#MountSaintHelens, 1980. The big boom really grabs your attention, of course. I think the first part of the video, where nothing much seems to be happening until you realize the *entire mountainside* is sliding down, is even more awesome.

Anyone who knows me knows how I love #mountains, and how purple I get talking about them. It's one of the few parts of my life where I indulge in mysticism. I love them for their permanence, their impartiality. They make no demands. They expect nothing. They *are*.

They don't hate us, they don't love us—they're not even indifferent, because indifference is a choice. I like to think they'd feel a kind of indulgent affection for the small scurrying life on their flanks, if they could. I know they don't.

But they're not immortal. They're born, they grow, they age, they die. We live on their shattered bones.

Unimaginable violence drives their life cycles, and by extension ours. Heat, pressure, collision, miles of rock folding and shattering. Bubbles of the mantle rising through the cracks, and sometimes escaping to give us the *tiniest* glimpse of the power below our feet.

#Volcanoes live fast and die young, compared to the more common kinds of orogenesis, the slow folding and slipping that builds entire ranges. They often nestle among their older, calmer cousins, unremarked until—

—well, until.

All mountains are alive, and sometimes they remind us. They will kill us if we give them the chance, with no malice at all. We have choices they don't. The danger will never stop us from giving them that chance, over and over. At least not those of us who can't stay away.

We can't change their lives, nor should we try. On the balance, I sure am glad they're here to change ours.