Earlier in the day, however, he wanted to climb the tower twice, but now, after getting his butt kicked by Mateo Tepee and taking all day to get here, Jim concedes and agrees that maybe we should wait until tomorrow to make another summit. See what I mean? Only a butt-kicking route like El Cracko brings him around to a reality check. Of course, Miller-time helps to convince him a little, too.

Getting off this place is no easy matter. First you have to find a rappel station, of which there are no less than four. Then it's full-length rope rappels from four stations -- almost 700 feet of sheer basalt. And God help you if you have a short rope or get caught in the dark. I'm sure there are many climbers who can relate how they've been stranded on Devils Tower because their rope didn't reach the next rappel station, or because it was too dark to find the next set of bolts without a headlamp. We have two ropes (185'/10.5 MM & 165'/9 MM) and it appears about three hours of daylight, so we should be okay as far as rappelling to the base before dark.

Additionally, we have headlamps and extra batteries, too. Not only do I always make sure I'm well prepared for the worst on a climb like this, but I demand that my partner is, too. Otherwise, I'd just as soon stay home. Sport climbers always are amused by how much extra gear we travel with, but that only makes us better climbers. We slugged our way up here with about 25 pounds of weight on each of us, counting water, food, ropes, rack and miscellaneous gear. Put that much on a sport climber, and he might not launch his way up a ladder. Besides, if we end up with some sort of emergency, we could be up here overnight -- about the only way to legally bivouac on the tower. We've got fleece, rain gear, and extra food and water.

By the time we find our rappel station, rig the ropes, and descend to the next station below us, it seems much, much later. And it's colder, too. Clouds are forming rapidly, so it's hard to tell just exactly where the sun is. The only problem now is that we are not on the rappel route that I wanted to be on. I wanted to descend onto the Meadows, and from there take the Standard Meadows rappel to the base. We've totally missed our mark, and we're now twenty five feet too far from the western edge of the Meadows. Had I descended first, I would have immediately noticed my screw-up. Jim has never been here before, so he had no way to know.

Right now, I don't know if we're descending a climb route or if this is actually a rappel route. If it's a rappel route, it's mathematically certain that there are anchors within a standard rope length below us. On the other hand, if this is a climb route, there's no way to be certain there are rappel anchors below us. Do we get out our prusiks and climb the rope back to the summit, or should we pull the ropes and continue another rappel?

Because it is getting late, we decide to go for another rappel, so we pull the ropes and rig another descend. Lucky for us, when we pull, the ropes don't jam in a crack as they fall down to us. Jim wants to go first again, fully prepared to prusik back up if he doesn't find the anchors we desperately need.

"Be careful, and whatever you do, don't rap past the anchors -- or off the ropes!", I caution him.

It's always prudent to tie knots in the end of rappel ropes. It could save you an unnecessary trip into the next world. We give considerable thought to knotting our ropes, however, around here it's crack-heaven, and so it's easy for the end of your rope to get caught somewhere. We decide against the practice while here. Of course, it's not hard to free a stuck rope as you rappel down, but how do you dislodge one that has fallen below the station where you stop to rig another descent? It can be done, but not without a lot of trouble and maybe some god-awful prusiking.

We do have, however, some defense against rappelling off the end of our ropes. That's because one line is 20 feet longer than the other. We always rig the rappel so that we have to tug on the short line when we pull our ropes. In other words, we thread the long rope through the bolts before joining both lines with a grapevine knot. That way, should one of us get stupid and rappel off the end of our short rope, we still have twenty feet to either stop (and scratch the old noggin) or safely continue to another set of anchors. It's definitely advantageous to look beyond the end of one's nose when attempting anything resembling the seriousness of rappelling on multi-pitch rock. The mountain always plays for keeps, so we have to, too.

Right away Jim rappels over the edge and descends deliberately. We use the radios to chat, and that's how I learn the ropes have landed on a ledge 80 feet below me. No sign of bolts there, so Jim throws the ropes again and continues the descent -- all the while being extremely vigilant in the approaching darkness for anything resembling rappel anchors. When he closes in on the end of our 165-foot rope, about half way down Devils Tower, he spots two other climbers who are rappelling on an adjacent route. They are familiar with Jim's current position, and point out the anchors we need. Jim radios to say the bolts are right at the end of our shorter rope, and is thankful he won't be needing to prusik back up . Wow! That's cutting it too close. See what I mean? God help you if you have short ropes around here.

Actually, rappelling off Devils Tower without being sure you're on a rappel route isn't that big a deal, provided you have gear. If you don't find rappel bolts, well, you just make your own anchor using Pro from the gear rack. It's crack-heaven around here, so there are lots of opportunities to stick gear in. You can always retrieve the Pro on the following day, or just sacrifice it, which is always better than being stranded overnight on any cold and wet mountain.

By the time I finally join Jim at his rap station, it's almost dark as we pull the ropes for the second time. We're lucky they don't jam in a crack. If they would jam, we might well be stranded on this small, narrow ledge until morning. There's no place to lay down, and barely any to sit. It'd be a most uncomfortable bivouac -- cold and hard.

When the ropes are in position for another rappel, wouldn't you know, it begins to rain a little? We give some thought to bringing out the rain gear, but that will take valuable time -- time we need to get to the next station before it gets even darker. We both agree the sooner we reach the last set of bolts, the sooner we'll be less nervous about getting stranded up here. Once there with our ropes intact, we only need to rap the last pitch to be home free. If a rope jams then, we could just leave it and come back for it in the morning.

We've pulled the ropes three times now, and three times we've been lucky. Not a single jam so far. Many times I've seen climbers here with their ropes stuck. A lot has to do with rappel technique. So far, we've descended down the nose of a column on every rappel -- navigating well clear of the cracks on either side. That way, when we pulled the ropes, they were less likely to end up falling and jamming in a crack. It can still happen, but it's just far less likely to happen. And if it does, it's big pickle time, especially so when already dark.

When the last rappel is rigged and ready, I tell Jim to ask me if I'm anxious to get out of here. He chuckles and admits he's as impatient as me, and then gets on the ropes and descends to the tope of the talus slope below the Durrance route. As soon as he radios that he's off rappel, I'm on the ropes in record time, and within a minute or so I'm once again on terra firma, too. How sweet it is.

By the time we hike down the trail to the sidewalk and reach the GRSUV, it's now 9 PM. We sign-out on the Ranger Station log hanging on the Park Building door, and then bee-line for Devils Tower Junction, six miles in the opposite direction of our motel. It's where our bartender last night told us we could eat tonight, inasmuch his place would close early on Mother's Day. Actually, he said it was the only place that would be open this evening, save driving 30 miles more to Sundance.

On the way, the only thing we can think about is the taste of a nice cold beer and, of course, a big (really big) steak and salad. It's a good thing the drive is a short one, and when we finally arrive, the restaurant lights are off and the place appears deserted. The attached bar is open, and a few cars in the parking lot suggest patrons are still here. Inside there's a bartender and four local types whose garb certifies them as blue-collar workers, dirty hands and all. Jim learns from the bartender that the restaurant closed at 9 PM (15 minutes ago), and so there's no way any more to get food here tonight. He also tells us that we'd have to drive to Sundance for dinner. We decide to think things over while drinking a beer.

After about 5 minutes, while we discuss the option of driving 30 miles to Sundance, the cook brings out two huge orders of hamburgers and french fries for the blue-collar guys. Whoa!

"Can we get one of those?", I ask the cook. Surprised, she turns and says the restaurant closed at 9 PM. Her disposition suggests we should've known to be here earlier, and that it's our fault that we're going hungry tonight.

"Is there anything you have that we can eat?", I want to know. She says she has pie and cookies. Jim and I look at each other, then decide we'd rather have bagels and cheese, which we already have back in our motel room. So we buy a six-pack, and then bee line for the motel in Hulett.

Some place that was. Obviously, the grill was still on when we walked into the bar. How much trouble could it have been to accommodate a couple of hungry rock climbers? Just cause we didn't look like a couple of truck drivers or blue-collar workers, shouldn't mean we must starve. Damn local yokels. They're too independent for their own good.



W hen Monday morning arrives, I'm last up around 9 AM. The way I feel right now, I'd pay real money for a rest day. I ache everywhere, my feet hurt, my back is stiff and I hurt all over. I also feel malnourished after eating only bagels and cheese last night. Not exactly sufficient nourishment after a long, grueling day of rock climbing. Jim says it has been lightly raining all morning, and inasmuch as we had a long day yesterday, he suggests we might as well take a rest day. No argument there from me.

Dying for a good meal, we decide the best thing is to drive to Gillette (70 miles) for a steak, and then maybe take in a movie, too. We can also pick up some more supplies at a decent grocery store.

