 I am not a climber. When I go it is a huge rush, but my technical rock skills are limited and the sport is not my identity in the way today's rock stars live it. Along with this comes the insecurity and ignorance of dealing with any gnarly situation one might encounter mid-climb. Take this very moment for example. I am something near a couple hundred feet off level ground, and a few feet above the last belay station, slung to the breast of Devils Tower like that of a baby to their mother. And I itch like a son-of-a-bitch. I mean, itch, as in gone insane gonna rip my skin off and feed it to the passing swallows-itch. From the creases of my rear to the back of my knees is a seething, pouting, tortuous rash that disappears only after the first few moves of every pitch--when I'm consumed with concentration--only to be waiting like an incensed Doberman at the top.
If it didn't seem so ridiculous, I would tell Frank Sanders, the lead climber in our quartet, to lower me down to the last belay during which I would turn 180 degrees from the rock and drag my ass down like a dog along the grass. Surely, a seasoned climber would have more mental strength to deal with such hindrance.
I believe they call it eczema.
I came to the northeastern corner of Wyoming not necessarily to climb Devils Tower-- though it was part of the seduction--but because I'm simply drawn to it. The Tower stands as an 867 foot anomaly among the surrounding prairie like Lady Liberty in a crowd of midgets, besting the grandest attractions, natural or otherwise, of the nearby Black Hills and Big Horns, and come to think of it, tantamount to about anywhere.
Yet most tourists overlook it. Americans in general only know it for the cameo in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Often misjudged as a national park, few know it is really a national monument administered by the National Park Service and fewer still know matter-of-factly it is the first national monument, established by President Theodore Roosevelt in 1906 under the Antiquities Act.
Geologically, it is accepted as a remnant of a volcanic intrusion of magma into sedimentary rock. Millions of years later the sediment eroded, leaving the volcanic core exposed with a mesmerizing irregular columnar finish. If Close Encounters portrays one thing correctly, it is just that, the mesmerizing affect the tower has on humans. It is an oddity, and to visit is to participate in a pilgrimage that has been going on for centuries.
Blue eyes are known to have been mesmerized since 1859, when scouts from the legendary Raynolds' Yellowstone expedition saw it, but attention wasn't called to it until another expedition in 1875 when it earned its current white-owned name. [Said mission was an illegal U.S.G.S search for gold in the Black Hills led by Col. Richard Dodge, violating the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868. This wasn't the first or last violation of that treaty. Just a year before, Gen. George Armstrong Custer led a similar recon in the Black Hills, where he was asked to not return after smoking the pipe. It could be said that breaking promises or the law doesn't pay, as it caught up with him in '76, resulting in the fateful dirtnap.] Later, the seemingly most obvious thing to do with it was also the most obvious thing not to do, climb it. Until that Independence day in 1893, this was generally considered stupid and impossible by white people and unknown to have been accomplished by natives [An argument could be made that if local natives climbed it, oral traditions would have been much different. However, one respected and educated--albeit dirtbag--Bozeman climber suggested to me in a ominously deep Bozeman fog that a couple of adventurous, dirtbag [[Editor's note: Dirtbag is not a derogatory term, but a referral to a rather simple alternative lifestyle in modern America devoted to nature and the life lived therein with usually one overriding passion, like sports or nature study or religion. It can be broken into two words for clarification: "Dirt" as in the earthen stuff accumulated under fingertips while living out-of-doors; and "bag" as in the 60s term for gig, thing, beef or devotion.]] Indians could have but just never told anyone because it probably wouldn't have been too cool to do so without elders' blessing, being it was sacred--kinda like sneaking out to climb the local crucifix--and not something you'd spread around. My climber friend suggested that the Indians were quite good with rawhide and could have braided a fine rope.] But like any great stupid impossibility in America, a few local boys took it to task.
