ASH: St. Helens

The Adventures of Peter Cottonmouth

Stephen Schieberl
Aug 23, 2017 · 25 min read
The GPS track from my watch. The final two mile descent down the Ptarmigan Trail is from my SPOT.

On Tuesday, August 8, 2017, I summited and circumnavigated Mount St. Helens. It was the second mountain in my ASH project. The more than thirty-eight mile route with 11,700' elevation gain and loss took 14 hours, 15 minutes, and 46 seconds. Despite being the smallest of the three ASH efforts, St. Helens afforded me the highest highs and lowest lows of any adventure I’ve experienced.

The challenge of crossing “S” out of “ASH” began, and lasted, months before I showed up at Climber’s Bivouac. A permit from the Mount St. Helens Institute is required above 4,800'. By the time I had committed to this project, the permits were sold out. There is a dysfunctional aftermarket web site, purmit.com, where permits may be exchanged, but it proved to be nigh on useless.

The site is pretty straight forward. Permit holders post how many permits they have to sell on a particular date. Permit seekers use a basic form to contact them. I spent months frequently visiting the site, looking for dates which didn’t coincide with my family’s otherwise booked August schedule. After not receiving a single response, I ran a test. I created a post and tried to contact myself through the form. Nothing ever came through. The site’s mail sever was obviously broken, meaning none of the sellers were being reached.

I narrowed my search to sellers who had included their contact information in the listing, reaching out to them directly by phone or email. I had a taker for August 31: a geology student at Manchester University riding his bike across the country, whose companion couldn’t make the journey. I’d also found a listing for the same date which wasn’t offering permits, but was warning potential buyers about a scammer selling duplicate permits. The permit numbers were included in the listing. This meant that when the rangers checked the climbing logs and noticed the same number appearing repeatedly, fake permit holders might receive hefty fines upon their return.

I should have asked this guy what the number was for the permit he was offering, but it was a sweet story and the fact that he was only selling one to hopefully find a climbing partner didn’t rouse suspicion. The transaction was made, the permit was emailed, and sure enough, it was one of the fakes. I was furious. I though for sure I had just been scammed, and scammed well. I was able to cancel the transaction and notify the seller that I’d caught it.

The short story from there is that I was not dealing with the scammer. The seller had purchased two permits from the scammer and was trying to resell one of them. He was just as crushed as I was. I would later learn that his bike and clothes were stolen on his cross country trip. I ended up in communication with the executive director of MSHI, offering some suggestions for the site as a developer, and learned they took this crime seriously by opening a federal investigation.

My Mount St. Helens climbing permit, displayed in a “highly visible manner” per the instructions.

I was eventually able to obtain a permit by watching purmit.com like a hawk. I checked in frequently for new listings on eligible dates, hoping someone would leave their info in their posting. One popped up for August 8 with a name, email address, and phone number. I reached him by text, got the permit numbers in advance, asked a few questions to reassure me this was a guy who actually climbs, and had him immediately mark his listing as sold after the transaction. Done.


The original plan was to do Adams on August 9, so I moved it back, had a vacation day approved and was set for St. Helens on August 8. I had to purchase two permits together, so I invited Scotty Strain along with me, who previously joined and guided me on my Hood summit.

The alien world that is the summit of Mount St. Helens.

August 5: wedding. August 6: long nap and big night of sleep recovering from the previous day’s wedding. August 7: work, pack, and sleeping soundly by 8pm. August 8: Up at 2am.

Scotty and I caravanned from my place at 2:30 with a planned 5am start. I blared some forward thinking techno on the drive to make up for the missing hour or two of sleep I was feeling. The forest roads were easy to navigate under the light of the full moon, though maintaining traction was tricky around a few curves. We arrived around 4:30, chatted, signed in, and started moving just in time to get ahead of a large group.

Up the Ptarmigan Trail at dawn.

The first mile of the Ptarmigan Trail is a gentle, runnable climb through the forest. The trail then begins to bend upward; roots and rocks forming steps to the timberline. As the trees’ shade thinned, the combination of early dawn and moonlight allowed us to turn off our headlamps earlier than expected. The haze from the past week’s nearby wildfires took some distance out of the emerging views, but treated the neighboring peaks with an ethereal effect. We crossed the Loowit Trail, where the Ptarmigan becomes the Monitor Ridge climbing route.