After stocking up on supplies and asking locals in Gillette for a good place to eat, we finally learn that the best food in town is at Humphrey's Bar & Grill. Naturally, it's in a hidden location, but after we finally find it, the exterior might discourage us from entering. We enter anyway, and when we see they have virtually every beer from every country, well, we wonder how bad a place it could be.

Brandi is the hostess, and her welcome makes us feel like we are royal guests. Our waitress is wearing a T-shirt that reads:

As soon as we are seated, we order the beer special of the day, and after a few sips from a Foster's oil can, whatever negative impression I had about this place is now gone. Another waitress is wearing a Humphrey's T-shirt, only it reads, "Will hump for food". There's nothing like a little libation to mellow one a bit. Of course, it helps to have cheerful employees with a sense of humor looking after you, too.

Whenever a restaurant goes to extraordinary lengths to provide an excellent salad, you pretty much know the rest of the meal is going to be superb. My steak is excellent, and bar none, it's the best I've had in a long time. The price/size ratio is unbelievable, and the quality and tenderness certifies beyond all doubt we are eating USDA Choice corn-fed beef. This ain't no canner-grade stuff imported from Mexico and made edible with meat tenderizer. This is five-star restaurant food, complete with real crushed bacon for the baked potatoes. I'd have a tough time trying to find a place back home to equal this one, and here we are in the middle of the least-populated state in the US, best restaurant and all.

During our drive back to the hotel in Hulett, it rains a bit, and now we are wondering if the weather will be okay enough to climb Devils Tower in the morning. We have our fingers crossed.



R ight now it's way early in the morning, and I'm hiking alone up the dark approach to the base of the Durrance rappel. I'm hoping I can connect with a climbing partner today, as I'm anxious to pull on some more of the fine rock on Mateo Tepee. I warned Jim last night about drinking my share of the beer, but he wouldn't listen. He drank my entire six-pack which I had in the refrigerator, even after I threatened to leave him behind if he didn't get up in time to climb. Well, here I am alone on the trail, while sleeps-off-the-beer Tucker snoozes the morning away.

When I'm about three-fourths the way up the talus slope, I hear a voice faintly shouting, "Hello there", over and over.

Finally, I notice the source, and I can see in the early dawn that the words are from a climber at the base of the first pitch on the Durrance route.

"Do you need a partner?, he shouts.

I yell back and let him know that I do, and then he tosses a rope and tells me to tie in. Ten minutes later, with a skosh more light now, I'm at the base of the leaning column on the Durrance route.

To my astonishment, and unbelievably, it's Robert Redford! I'm shocked. Stunned. I don't want to make a fool by being clumsy now, but I'm sure it's him, the famous movie icon of the world. I'm awestruck that Robert Redford is out here alone, and flattered that he wants me to climb with him. I say to myself, "You lucky son of a bitch." I try to contain myself, and when he holds out his hand to shake mine, he indeed confirms he is Robert Redford. He also is aware of my off-balance composure, and it helps me a lot when he says, "I hope you're ready for some kick-ass climbing....I sure am".

Then he asks if I've ever used a Münter Hitch. I assure him I have, and in fact, almost spontaneously, I demonstrate the hitch I know in my sleep. The act calms me a lot, and when he asks, smiling, if I mind belaying first, I say, "No, I don't mind".

Then he tells me to use whatever belay device I'm comfortable with. I think the Münter thing was just his way of checking the competency of someone who is about to belay him. Who can blame anyone for wanting a little peace of mind? And I'm flattered that he now has confidence in me. Imagine that, Robert Redford is on belay -- mine!

Redford, who must be over 60 years of age, scrambles up the leaning column, running-out all the way to the first fixed pin. Nimbly he travels, only briefly stopping to slot a stopper, and within minutes is standing on the ledge formed by the break in the 80-foot column. Ten minutes later, he's on top of the leaning column and yelling, "Off belay".

Curious, I wanted to ask him so many questions, but his demeanor suggests that he is not here to socialize -- only to climb. I don't want to betray that objective, and I'm happy to keep my mouth shut and concentrate on the business of climbing -- even if it is Robert Redford.

I've read about some of Robert Redford's early climbing days, and how he once hung out all summer long at Yosemite as a wall rat, presumably before his stardom. Just looking at his hands, anyone can see that they spell strength, and together with his rough facial skin, it's apparent he has spent a lot of time outdoors -- and loves it, too. Watching him climb is proof that this sport is a natural human experience, complete with the capacity to purge a mind (both conscious and sub-conscious) of any and all thoughts responsible for stress. For many, climbing is the ultimate sedative, and apparently no exception for Redford.

