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The time has surely flown by for me.
Thirty years ago I was a very young woman, really just a kid, living downwind of Mount St. Helens on the beautiful Sunday on which she tore herself apart. This was in the days before the Internet and even before 24/7 cable news, so our first clue the mountain had erupted catastrophically was when we were enveloped in a dense and dark ash cloud.
Even us hayseeds knew we were seeing history unfold. Quite likely the personal path that led me to study geology was sketched somewhere in my unconscious mind in the gathering gloom of that day. I suspect that geologic catastrophes are large enough that you either run away from them or, if you are perhaps a bit deranged, feel drawn toward them. I’ve always been in the second camp, wondering what powerful display of mighty forces the Earth will next show us — and whether we will survive.
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