Ascending the boulder field on the Monitor Ridge Trail.

I love scrambling over a good boulder field. I have since I was a kid. The first one I encountered that morning was just above the trees. It was just sparse enough to allow the option of either hopping over the top of the rocks or meandering in the sand between them. We stayed on the rock; climbing and leaping our way up the mountain, past our fellow climbers who took the more traditional hiking approach. I kept an eye on my heart rate to ensure I wouldn’t flame out early today. We kept up a solid climbing pace despite a relatively low effort. The morning was off to a fantastic start.

The boulder field mixes with snow and sand scree before the final ascent.

The sun peaked over a ridge to the east, casting the mountain shadow long into the western horizon. A helicopter hovered in close: officials checking us for our permits, which we had pinned onto our packs. The boulders thinned out in place of snow fields and scree. I unfolded my poles to get some purchase in the sand, which became gradually finer as we ascended. Scotty did not bring poles and started to fall behind as the “two steps forward, one step back” idiom was realized. I handed him one of mine, so we could each have a pole in one hand and a knee in the other. This worked just as well as having two, and kept us evenly paced.

Mount St. Helens crater and lava dome from the end of the Monitor Ridge Trail.

With a little over two hours elapsed, we reached the crater rim. The moment the view changes from a steep sand dune to the expanse of the shell which once contained the now splayed innards of Mount St. Helens is overwhelming. I spent a moment taking in the landscape. The thousands of logs in Spirit Lake. The fuming lava dome. The crater glacier wrinkled with crevasses. The shadowy peaks of the Cascades rising through the smoke and fog, aglow in the morning light.

Reaching the true summit of Mount St. Helens.

I scanned the rim for the true summit and noticed a cairn in the distance. We set out along the narrow ridge between the inside and outside of the mountain. The path rose and descended like thin, jagged teeth. We were quick, but careful to not be swallowed into St. Helens wide open mouth. It was thrilling. I ran up the final soft, sandy ascent to the cairn and tagged it lightly with my toe.

Scenes from the true summit.

We spent about ten minutes at the summit. Just a slight change in the viewing angle made it all new and different from only a moment earlier. St. Helens really isn’t like any other summit. The cracks, the detail, the erosion. The walls of the crater opening to the north, where spills a clay river locked in suspended animation. We took dozens of photos and made a game plan on how to proceed.

Scotty was considering making today a summit-circumnavigation effort, as well, but independent of mine. Still recovering from a tough mountain race just a few days earlier, he opted to call it a day once we were down. I wanted to hang with him for at least a little while longer, so we agreed to part ways back at the Loowit Trail.

Frame captures from Scotty’s GoPro of the summit return trip.

Following the rim back to the Monitor Ridge Trail was a little more intimidating than it was on the way to the summit. The glare of the sun made it difficult to assess the terrain more than a few yards out… on a ridge where a few yards out might drop thousands of feet. We mostly stayed low and away from the lip to increase our safety margin. We slid with every step, but at least we slid on the correct side of the crater.

Time to ski the scree.

Back at the top of the trail, we began our descent. I collected my second pole from Scotty and started what more closely resembled skiing than running. The soft sand through which we trudged to ascend made for a fast and easy standing glissade. I was back down to the boulder field within a few minutes. Despite wearing gaiters, my shoes had filled up with sand. I took a moment to empty them out before bounding down the rocks.

I went down the boulder field in a swift, light tiptoe — like a game of hot lava sped up by a thousand percent. I was just letting gravity do its job while trying not to crash. It was difficult to read what other people on the mountain thought of this guy screaming down the rocks, but it was obvious I wasn’t being ignored. I stayed on my own line well off of the path of others to make sure no one would be harmed by any potential rockfall. Still, I felt that most scorned the idea of running on this terrain. I couldn’t help it. This was some of the most fun I’ve ever had on a run.

Back at the timberline.

Back at the timberline, I paused and waited for Scotty. He was still pretty high up, emptying his shoes of sand. He was not wearing gaiters and his shoes were filling up frequently. He stood up and moved quickly, taking a direct, steep line around the crowds down to the sandy trail.

“Why did you wait for me?” he asked.

“Because I said I would!” I replied.