When he shouts that my belay is on, I climb as nimbly as he did to the first pin, but it is apparent when I move into steeper terrain that my skill level is no match for his. I experience a little trouble with the crux move above the column break, and in the time it took him to reach the belay station, I still have 30 feet of rock to climb. The sun is coming around the tower now, shining directly into my face. Just when I need my sunglasses, they are inaccessible in my pack. The sun is so bright, I'm unable to find a position to continue the climb. And I'm now worried my new celebrity partner will lose interest and cancel what is for me the climb of the century.

First things get a little faint, and I have this sense that Redford is drifting on me. And when things get foggy, I find myself tossing one way, then the other, and it is a total shock for me when I finally realize that I'm still in bed, struggling to avoid the rising sun, which is now shining directly through the motel window and totally destroying the most fascinating dream I've ever had. Tucker is still fast asleep in the next bed, snoring away, oblivious to the shinning sun, which is bright enough to wake all but the most spirited beer drinkers.

That dream was so realistic, including Redford's persona, I may have just as well have been climbing with him. Or talking to him. It was that real. And just as any good fortune in real life carries with it the fear of loss, my dream conveyed that, too. Only it came true when I woke up. Oh well, it's an experience that will be with all my life, no matter that it was only vicarious or an illusion. All of life may be an illusion anyway, and if so, we can, obviously still enjoy its offerings.

When I open the refrigerator to grab a couple of hard-boiled eggs, I notice that my six-pack of beer is still there. It's the one I dreamt Jim drank.

I think my dream was a premonition for things to come. After eating breakfast in our motel room, we managed to fight off the effects of our beer consumption from Humphrey's, and now we're at the base of the leaning column on the Durrance route. We are surprised that not a single climber is in sight, and this may well be a day where we have the entire tower to ourselves. What more could a climber want?

Jim led the easy 5th-class approach pitch, and now it's my turn to lead the leaning column. Being here is so déjà vu now, and it really does feel like I was just here hours ago, never mind that it has been five years since I've led this pitch. Jim is anxious to get the show moving, and when I say that I'm not feeling 100% and that it might take me a while to lead this pitch, he offers to take over.

The way I'm feeling right now, naturally, I let him have at it, and off he goes up the leaning column to the first pin. He scrambles up there as nimbly as Redford did, and, in about as much time, Jim is on top of the column setting up the belay.

When I follow on the pitch, I don't do as well as Jim (nor as well as in my dream). In fact, when I have trouble at the crux above the break in the column, I have thoughts of taking another rest day. But I do not want to ruin a climbing day for Jim, so I decide to hang in there as long as I can.

The view is awesome from the top of the leaning column, and Jim thinks this is by far one of the classiest crags in the world. He's more excited than I am, having a stronger stomach to endure all those restaurant seasonings I can't. But I'm having fun, nonetheless.

Jim doesn't think I'm up for leading the next pitch (5.7, 90 feet), which requires a lot of stemming and off-width technique. He even offers to abort the day, but I insist we continue if he is willing to lead. He doesn't mind, understanding that not all days are good ones for climbers. As long as I can take it slow and easy, I really am having fun.

Thirty feet up the crack between two huge columns, Jim tells me to watch him. In an instant, he breaks from an off-width move and falls, and now his entire weight is supported by the rope, which passes through my belay device, to his nice stopper placement in the crack, and finally back down to his harness. In other words, that piece of Pro is supporting not only all of Jim's weight, but mine, too, not counting the friction induced along the way.

"Nice Pro", I say.

"Thanks for the catch", he laments.

The old guide book says this pitch is rated 5.6, but in newer editions they have it upgraded to a 5.7, arguably for the sustained nature of this pitch. In other words, all the moves are supposed to be 5.6, but because there is no place to really rest, it requires 5.7 stamina and skill to complete the pitch.

The things that are bothersome to both of us on this route are the pigeon droppings. They are everywhere, as are the pigeons, too. I've never noticed these birds before, and I'm suspicious that maybe the Parks Department imported them in a secret effort to discourage climbing here once and for all. Jim and I laugh at the suggestion, and we both agree it would be a workable plan with enough cooperating birds.


....to be continued

Copyright © 1998 Ron Kilber rpknet@aztec.asu.edu. All rights reserved.