It had been a long time since I last saw my photographer get as excited as he was when his alarm rang at 6:00am on Wednesday July 16, 2025. From our hotel room at the Peppermill Inn in downtown Centralia, Washington, we were only 107 miles from our first site of the day – the Windy Ridge Viewpoint, which Tom figured would give the three of us a spectacular look at one of the most famous volcanoes in America, Mount St. Helens. My photographer and his wife Vicki were very familiar with the day when Mount St. Helens had its last catastrophic eruption. The volcano blew its top on May 18, 1980, which was only 26 days before the two of them were married on June 13th in St. Clair, Michigan.
The 1980 Mount St. Helens eruption was the most destructive volcanic event in American history. Fifty-seven people were killed and 200 homes, 47 bridges, 15 miles of railways, and 185 miles of highway were destroyed. Of the fifty-seven casualties caused by the eruption, one victim was Harry Truman. No, not President Harry S Truman – this man was Harry R. Truman, the owner and caretaker of the Mount St. Helens Lodge, which was located along Spirit Lake near the North side of the volcano and directly in the line of fire during the eruption.
It’s been said the 83-year-old Truman loved to drink whiskey and Coke while he talked politics with anyone who would listen. The salty-talking lodge owner, who owned a pink1957 Cadillac and 16 cats, also reportedly disliked Republicans, hippies, young children, and the elderly. Truman was also very stubborn, and he refused to heed the warnings of geologists who told him an eruption of Mount St. Helens was imminent, and they suggested he should evacuate. The lodge owner scoffed at the public’s concern over his safety, and said shortly before the eruption, “The mountain has shot its wad, and it hasn’t hurt my place a bit. But those goddamn geologists with their hair down to their butts wouldn’t pay no attention to ol’ Truman.”
At 8:32am on May 18, 1980, Mount St. Helens erupted, collapsing the entire Northern flank of the mountain. Scientists and geologists alike couldn’t have predicted what would happen next. They saw the largest landslide in recorded history, and a pyroclastic flow traveling atop the landslide engulfed the Spirit Lake area almost simultaneously. Mount St. Helens destroyed the lake and buried the site of Truman’s lodge under 150 feet of volcanic landslide debris. Needless to say, the buck stopped there when Truman and his feline friends instantly crossed the rainbow bridge together, likely without knowing what hit them.
Even though it has been over 45 years since that historic eruption of Mount St. Helens, I couldn’t wait to see the volcano with my own eyes. But there was one catch – the best area from which to view the volcano, which was called the Johnston Ridge Observatory, was inaccessible to the public due to a 2023 landslide that destroyed a bridge and the roadway leading to the site. That forced my photographer to choose an alternative site, which was the Windy Ridge Viewpoint, located along the Southeastern shore of Spirit Lake and only four miles from the volcano.
We left the hotel at 7:40am and it took roughly an hour for us to reach the small town of Randle, Washington, at which time Vicki unexpectedly and hurriedly pulled into the parking lot of the Blue Stone Restaurant where she left her calling card. When we left the restaurant several minutes later, my photographer’s wife had a relieved look on her face as she navigated the Jeep Southward along a narrow, paved road lined by the cover of a dense forest. There was no doubt in my mind – we were in prime Sasquatch territory. My painted eyes continuously scanned from side to side with the hopes of seeing one of those large, hairy critters. As for my photographer, Tom kept his hand on his camera and was on high alert in case a Squatch ran across the road in front of us. Both of us knew if we were ever going to experience a Bigfoot sighting, it would likely be that day.
At one point during our journey, Vicki stopped our vehicle along the roadside to allow her husband and me an opportunity to become absorbed in the natural habitat of a Sasquatch. There was no doubt in either of our minds we were in the backyard of Bigfoot. Tom got out of the Jeep, and he placed me on the asphalt where I posed for a photograph. I won’t lie; I was scared to death. My heart was nearly bursting out of my resin chest as I waited for a Bigfoot to grab me. Then suddenly, it dawned on me – Tom was using me as bait.
For a few minutes, the two of us stood completely still as we listened for possible tree knocks or the sound of something walking through the trees and brush. The moment was hard for me to describe accurately, but one thing was for certain, the silence was deafening and every shadow in the forest resembled a bipedal creature, at least in my mind.
Then out of nowhere, Tom cupped his hands to his face and let out a blood-curdling yell, which he claimed was a Sasquatch call. I heard my photographer’s voice as it echoed off the thick foliage; then once again, complete silence blanketed the area. I was a bit disappointed and relieved, all at the same time. We were a long way from civilization and I’m not sure what the two of us would have done had someone or something answered back.