It is fitting that the two area cowboys, William Rogers and Willard Ripley, made the first ascent on Independence Day 1893; The third was person was William Roger's wife, Linnie, two years later.] a celebration of conquest with an act of conquest. They built a ladder to the top where stakes were pounded, step by step, into the Tower's cracks, fixing the ends together with boards to shore it up. [Though the official ascent was on the 4th, the means by which they climbed required some time to build and it was already complete for the holiday. Not to mention the auspicious flag pole waiting for them on top. Only a handful of people are known to have climbed it between then and the first technical climb in 1937 by Fritz Wiessner and two partners, which began it's reputation as a famous crack climbing spot.
 Preceding Euro-American affairs for centuries was a handful of Plains tribes--Lakota, Northern Cheyenne, Sioux, Arapaho, Crow, Shoshone, Kiowa--who held it sacred for various ceremonies, the best known of which is the Cheyenne's Sun Dance. Each tribe has a strikingly similar origin story for the Tower--all involving a rather large bear, some endangered tribe members, the Great Spirit, an uplifting rock and a few mortal arrows--and called it derivatives of the same name: Bear's Lodge, Tipi, House, Peak, Lair. [Although the Kiowa call it Tree Rock, the origin stories are quite interesting and strikingly similar; each are unique as they position respective ancestors as central characters and heroes. You can read more about them in-full in published tribal histories or in summary in Mary Alice Gunderson's book, Devils Tower: Stories in Stone.]
The kicker is that both the cowboys and Indians fascination was isolated. The Indians never referred Raynolds' scouts to it as a neato point of interest while they were passing through to Yellowstone nor told of its importance to them. [If there was any communication, it is probable the Indians tried to defer to it as some sort of bad place that was nothing but trouble. This is suggested by the fact that Colonel Dodge's interpretation of his Indian guides information resulted in its white-owned named, Devils Tower.] Each found the tower with their own eyes and--this is the most interesting thing about the tower to me--each made it their most important monument.
It is certain that there is some power to this tower. It is powerful to look at. It is powerful to climb. It is a powerful place to worship. I came to experience the tower for myself, to tap into the power. And so I drove seven hours from my home in Montana, specifically at a time when the power of the tower would seem to be at its height for climbing: Memorial Day weekend, the last weekend before a voluntary ban takes effect for climbers and the sacred month of the Sun Dance begins.
"Congratulations, man," Frank Sanders shook my hand, "you just climbed higher on Devils Tower than the Rocky Mountain park rangers did in 1941." Standing on top of Durrance Crack, pitch #2 of Durrance Route--the most climbed route at the tower--this seemed to be an odd sort of victory. The sort that felt pretty good for about one second before I asked myself whether or not he was shitting me. Though relative, the climbs of yesteryear pale in technical comparison to the climbs done today. I know better though, as I have learned over the last few days that Frank is not the sarcastic type. Instead, he is the type who looks you dead in the eyes and speaks with candor before digressing to humor.
"Serious man," he continued, "a team of [two] rangers tried to rescue a stranded parachutist from the top and couldn't even make it up the pitch you just climbed, and they were climbers. [Dressed in a white shirt, tie, and white jump suit, stunt pilot/parachutist George Hopkins landed on the top of Devils Tower on October 1. After the pilot returned to drop the tools for descent--sledge hammer, Ford axle sharpened into a stake, pulley, and rope--the rope missed, stranding the jumper for six days. Eventually, climbers around the country answered the call, the most notable of which were Jack Durrance--who made the second technical ascent of the Tower, now bearing his name--and Paul Petzoldt, two great American climbing pioneers.] That parachutist . . . what a nutball . . . you'd have to be crazy to do that," he said, breaking into a Bill the Cat-like facial contortion.
 In a moment's time, he coils our ropes and is gone up the third pitch. Today it is a combination of Durrance's usual pitch #3, Cussing Crack, and pitch #4, Flake Crack. It looks effortless, like there is no thought just fluid motion. Frank has climbed this route to infinity, free solo (no placements or ropes) as well as guiding friends and clients, first timers and intermediates alike. He has been climbing at the Tower since 1972. That season he made a first ascent, Uncle Remus Dirty Vegetable Garden, about three weeks after I was born. In 1976 he and Tower climbing guru Dennis Horning put in four first free ascents and two first ascents. Over the next 24 years he would be involved in the placement of over 30 new routes. Now, he and his partner, Mary Hogeland, own and operate an adventure B&B from their private archepelago inside the monument, just northwest of the Tower.
Meanwhile Mary has been feeding him rope. Seconds later, Frank yells down, "On belay!" in almost a too-polite tone. Mary yells back up, just as too-polite, "Climbing!", and she is gone. Later I remark at their kind tone. "Hey man," Frank says cosmically, "there is no need to be rude! Climbing is intense and you have to yell a lot to hear each other. Being polite insures that when the yelling starts, nobody takes it personal." Mary has only been climbing for a few years but those years have been good to her, nailing her first 5.10b this year, because Frank was her instructor, she tells me.
Waiting between climbers is rest time and usually when the itch comes back. I think I have it beat with adrenaline but try to not think about it by looking out over the vastly unoccupied corner of Wyoming, where Ponderosa pines and breaks dissipate into grasslands. Directly below flows the Belle Fourche (said: bell foosh) River [My dad, who grew up in South Dakota, believes that this means Beautiful Fork. But when I was researching this, I couldn't find it anywhere, and told him he had to prove it to me before I could print it. We looked in various dictionaries together only to find 'fourche' listed in one as a derogatory term for female genitalia. Being the consummate gentleman, he blushed and resolved it by saying, "Well, that must just be a French thing."], thinly lined with cottonwoods. I remembered Frank telling me the evening before that pesticides used to curb noxious weeds within the Monument made its way into the river, killing off a good proportion of the trees.
Pesticides make me itch, so I turn attention elsewhere. I notice the obvious fire scar around the base area. It was from prescribed fires in 1998, when they apparently burned out of control--damn, this reminds me what my itch is made of--leaving much of the visible timber immediately surrounding the tower charred. [The NPS maintains the fire was successful in reducing "forest canopy, pole-sized trees, and dead and down fuels."] Both are relevant issues to Frank as a landowner and rightfully seem to irritate him as much as they do me metaphorically. The one issue--the only to create a national controversy--that ought to dominate him as a climber and guide, however, seems to be a non-issue.
In just two days from now the voluntary ban on climbing takes effect. It was implemented in February 1995 when the NPS incorporated into policy Lakota and Nakota concerns that climbing was degrading to the integrity of the tower and distracting to those worshipping there. Known as the Final Climbing Management Plan (FCMP), climbers were discouraged from climbing, not prevented, out of respect for the Indians. It seemed to work that first season, seeing numbers drop some 85%, but there were a few points written in the plan that raised the dander of some climbers--especially Andy Petefish of Tower Guides--leading to legal action. The greatest objection to mainstream climbers and their representative group, Access Fund, was the prospect that if authorities didn't judge the voluntary ban successful, the ban could become mandatory. The lesser point of contention--lesser only because of the amount of people it affected, namely Petefish's guide service as well as a few others--was that the NPS would not grant guide permits for the month of June.
The Bear Lodge Multiple Use Association (Petefish and Friends of Devils Tower) filed a motion for a Preliminary Injunction in March 1996 to have the entire plan thrown out on constitutional grounds that it violated the First Amendment's Establishment Clause. [The motion was on the grounds that the government can't "endorse or promote the religious views of some Native Americans and go [sic] beyond an 'accommodation' of religious practices," nor "coerce anyone to support . . . religion or its exercise."] Three months later, the district court judge in Wyoming sided with the plaintiffs on the two inflammatory points, but sided with the park service on all other points of the plan.
An appeal was filed, but the Supreme Court refused to hear the case this last March. It seems settled. There was nearly 90% compliance (based in relation to the pre-ban number of climbers in 94, 1293) and most climbers don't want to bother religious ceremonies anyway. But thoughts of issues and itches are now interrupted. It's time to climb.