We had made great time on the summit, so I didn’t mind waiting a few minutes to make it back to the Loowit together. We ran down the last couple hundred yards to the junction. I was a little concerned at how quickly I was consuming water, so he topped off the bladder in my pack. I thanked him, he wished me luck, and I was on my way.

Onto the Loowit Trail.

Before I landed my first step west to circumnavigate, I had already made a few unrealized and costly mistakes. At the root of all the problems I would encounter was complacency. Mount St. Helens is the smallest of the three “ASH” mountains, but deserves no less preparation than its larger siblings. I told myself this repeatedly, yet failed to follow through with the attention it needed.

I usually pack at least two nights before an effort like this because I’m always missing an item or two. I had packed the night before and, sure enough, had a couple missing pieces of nutrition. I had enough calories, just not the diversity, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.

I didn’t research the route well enough, opting to just follow my map and signs the day of. If I had done my due diligence, I would have gained two key pieces of information. The first is that the Loowit Trail is far less stubborn when traveled counterclockwise than clockwise. I’ll get to this later. The second, more important, note is that Mount St. Helens has an abundance of clear, running water flowing from its glaciers.

When I ran the Bigfoot 100k last October, the course took us on a section of the Loowit which, especially later in the year, was short on natural water sources. This left me with the impression that all of the mountain was short on natural water sources. Which meant that today I was carrying a hefty, three-liter bladder of water filled to the brim; still worried about running out in the forecasted high temperatures. In hindsight, it was ridiculous to assume that a glaciated mountain would ever be dry.

Off I went. Into the wrong direction with far too much weight and worry on my back.

My first view to the south from the Loowit.

There was a familiar sight at the start: the unique course markers set by Destination Trail Run… the host of the Bigfoot race I ran last year. The wooden clothespin with two ribbons — one pink and one fluorescent orange with reflective striping — is unmistakable. The Bigfoot 200 mile race was set to begin on August 11, and the course was already marked. Last year, I came through this section in the opposite direction, at night, in the middle of a storm with nearly no visibility. I was excited to see what this was like on a sunny day.

This boulder field is quite a bit easier to navigate with course markers by day than it was during a stormy night at the Bigfoot 100k.

Despite traveling in the opposite direction with high visibility, memories of my drenched midnight trek through here flooded back. I was surprised to find myself moving hardly faster than I did that night. The exposure to the blazing morning sun and rising temperatures seemed to cause as much trouble as a raging storm. I kept an eye on my heart rate and water consumption as I made my way northwest and off the rocks.

The far end of the large boulder field on the Loowit’s southwest quadrant.

I was hot, cottonmouthed, and couldn’t stop downing water; which had become warm and unsatisfying. This was something I hadn’t experienced at this level before. I thought it might be some combination of the heat, sun exposure, altitude, and wildfire smoke, but I’d just spent the past week running up peaks on exposed trails around Olallie Lake — in higher altitude and temperatures with more smoke in the air — without issue. This is truly bizarre.

Adding snow to my bladder to cool down.

I came across a small snow field north of the boulders and dug up some snow to throw in my bladder. The feeling of the ice on my back and a couple of cold sips resets me.

Views from St. Helens’ beautiful west side.

The next few miles were voluntarily slow. I didn’t want to torture myself in the heat and the scenery improved with every step. Wildflowers and grass began to replace sand and rock. The jagged skyline loomed in the hanging haze. I wanted time to memorize. To remember all of this.

I couldn’t stop fiddling my trekking poles. I would stow them for awhile before I started to missed them, then I would get tired of holding them. I lost maybe fifteen minutes in the first six miles to making the decision to just keep them out. I held them in one hand to run on gentle downhills, but found them invaluable on climbs and steeper descents.

Steep, eroded canyons punctuate the descent into the northwest reach of the mountain.

My pace picked up as the trail gently sloped downward towards the Toutle River. Just when I would get a rhythm forming, the Loowit would cross a deep, eroded canyon. The beauty of these massive lacerations in the earth made up for the inconvenience of the unbalanced slides down into them and the slogs back up.

The trail became cluttered with vegetation. It slowed what would have otherwise been a blazing downhill segment, but the protection from the sun was welcome. A breeze picked up and raised my spirit. The path opened back up to the elements at Coldspring Creek. Ropes had been left on either side to navigate the treacherous banks. A marked advantage to running this trail between two races, the Volcanic 50k and the Bigfoot 200, is the assurance of freshly installed ropes. I topped off on water before climbing out, where I added a soft flask I found to my inventory.

