Even though it's rush-hour in stop-and-go traffic as we steal our way out of Tempe, Arizona this Friday afternoon, we aren't fretted at all by the drivers everywhere who get in our way, cut us off and otherwise impede our way as we forge out of town for a ten-day outing on some of the most prime rock in the entire world. All the motorists around us will be back here on the freeway again Monday. We'll be pulling on rock on "El Cracko Diablo", "Durrance" or any number of other three-star routes on Devils Tower. With this much privilege and affluence, it wouldn't be fair to wish any evil on these drivers, never mind that they might want to shoot us when we get in their way.

Devils Tower is a National Monument situated in the Northeast Corner of Wyoming on the periphery of the Black Hills, which are predominately situated in South Dakota and best know for Mount Rushmore. The Indians first name the tower, Mateo Tepee, which means bear lodge. Somewhere along the line, though, the white man got things mixed up and began calling it Devils Tower. The circular basalt monolith rises 850 feet above the surrounding rolling hills and valleys, and has been attracting rock climbers since 1893 –- 105 years, folks. That's when a couple of nearby ranchers made it to the football-size field on top by banging wooden stakes into a 350-foot crack, which they then used to climb Devils Tower -- à la ladder. Ever since, the flood gates have been open, and these days thousands of rock climbers summit the tower annually. With luck, we'll be doing warm-up climbs there by Sunday, and we'll be on top on Monday -- three days from now.

Getting to Devils Tower from Arizona is no easy task. It's over 1,000 miles away. The only redeeming factor to driving there is that we have freeways all the way, with the exception of a hundred miles or so before arriving in Gillette, Wyoming, which is only an hour or so from the tower. Inasmuch as the speed limit on Interstate Highways these days is once again 75 MPH (day and night), by driving in shifts, Jim and I can easily clean house with all those miles by this time tomorrow. All of which means we'll be able to get in a few warm-up climbs on Sunday before finally attempting to summit on Monday.

Flying to Devils Tower is an expensive proposition since the closest commercial airport is at Rapid City, South Dakota, about a hundred miles away. There you get to rent a car at tourist prices, which always means you pay double. By driving our own car, we not only avoid that expense, but we get to see a lot of beautiful scenery along the way. Also, if the weather turns sour at Devils Tower, well, we need only get out the road atlas and navigate to some other crag in Montana, Utah or Idaho. Try that maneuver with a prepaid airline ticket in an industry that takes great pleasure in giving it to you in the shorts.

As we motor up I-17 towards Flagstaff, I'm suppose to be sleeping now while Jim drives. That's so I'll be rested enough to take the wheel when Jim no longer can stay awake. His job as an anesthesiologist kept him awake on-and-off all night at the hospital, so now he's driving the first shift until his noggin bops. Then it'll be up to me, with the help of a full thermos of coffee, to drive through the night. But with this much excitement, who can sleep now? Not me.

After seven hours of non-stop motoring in the GRSUV, with a fuel-only stop in Flagstaff (and one tire check on an Indian Reservation), we are just clear of Albuquerque, New Mexico at midnight, and now I'm driving with a cup of Jo in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. Jim was excited enough to stay awake to drive all the way to this mile-high country, but not enough to stay awake now while I negotiate the quiet road and darkness. The only company I have now is Art Bell on the radio.

Just as I'm skirting around the city of Santa Fe on the freeway, I notice that the GRSUV can use some more fuel. Only thing, there are no gas stations on any of the exits. So, believing that all freeways have gas stations eventually, I continue motoring down the Interstate Highway, content that another station is just ahead. The fact that it's 3 AM in the morning, or that we are in the middle of sparsely populated New Mexico, has nothing to do with the equation.

After I pass many exits, none with open gas stations, some with nothing, I begin to worry now that I may actually run out of fuel. Then what? Unlike the east-west Interstate 10, which is packed with traffic day or night, I-25 has only had an occasional car or truck on it. If the worst occurs, will anyone stop to help us? And if they do stop, what could they do? I worry that the only remedy would be to hitch to the nearest gas station, buy a can and some gas, and then hitch back to the GRSUV, where Jim would be sleeping away, oblivious to the fact that I got stupid and induced a 3-hour delay along the way.

Anyway. Jim's not aware of the potential problem now, and the way he's sleeping, why should he be? Optimistic, I continue driving. Even when the gas gauge reads empty, the GRSUV continues. When I expect it to stop from fuel starvation, it just keeps going and going and going, just like the toys in the Eveready battery commercials.