Two or three times during our journey along Forest Road 25 from Randle, we passed signs stating the road was closed ahead. But with every passing mile, Tom consulted the directions on his phone and assured his wife the closure was after our next turn. As a matter of fact, I heard Tom say in his Clark W. Griswold voice, “Trust me, Ellen, we’ll be just fine.”
The three of us soon realized we weren’t fine. It turned out my photographer’s calculations were wrong when Vicki suddenly slammed on the brakes before hitting a ‘Road Closed’ barricade. It reminded me of the infamous scene in the movie ‘Vacation’ when the Griswold’s Family Truckster smashed through a barricade and ended up fifty yards into the desert. As a matter of fact, I wanted to say to my camera guy, “Sorry folks, the road’s closed. Moose out front should’ve told ya.”
We were still 27 miles from the Windy Ridge Viewpoint, but at that moment and with seemingly nowhere to go, that darn volcano might as well have been on another planet. Vicki parked the Jeep next to the barricade and turned off the engine while her husband tried to figure out where in the heck-fire we were and if there was an alternate route to Mount St. Helens. I watched as Tom slowly walked up to the barricade and read the attached type-written informational paper, which was the moment he discovered the nearby Huffaker Bridge was being replaced. That left my companions with one choice – we needed to turn around and retrace our steps along the narrow and winding road for 12 miles back to Randle.
Frustrated with his inability to find another route on his phone, which didn’t have a great signal out in the middle of nowhere, Tom was on the verge of giving up hope. He felt we had already wasted most of the morning and weren’t close to the volcano, plus we were still over 150 miles away from the lodge in Oregon where we had reservations to stay that night. Then out of nowhere, just when my photographer was about to pull the plug on Mount St. Helens, his wife offered a suggestion. “Let’s go back to the restaurant in that small town and you can ask someone if they know a different way to get to that viewing area since the bridge is out. The waitress was very nice to me when I went inside earlier. I’m sure she’s local and knows her way around the area.”
Once back at the Blue Stone, I watched as Tom disappeared into the diner and then reappear three or four minutes later. I heard my photographer say to his wife, “The waitress was nice, but she had no clue as how to get to Mount St. Helens because she hasn’t lived in the area for very long. She did, however, mention there was a ranger station located about a mile down the road and the ranger on duty would be able to give us some information.”
And the waitress was absolutely correct. A minute or two after we arrived at the Cowitz Valley Ranger Station, Tom returned to the Jeep with a map in hand and verbal directions in his mind. There was an alternative route to get around the Huffaker Bridge, although this new set of forest roads suggested by the ranger were a lot narrower, featured more curves, and would take us deeper through the bowels of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. But the one important slice of information the ranger didn’t mention was we’d likely face an hour or more delay due to ongoing road construction along the route.
During what seemed to be a never-ending drive to get over the Cispus River and back to Forest Road 25 on the South side of the closed Huffaker Bridge, my companions and I thought we had gotten lost a few times. Although the ranger’s map listed the names of the roads we needed to take, signage was at a bare minimum and Tom was forced to make educated guesses of our location for most of the way. That certainly wasn’t a great situation to be in, especially since we were in prime Sasquatch territory and those large, hairy critters were likely watching our every move. And to make matters worse, Tom once again insisted I stand in the middle of the narrow roadway and pose for another picture. Even though my photographer didn’t attempt another one of his hokey Squatch calls, I never felt more scared in all my years of travel as I did at that moment. In my mind, every shadow on both sides of the roadway looked like a bipedal creature peering out from the dense forest – watching, waiting, and lurking.
After a 25-minute delay for road construction along Forest Road 25, we were finally able to put some miles behind us; even though it seemed weird because there were no other vehicles in sight once we turned onto National Monument Road 99. At one point, I heard Tom say to his wife, “The Windy Ridge Viewpoint is supposedly the best viewing area near Mount St. Helens that’s currently open and there’s no one else on the only road to the site. Makes me wonder if they know something we don’t.”
Finally, at roughly 11:15am, we drove out of the bowels of the dense forest and past a sign that stated we had entered the Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument. Seconds later, after Vicki drove the Jeep around a curve in the road and then into a paved scenic pullout, the three of us caught our first glimpse of the spectacular 8,363-foot-tall volcano known as Mount St. Helens, which was still ten miles away.
It’s been said a picture is worth a thousand words, so please take a moment and look at the images Tom captured during our visit to the park. We made a brief stop at the Donnybrook Viewpoint where we first saw Spirit Lake, and then we spent 45 minutes or so at the Windy Ridge Viewpoint, which put us within four miles of the North face of Mount St. Helens. My photographer and I hope you enjoy the view!