Ropes installed at Coldspring Creek.

The weight of the water on my back became a burden up the next climb. I powered through and assumed running mode when the elevation leveled off. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my left calf and had to stop myself from falling on my face. I still don’t know exactly what happened, but in crossing over some rocks I managed to forcefully plant my right pole into my left leg. The tiny basket at the end of the pole left a slice, which started to bleed. The pain came a moment later and sent me to the ground.

I cleaned off my calf. I didn’t look too serious. I stood up to realize the blunt force of the pole did the most damage. My calf was throbbing. I tried to put it out of my mind and jog a little. There was no power coming from my steps as I limped forward. I resigned myself to acceptance that today was going to be an exercise in patience. My poles became crutches and I moved on, distracted by the unrelenting beauty of the mountain.

St. Helens west side.

I’d worked my limp more effectively into my stride by the time I’d reached the Toutle River. The impetus for running the Loowit clockwise was to beat the afternoon snow melt on the Toutle. I didn’t want to find myself needing to cross a chest deep raging river. My fears were undue as a reliable rope crossing had been rigged along with ropes in and out of the canyon. I soaked my feet in the river.

Crossing the Toutle.

The Bigfoot course markers had diverted awhile ago and picked back up here. I remembered crossing a much deeper version of this river in the dark. I also recalled there being little or no clear, running water between here and where the route joined the Loowit down from Johnson Observatory. The water wasn’t clear, so I gave it a test with a small, handheld filter I was carrying with me. The water came through clear, but had a slight aftertaste of sediment. I could live with that. In my mind, I thought this could be my last chance to fill up on the whole trip. I drank my fill and topped off my water storage. If only I had known better.

The slope north of the Toutle River is essentially a massive sand dune.

The load of water in my bag and in my belly took its toll on the climb out from the Toutle. The thousand foot ascent was in beach-like sand, exposed to a scorching sun. The path rises across a ridge at a steep angle with only one switchback towards the end. A cool wind blew over the top of the ridge. I took a break and tried to reset everything. My cottonmouth just wouldn’t let up.

It was during that break I realized I had gone the wrong direction around the mountain. In the series of high ridges on St. Helens’ west side, each one is covered in sand to the south and west, and vegetation to the north and east. Had I gone the other way, I would have been climbing up firm trail and glissading down the sand on the other side. The reverse is infinitely more strenuous.

This run was like being in a relationship with a cruel and irresistibly beautiful lover. There was so much pain. So much anguish. So much that I just wanted to get out. But then I would look up and find myself awestruck. Flabbergasted by raw, ancient nature; and the feeling of being something so tiny fighting something so big. I would forget the abuse and dive back in for more. So on I went.

The grassy ridges west of the Lava Flow.

I had hope for this next section. Elevation changes are relatively subtle on the north side of the mountain, and the breeze took off some of the heat’s sting. I ran as much as I could with my compromised calf, but a new issue arose. I realized I had stopped sweating, and that I could hear water sloshing around in my belly. I had been constantly drinking water to satiate my dry mouth, and my body had stopped absorbing it. My nutrition had fallen off a bit, in general, and I was simply sapped of energy.

I stepped up my regimen of electrolyte chew tabs. I knew it would be awhile before my body would be back in balance. I advanced through the Lava Flow as well as I could, alternating between shuffling, hiking, and resting.

An ominous St. Helens stands in the haze, from the Lava Flow.

The cottonmouth was relentless. I couldn’t stop sipping; letting the water soak in my mouth before spitting it out. Each drink made breathing difficult and running impossible. I came across a creek with running, but opaque brown water. Still convinced that I had to keep up my rapidly diminishing water supply, I pulled out my handheld filter and gave it a test. I was pleasantly surprised to see clear water coming out the other side. It tasted like water. I topped off once again.

The filter which magically turned mud into drinking water.

Within a few minutes of crossing that stream, I came across a wide, clear, cold river. I took out my phone and opened Gaia. I had downloaded a topographic map before heading out and looked at it for the first time on this run. There were countless blue lines coming off the mountain in every direction. Rivers. I felt like an idiot. I finally realized how much water St. Helens had to offer. But the damage was done.

