I was foolishly bragging to a climbing friend that I had summited a mountain he hadn't done.

"Well," he retorted, "I've climbed something you will never do."

Never? How dare he presume to know my skill level, or my ambition? Maybe I could get there. Maybe I just would. I guessed some of the hardest, most remote climbs I could think of. Dome Peak, Forbidden, Redoubt, Liberty Ridge.

"Nah," he shook his head with a grin. "I climbed Mt. St. Helens when it was 9,677 feet."

Doh! He was right. I could never do that, no matter how good a climber I became. Mt. St. Helens now stood a good 1,300 feet lower, thanks to the blast in May 1980 that shook free the picturesque snow dome and every last twig of surrounding alpine beauty.

Shaken by an earthquake measuring 5.1 on the Richter scale, the north face of this tall symmetrical mountain collapsed in a massive rock debris avalanche. The slab of rock and ice slammed into Spirit Lake, crossed a ridge 1,300 feet high, and roared 14 miles down the Toutle River.

Nearly 230 square miles of forest was blown over or left dead and standing. A mushroom-shaped column of ash rose thousands of feet skyward and drifted downwind, blanketing eastern Washington with gray ash. The eruption continued for nine hours, but Mount St. Helens and the surrounding landscape were dramatically changed within moments.

Okay, so I would never climb all of Mt. St. Helens, since much of it landed in Spokane anyway. But I sure could climb the 8,365 feet that were left, and to somehow make up for the loss, I resolved to ski it.

Left to rejuvenate on its own schedule, the landscape around Mt. St. Helens remained brown and scrappy for many years. Fortunately it was April when I arrived, still winter in the mountains, and the deadened slopes were covered in shimmering white, beckoning to be schussed and shredded.

I drove to the south approach from road #830 and slid the skis into pockets of my backpack. Two miles up the trail, my partner and I stopped to make camp at the edge of the forest. We were at 3,300 feet, just level with the clouds as they alternately spat snow and then parted to let through the late afternoon sunlight.

The next morning dawned clear and sparkling cold. We skinned up at 6:00 a.m. and pointed the skis skyward up Monitor Ridge. We marched quickly, propelled forward by an orange-pink sunrise and the need to stay warm.

The south-facing slope was calm, bright and increasingly warm. In two hours we had stripped down to shorts and polypro T-shirts. The sun reflected relentlessly off the snow, burning behind our knees, under our chins, even inside our ears and nostrils. Under this sunny surveillance, it took just over four hours to reach the crater, nearly 5,000 feet above our campsite.

We unclipped from the skis and planted them in the snow. The summit lip was heavily corniced but I was eager to see what was left of the summit. I crept to the edge on my belly and tipped my head over the lip. Phew! I got blasted with sulphur-smelling steam. The steam belched and burped from dozens of pockets across the crater, which had already grown several hundred feet since the blast.

I thought of my smug friend, climbing another 1,300 feet above where I was standing. Better views, for sure, but harder on the knees. My partner and I lingered on the summit, gazing at the destruction on the north side and the intact forest to the south. An hour later we tightened our boots and turned the skis downhill.

The slopes below looked like a giant mound of vanilla ice cream striped with parallel lines of chocolate sauce dripping from top to the bottom. These dark streaks announced the presence of worm flows, secret lava tunnels hidden under the snow and rock that burrowed their way from the summit. The snow caved into the worm flows, creating a tube-like phenomenon where the chocolate sauce would have been.

"Pick a tunnel and hang on!" I shouted to my friend.

He went first. Schuss, a graceful turn, schuss, another turn, and so it went for the first 1,000 feet. Powdery goodness under a sunny sky. Perfect conditions. We were telemarking gods.

Then SPLAT! He was down. His back ski caught on the lip of a worm flow tube knocking him face forward into the ditch. His muffled grunts floated past as I whizzed by criss-crossing a worm-flow tunnel. I braced for the turn, knee bent, carving the back ski and WOMP! I landed glove first into the snow. What was this?

In a clearly marked line warmed by the sun, the powdery goodness had turned to classic Cascade cement. The mashed potato-like substance glued itself to my legs, unwilling to set me free. I poled, I lurched, and finally toppled myself out of the tube and back to a standing position.

I took another turn, caught another ski tip in the worm flow tunnel and crunched again into Cascade cement. The image of myself as a sun-kissed and suave telemark skier was quickly extinguished. This was a mogul run designed by evil worms.

Nothing changed much for the next hour.

After one particularly spectacular fall, my water bottle tipped out from the side pocket of my pack. I watched it slide and bounce several hundred feet, then disappear into a deep sun spot. Suddenly I remembered the camera I had strapped to the outside of my pack at the summit. With a sinking feeling, I reached for it. It was gone. Somewhere in the 3,000 feet above, my photographs of last night's sunset, today's sunrise and the corniced crater had been reclaimed by the mountain.

No record, no images, no proof of our summit. Had it even happened?

My resolve to ski this thing grew. Pointing the skis downhill, I threatened to replace them with the fatter skis I had seen in the store. Making an effort, the skis' tired edges grabbed for the snow, but then gave out, plunking me once more into a rut.

The last 2,000 feet offered varied conditions: slush, cement, and the occasional breakable crusty bollard. I threw in a few snowplows just to remember the sensation of gliding. With fatigue aching my entire body and bruises starting to show, I reached the forest edge.

Gratefully I kicked off the skis and stuffed them into the pockets of my pack. Walking had never felt so good. Looking up the last glimpse of gleaming Mt. St. Helens, I was suddenly glad I didn't have another 1,300 feet to go. This was mountain enough for one day.

— Patricia Hughes, Livin' the Life for MountainZone.com