A sign we pass says Las Vegas, NM is 14 miles ahead. Believing it is now impossible to go that much farther, I resign myself to the fact that we'll be stranded out here any second now. But the GRSUV, loyal and eager to serve us faithfully, wants to take us climbing with or without petrol.

Like most success in life, it usually occurs at the eleventh hour. Just when I'm certain the engine is sputtering, we crest a hill and I can see an exit ahead, complete with an open gas station. It'll only be a mile walk or so if we stop now, but wouldn't you know it, the engine continues to hum, and I'm able to drive right up to a pump! Certain the motor will quit now, I leave it running for a while to make sure. Still it won't quit. So I turn off the engine and fill the tank.

Whoa! That was way too close. Jim tells me not to do that anymore. No argument there.

Jim wants to know how much fuel I put in the tank. When I tell him 24.175 gallons, he says that's impossible, because the car only holds 23 gals. My receipt clearly certifies the quantity, and the car manual states the capacity is only 23 gallons. Obviously, their dial is running too fast on the pump. If it wasn't for the fact that we're already ten miles from the station, I'd ask for a refund. Folks, avoid Allsups #271 on Grand Avenue in Las Vegas. Better yet, next time you go through Las Vegas, drop in and yell at them for me!

It isn't long before Jim goes back to sleep, and I'm driving again with the wheel in one hand and a fresh cup of java from Allsups in the other. The coffee is pretty good, and it'll take all I have in my freshly filled thermos bottle to stay awake until morning.

When the sun begins to rise on the eastern horizon, so does Jim. I've been awake non-stop now since early yesterday morning, so I'm well ready for Jim to take the GRSUV wheel again. When he does, it doesn't take long for me to doze off for a much needed snooze, which lasts until we arrive in front of a bagel shop in Cheyenne, Wyoming around 11 AM. We stock up with a dozen or so of the tasty munchies, and then eat a few with some really sharp cheddar cheese -- a really excellent climbing food. The only problem now is that we can't eat 'em with beer -- and excellent climbing drink -- not because you shouldn't drink and drive, but because we'd both be fast asleep, unable to drive to Devils Tower at all. Beer is important, but climbing is our priority.

While Jim sleeps some more on-and-off, I drive the remaining distance to Devils Tower. Even while twenty miles away, the monument looms above the horizon, a sentinel for all to see from any direction. I've been here dozens of times now, and each time the view is as compelling as my first visit in 1963. There is a mystery about mountains that always puts me in awe. I can't quite put my finger on it to explain. Perhaps the sheer magnitude and challenge of Devils Tower is saying, "you can't come up here". Like any challenge in life, we're attracted to overcome them. Perhaps our genetic code is written in a way that we derive pleasure from any challenge. It's a survival thing, without which our ancestors might never have been sufficiently motivated to attempt to pursue wild game, to look for a new food source, or even to find a new country across the ocean. Otherwise, how could we even be here today? Or want to be?

When we find ourselves in the parking lot of Devils Tower, it's too late in the day for any climbing, so we spend an hour or so looking over a few of the more than 200 routes. Several climbers are in the long process of rappelling from the summit, and we can see them tossing ropes from the many rappel stations up and down the south-facing side. This is Jim's first time here, and there's no mistaking the fact that he thinks this is a really, really cool place to climb. He can't take his eyes off the magnitude of this place. And he's too comatose to do anything about it.



H ulett is a small town 9 miles northeast of the tower, and it's where we find a motel room, a restaurant and some beer, which is well deserved (and wanted) after driving all this way. Actually, the restaurant has a beer bar in the back, and that's where we decide to have dinner -- bar food. The place is well appointed with stuff from the taxidermy, and decorated in early swap-meet. Everyone in here is smoking except for Jim and me. Most amusing is a framed picture on the wall of four women with their backs to us standing part way up a fence and looking into a corral, all fully clothed in cowboy garb, complete with chaps, kerchiefs and hats -- except none is wearing pants. In other words, there they are, bare ass and all, seemingly oblivious to their nakedness, smiling and laughing.

I'm curious about how many bikers show up here when they have the annual motorcycle rally over in Sturgis, South Dakota during the summer, and when I ask, someone says 60,000. When I react in awe, the bartender says, "Ask the mayor".

She's Winnie Bush and works here, too, and says her police department doesn't have any trouble with the bikers -- but lots of trouble with the locals. Nonetheless, she does hire about 18 extra lawmen to help maintain law and order. She also says a lot of celebrities drop into town, and she especially remembers Willie Nelson.

I'm also curious if Winnie sees many rock climbers around here. She says they see them all the time. When I ask her what they look like, she responds by saying, "We kind'a thought you guys was". Her response puts Tucker in stitches, and he might fall off his bar stool if he had more beer in him.



I t's Sunday morning and already it's 10 AM. We wanted to get up bright and early today, but you know how it is when you drink beer the night before? The Durrance route (5.7) already has fifteen climbers in queue. Nuts to that stuff. Who would actually wait around that long to climb up one line? The Durrance route is the easiest way to the summit, and I guess if that's the only one you can get your butt up, you have no choice but to wait.

This is suppose to be a warm-up day for us. We had plans to climb only the first pitch of a few routes, but now Jim wants to go all the way to the summit, instead. That's fine with me, and I suggest we get on El Cracko Diablo (5.8). It's about 300 feet of crack climbing, then another 150 feet of easy fifth-class scrambling to the top. Jim thinks we can summit in only a few hours, then rappel back down and get on Durrance after the queue is empty. Yeah right, I think to myself. I only go along with his hare-brained plan, knowing full well it will take us all day to climb and rappel down this huge rock tower. Jim is always too optimistic, and forever bites off more rock than he can chew. Unwilling (or unable) to respond to reason, only defeat or a butt kicking (from the rock) brings Jim's mind around to coincide with mine. Right now I won't argue my position that "once to the top" is enough climbing for one day, and I amuse myself by thinking that I will let Mateo Tepee change his mind for me.

Park Monument policy requires all climbers to sign in before scrambling up the talus slope. When we enter the visitor center, we are disappointed to learn that the entire west side of Devils Tower is off limits. Everything from "No Holds for Bonzo" to "Accident Victim" is closed -- 46 routes in all. The young female ranger informs us the purpose of the closure is to protect prairie falcons nesting on the West Face. That species is a new one on me. The rule, however, won't affect our climb today on El Cracko Diablo, but it means we won't get to try our hand on a few three-starred routes such as "Independence", "McCarthy West Face", "El Matador" and "A Bridge Too Far".

There have been forces at work for many years now to close all of Devils Tower to climbing forever. The people behind the move are so-called "Land Based Religious Practitioners" -- supposedly native Americans who claim the tower is sacred. So far, they've not been successful, however, a few years ago a voluntary closure was implemented by the Parks Department for the entire month in June of each year.

It is interesting to listen to some of the talk of the locals around here -- the Caucasians who have been here for generations now. They claim the Indians never seemed to have minded that rock climbers had been ascending Devils Tower for more than 100 years, and that some Indians claim their ancestors soloed the tower long before the white man happened along. These same white men say the big fervor over sacredness of the tower began a few years ago with the appointment of a female superintendent at the Monument. In the words of one long-time local, "She was an Indian lover". It goes without saying, the superintendent wasn't too welcome around here, which may explain why she's no longer the boss. Hopefully, she's been re-assigned to some museum or someplace where she's impotent and can no longer do much harm.

I was surprised to learn that the Parks Department's voluntary June closure is no longer valid. That's because a group going by the name, "Friends of Devils Tower", sued the government -- and won! In a nutshell, here's what a federal judge ruled:

The coercive "voluntary" June Access Closure at Devils Tower National Monument to tax-paying Americans out of respect for Land Based Religious Practitioners clearly violates the First Amendment to the Bill of Rights of the U.S. Constitution and Devils Tower National Monument's own Management Policies.

National Park Service (NPS) closure to, or restriction of, otherwise normal and legally legitimate activities on PUBLIC LAND out of respect for any land based religion, or land based religious practitioners, forces non-believing American Citizens, by act, to adopt the religion for which the restrictions or closures are being implemented. This Federal Action, by DEVILS TOWER NATIONAL MONUMENT, on PUBLIC LAND blatantly violates the highest law in the land, and thus your Constitutional Freedoms!

The NPS appealed, and then, wouldn't you know, the Friends of Devils Tower won again! In fact, it was April 2nd, 1998 when they prevailed a second time -- about a month ago. I don't know who those guys are, but one thing is certain, they ain't going to let no bureaucrat close Devils Tower without fighting to their death. You've got to hand it to anyone with that much determination, and you've got to respect them, too. I plan to send them a donation, just for kicking some government butt.

