Fear and Entrapment
on Bad God Mountain
feature
Outer Edge magazine
Mar/Apr 2007
on Bad God Mountain
feature
Outer Edge magazine
Mar/Apr 2007
As I rolled out of bed, a voice from the dark, swirly, intuitive part of my brain whispered: If you go to Devils Tower, something bad will happen to you.
The warning carried an image. I saw myself, helmeted and harnessed, dangling limp and bloody at the end of a rope. The words and image lingered like the smell of rotten fish. I was leaving for Wyoming that afternoon, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't supposed to climb the tower.
A flat-topped monolith with fluted sides, Devils Tower rises 386 metres over the red plains of Crook County in northeastern Wyoming. The Belle Fourche ("Beautiful Fork") River, a tributary of the Cheyenne, snakes past its base, which has a circumference of 1.6 km.
The name Devils Tower is a mispunctuated mistranslation of one of the many native names for the formation. Depending on which Native American Indian tribe you ask, Devils Tower is called Bear's Lodge, Bear's Tipi, Bear's House, Bear Peak, Tree Rock, Bear's Lair, Mythic Owl Mountain or Ghost Mountain.
Somewhere along the way, one of those names was mistranslated as 'Bad God Lodge' or 'Bad God Mountain,' which turned into the official name, 'Devils Tower.'
The tower is sacred to many tribes, including the Arapaho, Cheyenne, Crow, Kiowa, Lakota and Shoshone, and ceremonies are still held there every June, during which time climbers are asked to stay away.
It was August. There was no objective reason to forfeit.
"It's a free climbing trip," I scolded myself. "A place on a climb that two good friends of yours are guiding because they might need an extra driver. You've wanted to visit Devils Tower since age ten, when you saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The group is small, it'll be a blast. And you want to stay home because of a feeling?"
Fast forward to midnight. I'm curled up in the front of a van with Gus, my lucky stuffed monkey, on my lap. Bluegrass plays softly on the stereo. We've been on the road for ten hours, with seven more to go.
Mark, the lead guide, drives, while Miranda and Cora sleep in the back. Miranda is a client. Cora, the redheaded co-guide, is my favorite climbing partner. Another client, Robyn, reads by headlamp-light.
As we speed west across South Dakota, the sky becomes a monster. Lightning and thunder shatter the clouds. Ran rat-a-tats on the windows like distant machine gun fire. The van weaves on the slick highway.
I clutch Gus for comfort and hope nobody notices.
When we stop for fuel, I buy a cup of hot cocoa and ask the man behind the counter if he knows the weather forecast.
"Nasty," he says.
"Nasty?"
"Real nasty. And when we say that in South Dakota, we mean high wind, hail, and possible tornadoes."
Great.
Back in the van, I slurp cocoa and wait for lightning. When it flashes, illuminating the clouds, I look for funnels. Every thunderclap makes me flinch. Earlier, I was terrrified that doom would befall me if I tried to climb the tower, but now I just want to get there alive.
We pass through the storm unscathed. I scrounge an hour or two of fitful sleep. In Spearfish, Wyoming we pick up a third client, Rachel.
Around 7:30 a.m. we reach the tower. It impresses me despite my anxiety-and-sleep-deprivation stupor.
A supermassive chunk of phonolite porphyry formed underground forty million years ago, and exposed much later by erosion of the softer surrounding sedimentary rock, Devils Tower seems out of place in the 21st century. It looks primeval. If you squint, visually subtracting the parking lots and milling tourists, it's easy to imagine pterodactyls roosting on the summit.
Mark, Rachel, and Robyn comprise the first summit team. They hop out and head up the tower. Cora, Miranda and I make camp and take long naps, then climb some non-summit routes in an area of the tower called the Classroom. The first team returns triumphant and tired. Tomorrow it's our turn.
Dawn arrives with a chill. Goosebumps appear on my arms and grey clouds sag over the tower, threatening rain.
"Weather looks sketchy," I say to Cora. "I think the climb's off."
"Mmmdrrrhnthffff," mumbles Cora from the outskirts of dreamland. I think she means "Thank goodness." Cora is not a morning person.