This is the best water in the world.

At the east end of the Lava Flow, I met a backpacker at a spring.

“Nice little oasis after that last stretch, right?” he said.

The cleanest, coldest water conceivable was pouring straight out of the side of the mountain. I put my face in and let it rush into my dry mouth; still careful not to swallow too much. I emptied all of my water and took on about a liter from the spring.

The backpacker and I chatted for a bit. He was heading to June Lake, which put us in the same direction. I set out a couple minutes after him; still low on energy, but at an incredibly improved pace with the ballast of water unloaded.

Over Windy Pass in the saddle southwest of Alpine Butte.

The rest at the spring and the cool water on my back gave me the jolt I needed to make the climb over Windy Pass. The staircase-like switchback rising stubbornly up Alpine Butte appeared intimidating from a distance, but was peculiarly gratifying in execution. Some strength was coming back to me and I took off in something akin to a run down to the Plains of Abraham.

The Plains of Abraham.

The Plains of Abraham, named for a historic battlefield in Quebec, are vast tracts of sand and pumice lying flat below St. Helens’ east-facing slopes. The afternoon sun burned its hottest and brightest here. I jogged steadily, taking in the wide views and occasional thunderous cracks of rock and ice fall on the mountain. The Loowit traversed east towards Pumice Butte, exposing dramatic views into Ape Canyon and out to Mount Adams.

My aches and dry mouth began to manifest as a freakish vision in my mind as I jogged. A distorted cartoon rabbit staggered along — every limb contorted, neck broken and head pointed the wrong away — with a look of fear on its face. An imaginary song played which sounded like a collaboration between 90s Primus and an aged Tom Waits. A refrain kept repeating to the tune of “Peter Cottontail”.

Here comes Peter Cottonmouth
Running north and looking south

This phantasm was an apt rendering of my condition.

Countless streams pour from the plains into Ape Canyon.

I took a moment to absorb the scenery, take in some calories, and cool my feet in a stream which dropped into a long waterfall not more than a couple yards away. When I set out up the ridge and around Pumice Butte, I felt my energy begin to wane again. The sloshing in my belly became more pronounced and I ate a chew tab. I hiked for awhile; taking the opportunity to commit this enchanting wilderness to memory.

Pumice Butte and the long views behind it.

I had miscalculated the total distance of this run. I’d heard that the Loowit was “about a 50k”, so I had assumed it would be thirty-one miles around, and then another two miles to and from the trailhead. It turns out the “50k” figure includes the four-mile out-and-back trip. When I encountered a sign which read “Ptarmigan Trail — 8 miles”, I shouted, “YES!”, raising my fist in the air. I had four miles less to go than I believed. My physical energy was still low, but my morale was flying high.

Waterfalls and alpine meadows replace pumice on the climb up the southeast quadrant.

I had two hefty climbs ahead of me, divided only by a brief loss in elevation. I rose steadily; trying to shuffle my way up, but mostly walking. The sand and pumice gave way to meadows, and trees began to once again dot the landscape. Streams tore deep ravines into the earth, pouring out as waterfalls into yawning chasms. Crossing each one broke any rhythm I had established. I took care not to loosen boulders out from under me while traversing each deep, eroded gully. It was tough and slow movement through some of this effort’s most visually rewarding terrain.

There were a surprising number of people out here. Maybe as many as I’d seen all day, including up and down the busy summit. There were families playing in the creeks and cooling themselves under the shorter and more accessible waterfalls. There were mountain bikers in full body armor. One group was pushing large stones down into a ravine; an activity of which I did not much approve. Several hikers and backpackers.

Boulder fields, boulder fields, and more boulder fields.

The south side of Mount St. Helens is covered in boulder fields. I had a taste at the beginning when I set out west, but did not understand the extent to which the east side was covered. This was another symptom of inadequate planning. I do love hopping my way through boulder fields, but my knees and ankles were feeling worn. What would usually be a joy was a struggle. I kept thinking of how much I would enjoy this area on fresh legs. Relief came as I crested around the second-to-last high point and I began to drop down towards June Lake.

This tree and a seemingly luminescent deep pond are among the oddities in the forest near June Lake.

