Being a nonfiction writer is so glamorous! At least that’s
what it looks like from reading the jacket flap bios of many nonfiction
writers and illustrators. After all,
we’ve trekked with gorillas, dived with seahorses, explored dark caves, and
flown up to the Arctic with the Air Force. You might even think that from
reading my books and articles. After all, I’ve hung out with rocket scientists
at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, hiked to the summit of Mount St. Helens when
it was erupting, visited volcano observatories on Mount Merapi with a team of
American and Indonesian volcanologists, and spent sunny days bobbing on the
ocean with wave energy engineers. It IS
pretty awesome. Except for when it’s not.
I’m going to tell you a story that you’re not going to find
any suggestion of in my book Eruption: Volcanoes and the Science of
Saving Lives, just released by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt on June 18.
Soon after signing the contract to write this book, I got on
the horn to the volcanologists at the Volcano Disaster Assistance Program to
see if I could tag along on any summer field work. Volcanologist Andy Lockhart
told me that his team was helicoptering a small group of Chilean volcanologists
onto the upper flanks of Mount St. Helens to do some maintenance work on a
monitoring station and to install a new one. And he invited me to go! “Wow,” I
thought. “I have the coolest job EVER.”
After a few days, though, he called me back to say that he
was mistaken; government rules would not allow unauthorized personnel on the
helicopter. But he said: If you can find
your own ride…
So I called Tom Uhlman, the photographer hired to shoot the
book, to see if he would be up for splitting the cost of hiring our own
helicopter. He was game, so I priced it out, and we
booked it. I was going to helicopter in
to meet some American and Chilean volcanologists on the flanks of freaking
Mount St. Helens! “Awesome,” I thought. “I have the coolest job in the WORLD.”
A few days later, the helicopter company called. They were
mistaken. There was no way they were going to land their helicopter on an ash
field where their delicate components would get ground up by the glasslike
slivers of ash.
I was heartbroken. There had to be a way…
So I called Andy. “Is there any way we could hike in and
meet you?” I asked.
He didn’t think we could take the usual climbing route
because it’s too snow- and ice-covered and we’d need crampons and ice axes. But
he thought we might be able to go up and around the glacier.
So I called around and found a volunteer guide. He would carry
a radio, a GPS and map. Tom and I packed
our backpacks, hiking boots and hiking polls. We were set.
The hike started out mellow, winding through the woods. We
hopped on a trail that circles the volcano and the sun shone brightly, the sky
was blue, and the wildflowers were everywhere. I thought: “I really do have the
best job in the world…”
Soon we headed off trail up some steep hills full of loose
volcanic scree. We heard a distant helicopter and caught a glimpse of it far
off, but we couldn’t tell where it went.
We checked our GPS reading and the map
and trudged up canyons and down canyons. We were winded but happy.

Finally, we found the canyon that we thought would lead us
safely to the volcano monitoring station. We were much later than we thought getting
there, but still had many daylight hours ahead of us, so up we went. Up and up
and up. Through scree piles that avalanched under our feet. Over large rocks
and boulders. And then we faced a huge, steep snow field. The kind where
you’d be better off having crampons and ice axes.
We decided that the guide and I would head up
alone, and Tom would stay with his equipment until we were sure we had found the
right place. (This is Tom, having a much needed rest.)
We couldn’t see or hear the helicopter or any voices. But it was
still a long way up and over a ridge, so we thought maybe it was all hidden from view.
We trudged up, kicking our toes in to the snow to make
shallow steps. Did I mention that I’m a little scare of heights? I just kept my
eyes on the snow ahead and tried not to look down. Then, I lost my footing. I slipped and started shooting down the ice
field, picking up speed. I kicked my heels into the snow and grabbed desperately at the glacier with my hands but I just kept sliding. I was nearing the guide, and
I reached out my hand. In what felt like
slow motion, he grabbed my arm and stopped my slide. We both sat in the snow
for a while, panting.
“Not far now,” I said.
He gave me a gentle look. "I don’t hear anything," he said. "I don't think they are up there. Maybe
we should head back."
But we had come this far. So we trudged to the top and over
the ridge.
This amazing photo of the America and Chilean scientists
working on the volcano monitoring station on Mount St. Helens? I didn’t take
it. Neither did Tom, nor the guide.
That’s because we never made it there.
We hiked over the ridge to find nothing. Nothing but a bunch
of volcanic rubble.
I actually had a tantrum, stomping my feet up and down,
pounding my fists in the air and yelling: “I don’t believe it! Where are
they???” (I was only half joking.)
We estimated that we hiked about 18 miles, with at least
6,000 vertical gain. It was a beautiful day, but I ran out of water long before
we got back to the trailhead (and anyone who knows me knows I am a fiend about
packing ample water.) We hiked out after dark, tired, hungry, and dehydrated
with our legs wobbling from all the vertical (and I run half marathons!)
No one had any energy to drive anywhere. Our guide kindly
offered to put us up for the night. We gobbled down some burgers and a beer and
stumbled off to bed.
But for me, the ordeal wasn’t over. I woke up in the middle
of the night, and I didn’t feel right. I
was surprised to find that my legs felt pretty good as I made my way to the bathroom
– but that’s the only part of me that felt good. Let’s just say that I kissed the
porcelain god.
I cleaned it all up and crawled back to bed. I felt a little shaky the next day, but made
it back to Portland. An email greeted me when I got home: “Where were you? We
had a very successful day and brought you a nice lunch and lots of water.”
To this day, we don’t really know what went wrong. Sometimes
things go wrong.
And that isn’t the only time I’ve had to struggle to hold down
a meal while doing field research. I’m deep in the throes of researching and
writing another Scientists in the Field book about wave energy pioneers –
engineers on a quest to transform that up and down motion of waves into
electricity.
One of my first trips out was a sparkly blue-sky day with
only four foot swells. But stuck inside the boat’s cabin peering out the tiny
windows, trying to interview a scientist and take notes, the waves felt a lot
bigger. After a while everyone on board started to look a little pale and a
little uncomfortable. Someone offered motion sickness medicine and a few popped
the pills. Others sipped ginger ale. And one person – I’m not saying who and it
wasn’t me – threw up off the back of the boat. Several times.
But that’s all in a day’s work.
Care to share any gruesome stories from your research? I
dare you.
Elizabeth Rusch
(Photos courtesy of Tom Uhlman, except the shot at the top, courtesy of USGS scientist Martin LeFevers.)