A mixture of disappointment and relief washes over mee as I burrow back into my mummy bag.
Around 9:30 a.m. everyone gets up. Mark sorts gear while the rest of us make breakfast. I help by shooing the campsite's resident black kittens (whom I consider unhygienic as well as inauspicious) away from the picnic table.
In much the same way, the summer sun chases off the clouds and chill. By 11 a.m. the sky is bright. Rachel and Robyn head towards scenic Spearfish Canyon for a day of sightseeing, leaving Mark, Miranda, Cora and me: the second summit team.
During the arduous approach - a half-mile walk along the paved, flat Tower Trail, which circles the base of the tower - we pass a dozen burly men clad in black leather.
This is unusual but not unexpected. A weeklong motorcycle rally has just finished in the tiny town of Sturgis, South Dakota, some 130 km away.
Most of the bikers are quite friendly, and our gear-clanking, rope-toting, 75%-female group attracts a lot of attention.
"Are you gonna climb that thing?"
"How do you get your ropes up there?"
"Good luck."
"You're crazy."
The last is my favorite. When a big sweaty Harley freak calls little less-intimidating-than-bunny-slippers me 'crazy,' you know there's something special happening.
We scramble over boulders and scree to the base of our chosen route, a tricky 5.8 offwidth called Bon Homme (Horning Variation). Mark racks his gear and then puts on his climbing shoes. Cora and Miranda do likewise.
I root around in my backpack, pulling out the things I need.
Harness? Check.
CamelBak? Check.
Belay device? Check.
Granola bars? Check.
Rain jacket? Check.
Chapstick? Check.
Gus the lucky stuffed monkey? Check.
Climbing shoes?
I furrow my eyebrows. Somewhere in the shadows, my trusty Moccasyms are hiding. I pull everything out and pile it on a rock. No Moccasyms.
Panic burbles in my stomach like a deepwater sulfur vent. No way. No flippin' way. I managed to remember my stuffed monkey, but...
"I forgot my climbing shoes," I say in disbelief.
Cora, Miranda, and Mark swivel their heads. "You what?"
I volunteer to sit out the climb, but they concoct a plan instead. Mark will lead the first pitch. Cora will second. Once Cora reaches the massive ledge that ends the pitch, she will lower her climbing shoes to me - her feet are just a size bigger than mine.
But there's a catch. The route starts with a chockstone-choked offwidth that snakes up the right side of a column. Some 18 metres up, the route traverses the column and hooks up with another offwidth on its left side until it reaches the ledge. So the pitch ends on the left side of the column, but starts on the right. It would be tricky and time-consuming to manoeuvre the shoes around the column.
Therefore, I have to climb the first section, including the airy traverse with its crappy footholds, in my approach shoes.
Mark leads the long first pitch, making it look easy. Cora seconds it. Then it's my turn. I position Gus in the elastic straps that crisscross the outside of my CamelBak.
"Monkey, don't fail me now," I mutter.
I double-check my harness and figure-eight knot. Mark puts me on belay. Then I stare at the crack.
And stare some more. It's maybe 18 cm wide; offwidths have never been my strong point.
A full minute passes. I feel Miranda watching me.
Finally, I wedge one foot sideways in the crack and step up. My ankle pops in protest. I ignore it.
I scoot up the crack, chicken-winging, knee-barring, hip-jamming, crab-legging, chockstone-hugging. I don't think there are names for some of the manoeuvres I pull. Offwidths are humbling - nobody looks graceful climbing them. Especially not in approach shoes with worn-down treads.
At the traverse, I keep one leg in the crack while the other fumbles for footholds. The column is dead vertical and damnably smooth.
"There aren't really any footholds," Cora calls down. Great.
"Any advice?" I holler.
"Um. There's a little ledge for your hand. Yeah, that's - no, up a little - go left- up a little more - there. Use that."
Here goes nothing. I take a deep breath and get a good grip on the ledge. Then I shift my body out of the crack. I'm not too heavy and I can do two pull-ups. Surely I can campus around this column.
My overtaxed fingers slip from the ledge.