The trees grew taller and the forest more dense as the sun lowered; providing some much desired shade. The vegetation made the boulder fields less frequent for a stretch. I ran wherever there was trail underfoot. There was a still peace in these woods. Everything was silent and static, as if it were frozen in time. I came across a small, deep pond with water a glowing blue and transparent to the bottom. Not a ripple. Soon after, the trail split down to June Lake or up to the Ptarmigan. One final, long climb.

OK, I get it. Boulder fields. Now you’re just showing off, St. Helens.

One more massive swath of boulder fields and ravines separated me from the forest near the trailhead. My ankles felt weak, rotating involuntarily into uncomfortable positions when my feet landed on the uneven rocks. The last towering, tree-covered ridge lurked ahead. Beneath the canopy lay a dirt trail and sanctuary for my pulverized joints.

A pair of waterfalls pour into the numerous ravines which fracture the Loowit.

I took my last few painful steps off the rocks and into the woods. The climbing promptly ensued. For the first time since the early morning, my body felt back in balance. I was no longer engorged with water. The dryness had left my mouth and my mind began to clear. I ran and power hiked up the steep grade as if I’d only put a handful of miles behind me. This whole overhydration ordeal finally ended after a more-than-twenty-mile slog. I actually wished I had more than four miles left to go.

Off of the boulders and into the woods for the final time.

The Bigfoot 200 course markers appeared again as I passed the Worm Flows climbing route just north of Marble Mountain Sno-Park. I remember running down this section to finish the Bigfoot 100k race, and now I’m pushing up it to complete a different effort.

After ascending around nine-hundred feet in one mile, the trail nearly leveled out and I got into the first quality run I’ve had in hours. I head west through one last alpine meadow, the hazy sky perforated by sunbeams cutting through the woods ahead. The ground was nearly too dark once I was under the trees. The vault toilet and junction signs came into view. I made a left and I started hammering down the Ptarmigan Trail.

One last look up the mountain.

My knees and quads weren’t responding well to the steps off the high stairs formed by roots on the steep trail. I powered through. I checked my watch and it had died. I wasn’t sure when. I tried to take a sip of water, but I had just run out.

I shouted “runner” to alert hikers on their descent from the summit that I was passing. I noticed a familiar face when one of these hikers turned around. I had seen him earlier. I was on my way down from summit when he was on his way up. I looked around and began to recognize most of his group from earlier.

“Hey, didn’t I see you this morning? Did you go up again?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah! I remember you. I’m actually just now getting back from going around.” I replied.

A moment earlier, “just now getting back” was a disappointing statement of how slow I had been. In this context, though, I suddenly felt pretty good about my performance. I’d made it around the mountain, after summitting, in the same time it took this group to only summit and return. And was actually moving ahead of them.

I ran the last mile as hard as I could. It felt long as I anticipated the parking lot around every turn. I wanted to walk here and there, but kept charging onto the strongest finish I could deliver. The climbers’ sign-in stand appeared through the trees. I paused quickly to sign out and then kept running to the car. My Mount St. Helens summit-circumnavigation was complete.

The heat had never fully relented, even in the setting sun. All I could think about were cold things. I took off my pack and dug into it for my keys. I unlocked and started the car, then turned on the AC in what all seemed like a single motion. The last couple of miles without water left me thirsty. I had two gallons of water in the car, but they had been made bathwater-warm by the heat of the day. It would have to do for now.

Some quick stretching, a change of my shoes, and I was on my way home. That is, with a stop in Cougar for an ice cream bar, spicy chicharrones, and the coldest liter of water I felt like I’d ever had in my life.


Mount St. Helens did a number on me. I had a harder time on the Loowit Trail, the smallest of the three circumnavigations in ASH, than I did on the Timberline — the trio’s largest. It wasn’t the trail itself, though the Loowit is full of tough challenges. My lackadaisical approach to preparing for it cost me dearly. In retrospect, Timberline was tough, but nothing really went wrong. It is simply a tough trail. I’m thankful that my issues and mistakes came up here and not on something bigger.

I’m walking away from St. Helens as a net positive experience. The summit was phenomenal. The glorious, wild beauty of the Loowit more than repaid my difficulties. I’m taking lessons from both the triumphs and failures on each of the past two mountains to inform my final ASH effort: Mount Adams.

)

Stephen Schieberl

Written by

Wilderness athlete, technologist, and family man.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade