The Way of Women by Lauraine Snelling

north summit belched steam fumaroles into the fleeing clouds. The snowpack cried muddycreeks. Cinder-gray ash weighted fir bows like dirty snow. To the north, Spirit Lake shimmered beneath the intermittent sun, its deep blue a reflection bowl for the struggling peak.
    David and Brian shrugged out of their packs and grabbed a bag of trail mix. They climbed to the top of a granite point. Far below them a miniature Mount St. Helens Lodge bounded the edge of the lake.
    David opened his camera case and focused on the scene below.
Harry Truman’s Lodge
, he thought, remembering back to a time when Coke glasses were filled with Harry’s special brew and imbibed in front of a roaring fire. Harry thought he owned the mountain. “Wonder how Harry’s doing?” He adjusted the f-stops on the camera body.
    “That song about him sure hit the top fast.”
    “The old reprobate.”
    “Dad! I thought you liked him.”
    “Sure I do. He’s a genuine character. But if the mountain really does blow like they’re predicting, he’ll get himself killed, and someone else will die looking for him.”
    For a second Brian forgot to chew. “How?”
    “Well, if the mountain really does erupt …” David turned the wide-angle lens toward the peak. After a long pause, without pressing the shutter, he put his gear away.
    “Dad?”
    “Uh-huh?” David slumped, eyes closed. “I don’t want to remember her this way. Next time we come, she’ll be herself again.”
    After shouldering their packs, Brian asked. “You want to go higher?”
    “No. I had thought about looking in the crater, but let’s leave well enough alone. You want to head on down to the Lodge?” The thought of a shot of Harry’s special stock bit a desire into his throat.
    “Na. The lake’s too cold for swimming yet.” Brian glanced at the man beside him. “You want to?”
    David thought a moment. “No. Let’s head back for camp. See if there are any trout in that stream. I know you packed plenty of food, but creek-fresh trout tonight or in the morning sure sounds good to me.”
    After supper at the campfire, as Brian roasted marshmallows on a willow stick, David thought of home.
I wish Katheryn were here. She’d help me sort through this muddle. Why can I talk about great writers and thinkers, even grammar, for hours, but can never explain or describe this heaviness that settles near me?
    “Dad, you want one?” Brian held out a marshmallow, light brown on all sides and mushy in the middle, just the way his father liked them.
    “Perfect, thank you.”
    “Another?”
    “No thanks.” The marshmallow being turned burst into flame. “At least not that one.”
    Brian blew it out. “I know, that’s for me.” He pulled off the crispy coat, ate it, and held the gooey center over the coals. “I love you, Dad.” His whisper danced with the sparks against the black of the night.
    Sleep that night came quickly. David’s last thought as he shifted his aching legs away from a root stabbing him was one of gratitude. Tomorrow would be a new day. And maybe a granddaddy trout lurked in the shaded hole just beyond the knobby knees of that giant cedar.

M AY 17, 1980
    C leaning failed to keep her mind occupied.
    Katheryn threw her cloth in the sink, wrenched the rubber gloves from her hands, and tossed the slippery things into the sink after the cloth.
I’ve had it—give it up, dope
, she dumped her thoughts after them.
    No matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t keep her mind away from the mountain—and her two men. David had been so down lately, and there seemed no way to get him to open up and talk about it.
    Maybe he didn’t want to figure out what was bothering him. Why was this time any different than the other years, other than deeper depression, or so it seemed?
    And you let Brian go up with him, in spite of your doubts and fears
. That was the part that rubbed raw right now. If David needed to go, so be it, but to put Brian in harm’s way …
    And you let