"Falling!" I yelp.
Mark catches me, of course. I sag back for a moment, catching my breath. Cora lowers her shoes and I put them on (trying not to think about how warm and wet they are). Then I clip my approach shoes to one of my rear gear loops.
"Climbing," I yell.
On my left stretches a featureless section of wall. Directly in front is a crack, narrower than the first but still wide. On my right, the column bulges out, almost perpendicular to the wall. The seam where the column meets the wall is thin, with a rounded edge, but in places I might be able to slip my fingers in and manage a shaky layback.
The end of the pitch looks far, far away.
I claw my way upward using a graceless combination of laybacks, whole-leg bars, invented moves and profanity. Why, why, why didn't I train for this?
The combination of sun and effort wrings me like a washcloth. Sweat drips off my body.
Maybe nine metres above the traverse, I contrive a rest by cramming my right knee into the crack and slumping against the column. After catching my breath, I jam a fist into the crack, gaston the seam with my other hand, and attempt to shift my knee out of the crack.
It won't budge.
I wriggle it. The joint moves deeper into the crack. I yank outward. The edges of the crack dig into the fleshy sides of my folded leg. It hurts like hell.
I take deep breaths and try again, this time yanking harder. It hurts more. The knee won't shift.
My heart starts to pound. I've never been stuck like this before; it's a terrible feeling, powerlessness and pain, fright and claustrophobia, all rolled together. The tower has me and it won't let go.
I remember the vision I had before I left for Wyoming. What if a big block were to dislodge itself high above and come tumbling down the chute between the two columns? I wouldn't be able to dodge it.
My stomach lurches.
Right now, the edges of the crack are squeezing me, restricting blood flow. As blood pools in my leg, it will swell, making it even more unlikely that I will be able to get it out. Mark might lower down to me, but then what can he do?
The climbing ranger will have to be summoned. I will dangle here for hours while help comes. They'll have to bleed my leg with leeches. They'll have to amputate it. A storm will roll in and I will get struck by lightning. I am going to die here, hanging off the side of Bad God Mountain.
Panic takes over. Tears start rolling down my face. Huge sobs heave my chest. I struggle to keep quiet. I don't want to alarm Miranda, who is still watching from below.
"My leg is stuck," I yell to Mark and Cora, doing my best not to sound hysterical.
No answer. Probably they're trying to figure out what, exactly, I expect them to do about it.
"It's really, really stuck," I yell. I don't expect them to do anything, really. I just want someone to know I'm trapped and frightened.
Mark asks if I want him to come down.
"No," I answer. What I want is a hug from my boyfriend and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie.
I'm scared. What I really want, more than anything in the world, is to be free from this wretched rock and I don't care how much it hurts.
I place my hands on either side of the crack and wrench my leg outward. A primal, desperate sound tears itself from the pit of my stomach, the sort of sound a sea lion might make while birthing a particularly large pup. Pain blinds me...
and then my leg pops free.
I wipe the tears and snot from my face with my shirt (classy, I know) and, knee throbbing, layback my way up.
A few minutes later, while I struggle with the second pitch, Miranda stalls at the traverse.
"Cora," she says, "I don't feel so good."
"You don't?"
"I think I'm gonna throw up."
"Take a minute to rest. Take as much time as you need."
"I need to go down."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I feel really sick."
Mark decides to pull the plug on the whole operation. Relief is a cooling breeze.
We rappel back to the base of the route. Despite the unceremonious butt-kicking the tower just gave us, the mood is buoyant. Miranda chugs a litre of water and feels better. Cora passes around beef sticks. I hate beef sticks, but I take one anyway and it tastes delicious. My body must be craving salt.
That evening we watch in wonder (and a bit of terror) as thick, blue-black thunderheads gather overhead. An electrically charged wind strokes the grassy plain that stretches between our campsire and the tower. An ominous feeling buzzes in the air. Something's coming.
Then, at dusk, the sky breaks open. Bolts of lightning dart from the clouds like snake tongues. All night long the rain pours and the wind howls.
I fall asleep planning my next summit attempt. The tower has me and it won't let go.