Frank is belaying me some sixty feet above. I can feel him tug the rope taught with every foot I gain, pulling my harness slightly from my body. Should I slip, or even need to rest a moment, Frank sees to it that I don't budge an inch. This is comforting. Immediately it is not so important though, as I am nary ten feet off the deck. If I were to fall, and for some reason or another Frank failed to brake my vertical demise--which didn't even seem like an option--I'd land directly on top of a rather jolly fellow named Ralph.
Ralph is bringing up the rear and is currently giving me much needed instruction on handling the situation at hand, the Cussing' Crack. It is only rated a 5.5 but it is handling me. This is bothersome. The last pitch was a 5.7 and much more technical. I have climbed up to 5.8+. Technically, this crack should be easy. Easy is a relative term here and the Cussing' Crack earned its name, I learned, as expletives really do seem to run freely here. The crack is about 18 inches from side to side, give or take, and is several feet deep. This is just wide enough to seduce the unknowing in and deep enough to make you believe the interior will simplify life and expedite things. What doesn't occur to the first-timer is that there is far less room to work, especially if you are about 6'2" and a feather under 220 lbs.
Ralph tells me to down-climb and start over. He is from the South and even though he hasn't lived there for years, he still has a thick accent. He climbs for a living, building water towers, and doesn't seem to quit talking. Fortunately, everything he has to say has a spin of humor in it. He, too, has been climbing at the tower for decades so taking his advice makes sense. This time I keep the right side of my body on the outside and make may way up to the bottom of Flake Crack. This pitch isn't as perplexing and as I near the top I can hear Mary and Frank cheerleading. It is comforting, I must admit, as I see a whole lot of space between my legs and the ground.
Another short pitch--Chockstone Crack--finds us at where most groups traverse to the Meadows for a scramble to the summit. Frank decides we'll climb all the way, taking Bailey Direct to the top, and I like the idea of going up as opposed to traversing over a 700 foot cliff. When it is my turn to climb I realize that my strength and endurance hasn't waned once. I attribute it not to my shape--my body has weathered more scotch on the rocks than days on the rock--but to the giant bowl of goo Frank made me for breakfast. It started as oatmeal and butter, then took on peanut butter and yogurt. It looked like diarrhea and weighed about six and a half pounds.
Half-way up the pitch I get gripped. Not because of a hard move, but because I begin to hear the purr of a pigeon coming from the depths of a wide, dark crack. I am right below a small shelf that seems easy enough to get to, but in order to do so I feel compelled to find a hold inside the crack. After wondering for a few moments what would happen should I flush the bird--squint my eyes and hold on, freak and take a swat--I relax and move on. But the few gripping moments seem to have spent what stores of energy I thought I had from the super-goo.
The remaining moves aren't as tough as waiting for Ralph to come up behind me. We are just a few boulders below the summit and we must go together, as we came together. Frank picks up on my anxiousness and tells me to get up there.
To stand at the tower's base will clear your nostrils; to stand on its summit will clear your mind, heart, soul, and bowels. For the first time I notice the swallows. They zip by at jet speeds, catching drafts and soaring like they were eagles. That is all I will divulge, but suffice it to say you can't stay up there long enough.
A thunderstorm was brewing to the north and winds were strong. Frank called for us to head to the rappel station after coiling the ropes. It was then that Frank experience seemed too comfortable cliff-side; Mary's calm nature seemed too calm; and Ralph's clown-like demeanor seemed too funny. Nothing could distract me enough from noticing the fact that going up has a different view from going down, five pitches down.
A few steps down and the feeling of safety returned with a two-rope system--in my mind it was as good as a backup parachute. Sometime in the next rappel, though, I couldn't ignore that the rear loops of my harness began irritating my rash. Gradually, it became more and more intense. Now, after the second and third rappels it was again on fire, maddening. I stopped and jimmied the rope back and forth so the harness gave a slight itch. Oh, that felt good. A few more steps and I did it again. Oh, that felt better. Then it occurred to me that I was traveling down the rock and in perfect position to turn around and drag some ass.
A real climber wouldn't be afraid to do it, I figured. Hell, they'd do it just to impress their climbing partners. Then I thought for a long second and snapped out of my lunacy.
A real climber would have stayed at home.
The End
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