I'm only mentioning all this because the prairie-falcon closure makes me wonder about something. The land-based religious argument didn't work to close the tower to climbers -- but the prairie falcon argument is working, at least partially. So is this some below-the-belt concoction by the government to limit rock climbing at Devils Tower? Seems awful suspicious to me. Can we expect a Waco Tanks falcon next? Or a Queen Creek falcon? I wouldn't doubt for a minute the folks of Friends of Devils Tower are already checking into this prairie-falcon closure thing.

The climbing industry's Access Fund, supposedly charged with keeping climbing areas open, apparently rolled over and played dead when the government wanted to impose the June closure. Let's hope, for the future of rock climbing, that the Access Fund is impressionable enough to learn something from the folks at Friends of Devils Tower. The best thing for climbing would be if the Access Fund became a bunch of government butt-kickers. And the 5.10 Climbing Club has a donation for them, too, when they do.

The approach to El Cracko Diablo is an easy hike up the south face trail to the Meadows rappel finish, then easy-to-hard fourth-class moving up and around the talus slope to the SE corner of the tower. That's where you belay from the top of a 300-foot buttress overlooking the pedestrian sidewalk below. It's a comfortable ledge, and a party of two could actually bivouac here overnight, providing you possessed sufficient skill to avoid detection by the Park Rangers.

AT 11 o'clock, with my rock boots on, my gear rack full, a small backpack on, and a water tube to my shoulder, I place my first piece of protection (Pro) on the first pitch of El Cracko Diablo (120 feet, 5.7). Jim is well tied in while he belays me, least I fall and go over the buttress and take him with me to the tourists watching below. The hike up here warmed me pretty good, so I'm feeling quite solid and relaxed already. It's an easy, short face climb to a hand and off-width crack, which I jam and use for good protection. I gain elevation steadily, pausing to place stoppers and spring-loaded camming devices (SLCD) about every ten feet. I also drink generous gulps of water, which I draw through the tube leading from my backpack. By the time I reach the crux at 80 feet, the altitude has already taken its toll. I'm not breathing like I do at 1,000 above sea level (ASL), I'm breathing like I'm on Devils Tower at 5,000 feet.

The other problem is that my leg calves are burning, including where the tendons connects to my heel bones. While my arms seem to be in good form and are holding out quite well, I can see that I need more leg conditioning for climbs like this, where near full-time standing on calve muscles is required. I'm tempted to clip into a piece so I can hang from my harness to rest my legs.

One thing we have proves especially helpful. We have small, two-way radios strapped to our left shoulders. My microphone is voice activated, so it's easy to talk to Jim when I don't have a free hand, like when I'm going through the crux right now. I can talk to him, even whisper, as I climb. It's relaxing for me if I can talk to my belayer, however, without the radios, I'd have to shout. If I couldn't hear the reply, well, that just makes for a nerve-racking, unpleasant experience. When the wind is blowing, forget about hearing your partner without a two-way radio. That's when it can get dangerous, especially if you can't communicate vital, life-saving signals with your climbing partner.

When I reach a stance below the crux section where I can rest for a bit, I think about when I was on this very same route five years ago . It seemed so much easier then. Of course, I'm five years older now, so maybe that accounts for the fact that this pitch seems harder now. When I look straight down, I can not only see Jim sitting comfortably while belaying from the buttress ledge, but I can see tourists camped out near the telescopes, determined and patient to see if we actually reach the summit. Others are walking to and fro on the sidewalk 400 feet directly below.

"Watch me!", is what I radio to Jim when I'm ready to move through the crux. He assures me I'm well on belay, and so, after some more water gulps, I begin to grind my way up and through the off-width, bulging crack. It's difficult movement at this altitude, but after five minutes of sustained effort, jamming knees, heels, arms and shoulders, I'm again at a fairly good resting stance higher up. Then I clip the rope to a bomb-proof SLCD placement, and now my mind is at ease to think about finishing the pitch -- not falling off the pitch.

After a few more good moves and another placement of Pro, I run-out the remaining distance to a narrow ledge with two bolts and a chain. It's a one-minute affair to clip both hangers and form an equalized anchor, and after clove-hitching myself to a locking carabiner, I radio to Jim, "Off belay".

The last time I stood on this ledge, there were far too many climbers. Two were standing beside me and two more above were pulling a pack, which jammed on a rock flake. The guy pulling from the Meadows above, not wanting to be careful (or not thinking), heaved with all his might, finally breaking the pack loose -- and the flake, too. Well, it began descending, and guess towards who? Unable to get out of the way (too many bodies), the two-pound flake grazed my left shoulder, pancake style, and continued 400 more feet to the sidewalk below. Luckily, the sharp edges of the flake didn't hit me, with the only damage being a sore shoulder, and I was able to continue my climb to the summit. Lucky, too, that no tourists were around to take a direct hit on the noggin.