Tom, Vicki, and I were all alone during our entire time at the Windy Ridge Viewpoint. While that in itself was nice, especially without a busload of Asians standing in front of us while they posed for thousands of photos, it also seemed very eerie at the same time. Our visit became even stranger when my photographer spotted what appeared to be steam rising up from the volcano’s crater. With all of the recent seismic activity being recorded in the vicinity, it made me wonder whether or not Mount St. Helens was on the verge of another eruption. All I kept envisioning was the volcano blowing its top during our visit, and the three of us ending up with the same fate as Harry Truman. Talk about irony for a Presidential bobble head!
At 12:45pm, my photographer placed me back in the camera case for our long drive to Mount Hood in Oregon. While that famous volcano was only 64 miles away as the crow flies, it was 223 miles away as the Jeep drives. But first, we had to retrace the 45-mile route back through the Squatch-filled Gifford Pinchot National Forest to Randle before Vicki could think about driving at an accelerated speed along decent highways.
During our long and cumbersome ride through the forest, I once again kept my eyes peeled for any signs of a Sasquatch – but I never saw or smelled anything that resembled one of those tall, hairy, and stinking beasts. And at one point, Tom became confused by his map’s crude directions and guided his wife onto the wrong road. Luckily, Vicki’s woman’s intuition came into play, and she stopped the Jeep when it felt like something wasn’t right. I knew my photographer instantly felt dumb for the mistake, but he didn’t hesitate to blame the error on everything but himself.
“These directions are horrible, and it’s compounded by the lack of road signs. And Siri is useless out here – aren’t there any satellites above this area? Elon Musk put Starlink communication satellites in space over Ukraine so those folks had an adequate internet signal, but he can’t put something over this section of Washington State? And where’s the damned Scarecrow of Oz? That braindead bastard should’ve been standing at the fork in the road, just to point us in the right direction. The last thing we needed was to get lost out in this vast forest with a countless number of Squatch’s walking around.”
Roughly thirty minutes after Tom’s verbal tirade had finished, we made it back to Randle where Vicki began the journey West on US-Highway 12. While it seemed good to be back to civilization where my camera man’s GPS signal once again worked, I knew my greatest opportunity to see a Sasquatch had gone by the wayside.
One thing for certain that hadn’t gone by the wayside, however, was my photographer’s appetite. It was well past the fat man’s lunchtime, and I could tell Tom was getting “hangry”. His demeanor became evident when I heard him say to Vicki, “I don’t know if it was because I saw all of those Asian people yesterday at the State Capitol Building, but I could certainly go for some Chinese food right now.” Those words were no more out of his mouth when we passed a restaurant along Highway 12 called The Great Wall, located in Silver Creek, Washington. In Tom’s opinion, his wife couldn’t get the Jeep turned around fast enough.
Following a meal that consisted of sweet and sour chicken, which my companions said paled in comparison to the food at the Dragon Wok in their hometown of St. Clair, Michigan, we were back on the road and headed for Oregon. I looked forward to my triumphant return to the state of Oregon as I still had hopes of seeing an elusive beaver. In fact, during our ride, I fantasized about seeing a Sasquatch eating a beaver – you know, the old “kill two birds with one stone” philosophy.
At roughly 5:30pm, Vicki navigated our Grand Cherokee over the Columbia River and into The Beaver State. Although we were on the outskirts of Portland, there was no way in heck-fire Tom had any plans to visit Oregon’s largest city. Truth be told, when my photographer’s wife axed her husband if we were stopping in Portland, he replied, “I wouldn’t step foot in that extreme left-wing city, especially with all the violent protesters rioting in the streets there. Even if I heard someone saw a Squatch eating a beaver right now on the grounds of Portland’s City Hall, I wouldn’t go there to see it.”
Shortly after we crossed into Oregon, we left the freeway and headed along U.S. Highway 26 towards Mount Hood, which was still 60 miles away. It had been a very long day, and I could tell Vicki was anxious to get to the Timberline Lodge where the three of us had reservations for two nights. As for Tom and me, we were extremely excited to step foot in that lodge as well, but it was due to the fact the ski resort was a Presidential site. That’s right, President Franklin D. Roosevelt helped dedicate the historic ski lodge on September 28, 1937, and he and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt were the lodge’s first overnight guests.
Twenty miles into our journey along the Mount Hood Scenic Byway, which by the way was Highway 26, I heard my photographer shout out, “There it is, I see it right over there. That’s the first site I want to visit in the morning!”
