiff and without much sleep, my mind quickly turned to the routine matters of the morning, the first of which was to get into my hiking clothes. In the half-light, I pulled on my thermals. By the time I got to the gaiter buckles, my fingers were cold and in need of immediate warmth. Charlie handed me a cup of coffee. "Good Morning, Jo. Just look at this," he exclaimed gesturing toward the sky and the mountains. "What a morning!" Already feeling the effects of the warm coffee cup on my fingers, I looked upward toward Mt. St. Helens and thought, "Yes, indeed, Charlie. What a morning!"

Not a minute late (Mountaineers are extremely punctual), we left the trailhead at 6:30am on what appeared to be a promising day of hiking. The sun was shining, the air was cool and clear and I was anxious to get moving so I could warm up. Somewhere above, the trees would thin out and the trail would open up to the welcoming warmth of the sun above the alpine level. The "Worm Flows" winter route from the south was not a complicated hike. It would be an easy day.

While breathing out misty halos of warm air, I began the twelve-mile return trip to the south side of the crater rim. I was exhilarated by the morning’s beauty and the cool mountain air pinching at my cheeks. I was glad I wore the beanie with the polar fleece lining so it didn’t scratch at my forehead all day. The mountain air would be chasing me, so I knew my hat would be on my head the entire trip. We glimpsed views of the mountain through the trees, misty swirling clouds wrapping it in a soft tulle veil. After about an hour, the trail opened up into marshmallow crème frosted meadows and the clouds parted. The mountain now stood breathtakingly in front of us. As we set our sites and trudged onward in the knee-deep snow, the trees disappeared slowly behind us. The worm flows snaked down from high above like fudge sauce dripping over an ice cream sundae. I couldn’t wait to get higher.

As we climbed, the views opened up in spectacular grandeur all around us. I viewed Mt. Adams to the east and Mt. Hood to the south. Right in front of me, highlighted by a beautiful azure sky, was the rim of Mt. St. Helens. Steam rose from beyond that point making me anxious to get to the top so I could peer over the huge cornices at the fumaroles hundreds of feet below belching out their stinky clouds. I realized the 5,600 feet of vertical climbing was going to be tough but worth the effort. "One foot after the other. Slow and steady wins the race," I told myself and then smiled as I remembered how much I sounded like my Dad.

Mt. St. Helens stands at its highest point 8,365 feet. About 1,300 feet was blown off during the 1981 eruption. I’ve only ever viewed the mountain from the north side -- where you can see the devastation from the eruption some 25 years ago as well as the new dome that is growing within the crater. The last time I was this close to the mountain was the day I flew over the crater on my way from Seattle to New Zealand to be with Dad. Little did I know while on that flight just how strong the connection between me, Dad, and the mountains would become after his death.  

We stopped several times on the way up. Not only to take in the breathtaking views, but also to sip from our Nalgene bottles or to munch on handfuls of dried fruit and nuts. At times we would readjust the weight in our packs or put away unneeded outer gear. The seven-hour ascent was sprinkled with several social encounters, including a couple of young men who had summited too quickly without adequate hydration, and were now feeling the affects of hypothermia. I had plenty of water and was willing to share but my offers of help were turned down with admittances that they had brought enough water but hadn’t slowed down enough to drink. Inwardly, I smirked, remembering that slow and steady always wins the race and that I’d rather spend as much time up here in paradise than rush the day for the sake of competition or bettering a previous climbing time.

We continued along the ridges of the worm flows, which had nothing in common whatsoever with rich, smooth fudge sauce pouring down the sides of ice cream slopes. Instead, they were sharp and precarious. We had to watch our steps carefully, but the ridges allowed us to travel faster than if we had continued plodding through the deep snow below. I looked skyward toward the rows of hikers, who looked like armies of little ants marching slowly toward the rim. I was tired yet happy to be up here in this land of marshmallow crème with its azure ceiling. I counted my steps, making sure I stopped every 100 steps to take a breath and re-hydrate. There was no doubt that the day was going to stay perfect and that there was no need to rush.

At 1,600 feet below the rim, we spotted a huge boulder protruding from the snow. It appeared to be a great place to set down our packs for a while and have a quick snack before attempting the last stretch of the hike. As we slogged toward the boulder, I saw a hiker huddled down behind in its shadow. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the hiker was also a woman. As I unclipped the waist and chest straps on my pack and let it lurch off my arm onto the snow beside her, I introduced myself and asked if she needed any help. She replied that she was waiting for her hiking group on their descent so they could take her back down to the trailhead. She had been hiking all morning but couldn’t get beyond the boulder due to exhaustion.

