Fear and loathing on the eruption trail

Andy Lockhart was nowhere near the danger zone when Mount St. Helens blew its top 25 years ago, blasting almost a cubic mile of rock across southern Washington.

However, the May 18, 1980, eruption was the first in a series of chance occurrences that eventually put the Whitefish native squarely in the path of other, even larger volcanic catastrophes.

Lockhart, 47, is a geologist and electronics expert with the U.S. Geological Survey's Volcano Disaster Assistance Program, a kind of high-tech crisis response team that helps monitor and assess hazardous volcanoes that are threatening to explode.

Since joining the program in 1986, he has visited multiple sites in Central and South America, the Philippines, the Caribbean and the Pacific, witnessing more than a dozen significant eruptions.

"I've been stressed to the point of exhaustion a number of times and I've been in fear for my life, but I haven't been bored in 18 years," Lockhart said during a recent telephone interview. "I have no need for extreme sports or any additional adrenaline in my spare time."

After graduating from Whitefish High School in 1975, Lockhart received an earth science degree from Montana State University. Then he went to Alaska, earning a master's degree in geophysics from the University of Alaska and working for the Anaconda Mining Co. doing mineral exploration.

"That was terrific work for a young guy," Lockhart recalled. "You'd be outside all summer, from thaw to freeze-up, working in extremely remote areas."

As a geophysicist, his role was to look below the surface for mineral deposits and structural features that couldn't otherwise be seen. A helicopter would drop him off in the middle of nowhere in the morning, and he'd spend the day examining promising rock outcrops and collecting data before being picked up again at night.

"Growing up in Montana gives you a real advantage for doing this kind of work," Lockhart said. "You learn to enjoy the problems that nature throws at you."

At times, entire squadrons of mosquitoes would fly up from the tundra, sliding into attack formation behind him. He'd wait for the whining drone to build to a crescendo before dropping down and letting the wind blow them away.

After five years in the bush, though, Anaconda "went belly up" and Lockhart was left to explore for another job.

He spent a couple of years working for some placer gold mining operations and taking electronics courses. Then the USGS opportunity opened up.

The Volcano Disaster Assistance Program was created in 1986, shortly after 23,000 people in Armero, Colombia, were killed by debris flows spawned during the eruption of Nevado del Ruiz.

By that point, USGS geologists had spent six years monitoring Mount St. Helens, learning to predict the smaller dome-building eruptions that followed the initial blast.

While it wasn't clear if this forecasting ability transferred to other volcanoes, scientists certainly had a better understanding of the mechanics of an eruption. They'd also developed better analytical tools for monitoring the movement of magma.

Given these improvements, the disaster assistance program was created in an effort to prevent disasters like Armero. It also gave U.S. geologists an opportunity to learn more about a broad range of volcanic activity.

"We work as consultants on an invitation basis," Lockhart explained. "We only do things the host countries need us to do, and we only go to volcanoes where people are at risk."

Lockhart's role is to provide and install the seismographs and other monitoring equipment.

"I probably wind up going to one or two eruptions a year, depending on what you consider an eruption," he said. "If you mean an event that entails the possibility of evacuating a significant number of people, I see one every couple of years."

That's actually the most fascinating part of the job, Lockhart said. He started out being interested in geophysics and wanting to work outdoors - and he still "exults" at being able to visit these places and see the most powerful natural phenomena that the planet has to offer - but dealing with people is what interests him most.

"Despite all the technology we can bring to bear, often the most beneficial thing I can do is just stand around and tell people what I know about volcanoes in general and about their volcano in particular, so that they can decide for themselves when it's time to leave," he said. "Instrumentation is secondary. You just need to give people an idea of how proportionately alarmed they should be. That's the same whether you're dealing with sophisticated people in the United States or New Guinea tribesmen who still worship shamans."

That lesson was brought home in 1991 when a small, dormant volcano in the Philippines showed signs of activity.

Because Mount Pinatubo hadn't erupted in about 500 years, many of the 500,000 people who lived near it didn't think anything serious would happen. The doubters included officers at Clark Air Base, the largest U.S. military facility in the region, which was located 15 miles east of the summit.

Lockhart had deployed to several volcanoes prior to this, but none of them had done anything particularly spectacular. In fact, the last significant eruption at Mount St. Helens ended just a few days after he joined the disaster program in 1986.

Consequently, "I got to Pinatubo thinking my arrival would be the kiss of death for any excitement," he recalled.

The disaster team arrived in the Philippines in late April. Seven weeks later, Pinatubo produced the second-largest volcanic eruption of the 20th century.

Roughly six cubic kilometers of pulverized magma and debris were scattered across 4,000 square kilometers. The ash column from the June 15 eruption soared more than 20 miles high. It looked like the mushroom cloud from a massive nuclear explosion.

More than 300 people died - mostly in buildings that collapsed from the heavy ash and earthquakes - but due to early warnings provided by the USGS geologists and their Filipino colleagues, tens of thousands of people were evacuated from Clark Air Base and the surrounding countryside about five days before the eruption.

"For me, Pinatubo was where I got my first view of the whole eruption record," Lockhart said. "We were using these old drum records [to capture seismographic data]. The good thing about them was they provided a paper record. We papered the wall with these daily seismograms. You could read them like a book and see how the activity was changing. It was very demonstrative."

Air Force officials who understood nothing about volcanoes could still look at the seismograms and see that the number and size of the earthquakes under the volcano were picking up dramatically.

"It was very useful because there were no visual changes at the mountain," Lockhart said. "It was all in the seismograms. Anybody could look at them and see that things were ramping up."

Lockhart's and the disaster team's role in monitoring and calling the eruption are described in Dick Thompson's book, "Volcano Cowboys," which also discusses the Mount St. Helens eruption and some of the lessons learned from that event.

Major volcanic eruptions happen so infrequently that each one teaches scientists something, Lockhart said.

"There's enough similarity that the lessons you learn from one can be applied to the next, but it doesn't map completely," he said. "It's a lot like people - you can learn about human nature, but each individual has a specific personality."

Lockhart demurred, however, when asked if he thinks of volcanoes in such human terms.

"I don't anthropomorphize them," he said. "I don't think of them as having emotions. My basic attitude towards them is almost one of fear and loathing. Any time I wind up near a volcano, it's either hurt someone or has a good chance of hurting them. When I go, it's because somebody could end up crying. My job is to minimize that."

Reporter Bill Spence may be reached at 758-4459 or by e-mail at bspence@dailyinterlake.com