Now it's Jim's turn to climb. He's beaver-eager and doesn't hesitate to jump on the route, removing the Pro I placed as he climbs, and clipping it to his gear rack. Steadily he climbs, and then about half way up, the altitude finally grips him, too. He's breathing much harder now, and for the first time admits that climbing on this basalt is no cake walk. Not only is the air thinner, but the climbing is much more difficult than the ratings indicate. Jim radios me a compliment and says, "Nice lead, Ron".

More tourists congregate at the base while Jim rests a bit before attempting to pull the crux. When he moves, he struggles, too, and eventually clears the off-width bulge to a stance. There he rests some more, using the time to again praise my lead, this time referring to the off-width crux. Within five minutes, he joins me at the belay station, and clips into the same anchor which I rigged.

After a five-minute rest and lots of big gulps of water, we transfer all remaining Pro to Jim's gear rack, and he's airborne again ascending the second pitch (150 feet, 5.8). This will put him on a very large, sloping area on the side of the tower know as the Meadows. It's about three-fourths the way to the top, and once there, it's an easy fifth-class, 150- foot pitch to the summit.

Jim easily gains 35 feet of altitude to a resting stance below another off-width, bulging crack. After placing what he defines as bomb-proof Pro, he moves precariously up and past his protection, farther into the crux, and then without any warning whatsoever, Jim looses footing on both feet. His hands break from the rock, and instantly he falls until the tension on the rope brings him to a stop. There he hangs, 35 feet above me, as I hold his weight with the rope through my belay device. Indeed, his Pro is bomb proof. Not only is the metal stopper now supporting Jim's entire weight, but it is supporting my weight, too. The upward pull on the rope from my harness equals the downward pull on his end (discounting friction). In other words, that #5 stopper is supporting about 400 pounds -- more when he fell and shock-loaded it. "Nice piece, Jim."

"I smell burning rubber", is Jim's first response.

When his hands broke free, his feet sought footing where none existed, and the soles of his climbing boots scraped the rock until he accelerated to a stop 12 feet lower. I've never heard of burning the bottoms of climbing shoes before, but if Jim says he smells rubber, then he must of got them pretty hot.

You'd think a climber would only have one chance to work through a crux. That'd be when he's at his strongest. In other words, before wearing out his butt attempting the crux over and over. But I've been on climbs where I didn't make it through the crux until after 5 or 6 attempts -- when I was totally exhausted. I think the lesson here is that the crux is a time to use the old noggin, not your strength. It takes strategy and technique to surmount any crux, and even if you're tired and beat, you can still apply these factors and overcome the obstacle.

Unfettered by his setback, Jim says, "Watch me!"

He's off again, this time with a more cunning eye. The vigilance pays off, and now he clears the crux to a stance good enough to place another piece of Pro. More altitude and more Pro, and pretty soon he's at another crux. Tired and weary, Jim moves above another anchor, and without hint or warning again, he breaks from the rock, returning earthward 10 or so feet. There's more burnt rubber. All the gear is working just as it is supposed to, and Jim is safe and sound hanging in his harness 90 feet above me.

"Watch me!", he says again.

More vigilance, and then more success, and Jim moves through the off-width crack, only to disappear from sight as he clears a bulge high above. Our only contact now is the radio and the feel of the rope. Otherwise, it's too windy to talk or yell.

The wind has been steadily increasing, and the sun has gone around the SE corner of the tower. No longer warmed by the sun, I'm starting to chill. I want to put on my fleece jacket to stay warm, but that'll have to wait until Jim finishes this pitch. Then I may not want to wear it, which might cause me to overheat when I finally get to climb this pitch.

With no sight of Jim for a good 15 or 20 minutes, he finally reaches the bolts on the Meadows. Now it's my turn to climb. When he radios to me that I'm on belay, I quickly tear down the belay anchor and begin to climb. Now chilled to the bone, I'm confident I'll quickly warm without my fleece.

When I reach the first crux where Jim fell, I'm already sweating and glad I didn't put on more clothing. Removing the stopper that held Jim's fall is no easy task. It's jammed so tight that a small hammer would come in handy for tapping on the gear tool. As it is, a large locking carabiner and 30 or 40 taps works, too. Even if one can't remove a stopper and has to leave it behind, $5 is a small price to pay for a little Pro to insure one's life.