What in the world was Tom talking about? What exciting site could possibly be in a town named Boring? It wasn’t as though we were passing through Dull, Scotland or Bland, Australia – those places sounded a lot more exciting than Boring, Oregon. But then I saw it, I saw the place that caught my photographer’s eye. It was a two-story wooden building with a large Sasquatch standing near the entrance. That’s right, we were driving past the North American Bigfoot Center – a museum completely dedicated to the elusive Squatch. Unfortunately for the three of us, or at least for Tom and me, the place had already closed for the day.
For a handful of miles, I couldn’t get the Bigfoot place out of my mind. I knew there was a possibility of not only getting face to face with a Sasquatch, but there was even a better chance at meeting the museum’s owner, Cliff Barackman, who was also one of the cast members on the reality TV show Finding Bigfoot.
During the last twenty miles of our long and seemingly endless drive, the three of us played peek-a-boo with Mount Hood. The 11,249-foot-tall Mount Hood was hidden from us for most of the way by the tall trees that lined the highway, but every once in a while, we’d catch a glimpse of the majestic volcano – and I knew right then and there, this two-day visit was going to one of the trip’s highlights.
Following an extremely thrilling and scenic uphill drive towards Mount Hood along the winding Timberline Highway, we arrived at the Timberline Lodge at 6:45pm. I couldn’t believe my painted eyes – the place was huge and situated at the base of the volcano. Actually, it didn’t seem like we were at the base at all, but instead were partially up the side of Mount Hood.
Tom brought me inside the lodge while he registered for our two-night stay. When we returned with a luggage cart, my photographer filled it to capacity before Vicki parked the Jeep in the overflow parking area. The place was packed, which was surprising because of how expensive it was to stay there. For our stay, my cheap photographer shelled out $286.88 per night, which included tax. But the more I thought about it, Tom and Vicki were forced to pay nearly $500 for a one night’s stay at a flea bag motel in the Outer Banks during our 2020 trip, and that place didn’t have a huge volcano in its backyard. I figured at nearly three hundred bucks for a night’s stay, our room would be fit for a king. Boy, was I mistaken!
The two of us waited for Vicki at a side entrance with our over-filled cart. Tom and I must’ve looked like hillbillies in the eyes of the guests who walked past us. But we had no choice – that entrance was near the only freight elevator capable of holding a luggage cart, and my companions weren’t about to lug all of their belongings up the huge steps at the front entrance and up to our second-floor room.
At the moment when Tom unlocked the door to our room, I believe I heard the sound of three jaws as they hit the carpeted floor in the hallway. Our room, which was furnished in a rustic motif because it was a ski lodge and not a luxury hotel, was extremely small. There were two small beds, crammed together side by side with a tiny wooden table in between, and an extremely petite bathroom I knew my photographer would complain about. I saw no television set for me to stand near; no refrigerator for my companions to keep their beverages in; and no microwave to heat up their leftover vittles.
Vicki immediately questioned her husband about the price for that small room. His response was, “Oh, I could’ve booked a larger King room – perhaps even the same room where FDR stayed in 1937, but each of those rooms were nearly five hundred bucks a night. I think we can handle a small room for two nights. It’s not like we’re going to be doing anything but sleeping and showering here anyway – although we barely have enough room to do either of those.”
I stayed in the room with Tom’s wife while he went out to explore the interior of the lodge. His goal was to get familiar with the layout because the massive lodge and its countless number of corridors could prove to be confusing to a hillbilly.
When my photographer returned to the “friendly confines” of our room after his half hour self-guided tour, Tom had good news and some bad news for his wife. The good news was there was a ski lift that would take us about a mile up the side of Mount Hood and it was only twenty dollars per person – bobble heads were free. The bad news was, there were a couple of restaurants and bars inside the lodge, but they were extremely expensive. In all honesty, that was no surprise to me or to Vicki. Like it or not, for one full day, the three of us would get the opportunity to feel like participants on the show Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
Without a desk or an entertainment center in the room, which were places I usually spend the night when we’re on the road, I was destined to stand next to my photographer’s bed where I had a full-blown close-up experience of hearing him snore. And that began shortly after Tom extinguished the lights at nine o’clock.
But in the darkness of night, and alone with my thoughts, I had bigger fish to fry. Not only were we in Oregon’s prime Sasquatch country because those big buggers like to hang around the Mount Hood area, but the Timberline Lodge was also the setting for the 1980 horror classic The Shining starring Jack Nicholson. While none of the movie’s scenes were actually filmed inside the Timberline, which was called the Overlook Hotel in the movie, it was still eerie to hear footsteps in the hallway at all hours of the night.
Was it Jack Torrance walking around with an axe in hand? I doubt it; however, with each faint step I heard, I waited for an axe to bust through the door while the caretaker gazed at me and growled, “Here’s Johnny!”
