Stebbi and I made plans to ski St. Helens on Mother's Day, when it is customary to wear a dress while skiing down in honor of Mom. At midnight the night before, I was without the services of my personal feminine attire specialist, Betsy, who was visiting her mother to celebrate the holiday. Instead of taking the time to rifle through her closet for a lovely frock, I just went to bed and was roused three hours later by the alarm. I packed, scarfed down an egg sandwich, and was out the door at 4.15am to pick up Stebbi.

By five we were heading south on the interstate. It was pleasant to drive under a lightening sky and with little traffic, but I could already feel the long day ahead of us. Stebbi took naps between our bits of conversation. Somewhere near Olympia, my morning tea wore off and I put in Act III of Joe's Garage to induce some lively steering wheel drumming. A high-speed chase's worth of police cars screamed by in the opposite lanes, but Stebbi was too sleepy to notice.

There was a line at Jack's Restaurant to buy climbing permits. I cleverly asked the woman at the counter whether the road to the Climber's Bivouac was open yet, hoping we could save a bit of time, since that trailhead is a bit higher than the Marble Mountain Sno-Park. When we reached the turnoff, I cleverly ignored her assertion that "they haven't told us the road's open yet" and drove through the open gate toward the Climber's Bivouac. Sure enough, snow blocked the road around 2850'.

It was about 8.30am when we optimistically put our skis on and started skinning, only to encounter the first of many bare patches on the road. I kept my skins on and stepped across the gravel, racing Stebbi, who took his skis off and booted it (I won). After several more bare spots, we gave it up and strapped the skis back on our packs. At the trailhead, nearly three miles in, we finally reached uninterrupted snow and started skinning quickly up the hard-packed trail.

At timberline, we switchbacked up a steep slope where the snow was already wet and loose from the warm day. The sun had peeked out here and there on our way up, but the skies were unsettled. Rain and small hail mingled with the sweat of our exertion as we reached the slopes of Monitor Ridge. From here on up, it was easy going. We skinned all the way, switchbacking occasionally, on a steadily improving surface. The sloppy snow at the base of the ridge turned into a dusting of powder over a firm crust, perfect for fast skinning straight up the fall line. For some reason, all the skiers we passed, telemark or otherwise, were booting up the trail rather than skinning. We were a bit confused by this, but to each his own.

Around 6500', Stebbi was slowing down, so we started taking more breaks. I didn't begrudge his tiredness, since he had set a quick pace up the road and trail. We aimed for a cluster of wands -- conspicuously placed right next to a huge wooden post that marks the route -- and took a Gu break. Then we aimed for a cluster of Mazamas and another break. And so on. While resting our legs, we met a pair of women taking their boards for a walk: one from Jackson, WY and another up from Portland. It was a regular social scene by now, with probably a hundred people slogging up from three different directions, including at least one group of Mazamas laboring under hefty packs.

On the final slope to the crater rim, I decided to do a little training for future alpine slogfest objectives: I put my head down and fell into a dull rhythm of stepping and breathing. At the crater I found a spot among the crowds, aired out my damp feet, and waited for Stebbi. There were dresses all around and many people had cell phones out, saying "Hi Mom, I'm on top of the mountain!" The sun shone overhead, but surrounding clouds blocked potential views of Rainier, Adams, and Hood; even the crater itself was in a whiteout.

The clouds moved in just as we got ready to ski down. Stebbi pulled a rustic floral-print dress out of his pack. Since I was lacking the proper attire, skiing in my skivvies was the only way to match the spirit of the day. Unfortunately, I'm a terrible tele skier. My first turns were sketchy but I remained upright. Still within sight of the huge crowds at the rim, I made a few more half-assed arcs and fell spectacularly into the slush. Stebbi couldn't focus his camera, he was laughing so hard. After a few more wet faceplants, I gave it up and put on some clothes. Stebbi was carving nice turns (movie!) and gave me some tips, but little did I know that my right binding was coming loose all the while. I managed to link a few turns between falls as we slid down the ever-sloppier ridge.

At the steep slope just before the forest trail, I gave up in frustration, took off my skis, and postholed between rocks to the base of the ridge. My right binding was wobbling as I tried to yank my boot out. A closer look showed ice packed underneath the mounting plate, raising the front of binding a good quarter-inch off of the ski. No wonder I couldn't make any right turns! I tried to scrape out the ice and tighten the screws, but it didn't seem to make much difference. Luckily we only had a few miles of mellow trail skiing until the road.

The hike out was mind-numbing and thirsty. It was four-something o'clock when we finally tagged the car. After a couple stops for electrolytes and fries, we turned back onto I-5. Stebbi was already talking about knocking off another one of the volcanoes on skis, while I was wondering how much of my ass was covered by abrasions. But I think I've already forgotten all the faceplants. It's time to get some new bindings...

Stebbi took the photos captioned with an *.