I finally reach the Meadows without falling, but not without leaning on a piece of Pro or two along the way in order free up both hands to remove a stopper here and there. This 150-foot pitch on El Cracko Diablo has been a bitch, and for both of us. Jim is way surprised at the degree of difficulty of this route, and tells me that it took him a long time to recover after leading this pitch. I think he did one hell of a job, and I tell him so.

Now that we are on the Meadows, the sun is out again with scattered skies. The view of the rolling countryside is awesome, and there's a fair amount of traffic on the roads below, and a fair number of tourists already this early in the season.

We give some thought to caching some of our gear on the Meadows to make the load lighter on the way to the summit. Even though we could pick all of it up on the way down, we elect to take everything with us. I'm one who always likes to be prepared at all times, and how can you do that if you leave some of your gear behind? Jim agrees.

When I climbed this route five years ago, it was during July, and more than forty climbers reached the summit that day. Most were members of the Rovers, an outdoor and adventure group from Minnesota. They actually brought costumes along, and once on top, one guy became a Scot (complete with working bagpipes), another an Arab with a turban, a gal donned an evening gown and another a colonial-period dress. Others dressed to be a pirate, cab driver, or whatever, if I remember correctly.

It's interesting to note that the guide book tells us that El Cracko Diablo has an non-removable bong placement, apparently deemed permanent at the time of printing. That piece of Pro was there when I climbed the route five years ago, however, when a member of the Rovers climbed El Cracko on second right after me, he removed it. He did so unwittingly (and apparently effortlessly), as he assumed it was placed by his leader. It wasn't until he reached the ledge, where his leader and I were standing, that the discovery was made. It was a laugh for everyone that a supposedly neophyte climber removed a piece, which otherwise others (assumably more experienced) left well enough alone for years.

Today, we're much earlier in the season, so it's unlikely more than a few, besides Jim and me, will summit. It's the reason we came this early -- to avoid the god-awful crowds, which seem to begin to show up as soon as school lets out for the summer. So here we are, alone on this part of Devils Tower, our sanctuary pretty much assured by the vertical distance (and difficulty) that lies between us and the ground. There's no sight or sound of the guys who were on the Durrance route earlier in the day.

We've just completed the easy, fifth-class pitch from the Meadows to the summit, and no one else up here is around or in sight. We don't have a watch with us, but judging from the sun's position in the western sky, we think it's about 4 PM.

"Wouldn't a beer be great now?", I ask.

There's no argument from Jim. This reminds me of the movie, the "Eiger Sanction". Once George Kennedy and Clint Eastwood reached their summit, George commented how great a beer would taste. After Clint said, "Who'd be that stupid to carry beer all the way up here?", Kennedy then quietly reached into Eastwood's pack and pulled out two brewskies. I don't think a climber alive can ever forget that scene.

I should've done the same thing to Jim's backpack early this morning. It would be a riot to pull out two cans of brew right now -- and nourishing, too. Wouldn't it?

In the middle of the grass-covered summit, there's a small stone pile, which serves as a monument. Strapped to a stake is a climber's helmet. It's inscription reads:

Translated, I bet the helmet was put here by the survivors of a climber killed while attempting to summit Devils Tower. About three years ago a climber was killed while attempting the "Jump Traverse" move on the Durrance route (without a rope or any other form of protection). That's when he fell to his death, although the report I read blamed his reckless behavior on his strained relationship with a girlfriend. At any rate, perhaps the helmet belonged to him.

Also at the monument is a 4-inch pipe, which is sealed at one end and threaded with a cap at the other. We open it and find the summit log book rolled up inside.

Jim makes an entry for us, and then adds a memorial message for Pete Garrett. Pete was a friend and fellow 5.10 Climbing Club member who was killed last February as pilot-in-command and sole occupant of an airplane, which crashed on takeoff from the airport at Homer, Alaska.

After examining the log book, it appears only two other climbers have made it to the summit today (at least only two have made an entry).

No summit expedition is complete without pictures, and if you happen to have a cell phone with you, well, it wouldn't be compete without a wireless conversation to someone, either. So Jim and I both call home. The experience adds a lot of fun for everyone, although we're not sure anyone believes that we are actually calling from the top of Devils Tower on Mother's Day.


Devils Tower summit looking south. The Belle Fourche River surrounds the campground.

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