As she continued, I realized her hiking group had lost faith in her ability to make it to the top with them and had left her behind so they could continue unencumbered by her slow
pace. They would be joining her on the way back down the mountain but it was going to be a long time before that happened and I felt sorry for her as her story continued. Not
only had she retired the previous day and this adventure was what she had carefully chosen as her celebration of that milestone, but this had been her second [unsuccessful]
attempt to climb Mt. St. Helens. The last time she had climbed (15 years prior) she had made it to the exact same boulder and had given up -- it was too difficult for her and the group she was with was moving too quickly.

I was angry at first. "How dare they leave her behind," I thought. It’s just not what you do when you are climbing. Either everyone gets to the top by slowing the pace, everyone turns around, or someone waits with a slow hiker until the group returns. But, you never leave someone alone and on his or her own. I wanted to run up the mountain screaming at them all, "Don’t you know this? Don’t you know how rude this is? Don’t you know how unkind this is? She CAN make it. You’ve let her down. YOU are the failures! How dare you." Knowing that this would have done no good whatsoever, my anger turned to concern.

I asked the lone hiker if she felt well. I checked her gear and realized that her water bottle was not attached to her pack where she could grab it easily without having to take her pack off. Determining that she was probably a little dehydrated but still in good shape, I asked, "Do you feel you could make it to the summit with me if we went slowly?" Her mouth dropped open in dismay. "You’d take me to the top?" she asked. "Of course," I replied. "I’ll tell my group to go on without me. I’ll stick with you. I have absolutely no doubt you can get to the top." She looked confused, "But . . . you really don’t have to do that. I can just wait here for the others to return. Really, I’ll be OK." Ignoring her gracious decline, I insisted, "Do YOU think YOU can make it?" She looked at me and without missing a beat, replied, "Yes . . . if we can go slow . . . I know I can make it to the top."

"We are fabulous women. Together we can do anything. We can walk to the ends of the earth or fly to the moon. We can raise a family while making the world a much better place to live in. We can bake brownies or fly a kite. We can do
anything. And, by gosh, we’ll get to the top of this mountain today, too." I smiled as I thought about how much I loved being a woman and how the strength of my sisters solidified those thoughts.

We stopped every twenty steps or so and breathed slowly and deeply before trudging onward and upward. My new friend turned occasionally to look back at me with a smile so bright, I will never forget it. I would remind her to drink and unhook her water bottle for her when I could see her cheeks flushing.  We were in rhythm. I felt strong, and I knew that this had been the right thing to do. Occasionally, I spotted my hiking buddies further up the trail, now looking like the previous lines of "ants" that were one-by-one reaching the summit. I wasn’t interested in looking at my watch . . . time didn’t mean much to me at this point. It was the journey, not so much the arrival that mattered.

Almost 400 feet below the rim, we met hikers descending, one of whom was my friend’s husband. Aghast, he exclaimed, "What do you think you are doing?" Without hesitation, she replied, "I’m going to the top with my new best friend," and gestured back toward me. I wanted to sneer at him, resisting the urge to make a snowball and throw it right in his face. "This, I will have to see," he exclaimed and fell into line with us as we began the last part of the ascent. The excitement of reaching the top was evident. She may as well have climbed Mt. Everest -- her face was beaming. I offered to take photos of the two of them sitting on the rim of the mountain. He had the most bewildered look on his face. I just wanted to tell him, "Yes, she’s fabulous, isn’t she? You should have seen that a long time ago. I saw it when I first met her!" Again, resisting the urge, I clicked happily away and handed their digital camera back to them before finding my buddies for a much needed PB&J date.

I was met with smiles and pats on the back. It was a relief to get off my feet and sit down for a while. I finally got to creep as close as I dared to the edges of the cornice and peer over into the crater. It was incredible. I took in the exhilarating views, including Mt. Rainier to the North, as I ate and shared my adventure with everyone. I glanced over at my friend and her husband, about 50 feet away, already packing up and getting ready to head back down. She turned back before she took her place in the line of hikers descending to the valleys below. With outstretched arms she awkwardly trudged toward me in the deep snow. Her embrace was long and meaningful. It was as if she would never let go of me -- the kind of hug you give a loved one at an airport before a long trip. When she finally let go, she looked at me from underneath the brim of her jacket. "Thank you, Jo. I will never ever forget you," she blurted out as tears started to well in her eyes. I watched as she followed her husband down the busy trail, suddenly feeling very empty. Although our friendship was short-lived and few words had been passed between us throughout the ascent that day, I felt an indescribable bond of sisterhood and love.

When I think back on that day, on the rim of Mt. St. Helens, I remember a fabulous woman… not so much the "Sleeping Lady," as Mt. St. Helens is often referred to, but that fabulous lone hiker who believed in herself . . . who climbed the mountain even when her friends and husband had told her she couldn’t do it. I think of a fabulous woman who allowed me to remember my Dad’s words, "I will never leave you," and return the comfort of that small phrase to a complete stranger on a mountain. So climb those mountains, you fabulous women. Believe you are fabulous, and so it will be!









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