|
Chapter 1
In Which I
Achieve Escape Velocity
How did I end up walking the trail
around Devils Tower in my favorite Ann Taylor dress and
black high heels? I want to say it’s a long story
but really it isn’t. Now then, what happened after
that – the Black Dog, the sorcery, my lethal waltz with
Rogue – is a seriously long story.
But first things
first.
I want to say it
started somewhere at that stultifying cocktail party
with Clive. Looking back, it all pivots on that moment,
just before I walked out. An action which was completely
out of character for me. At least, for the person I’d
become with Clive. He didn’t make me want to be a better
person: I just wanted to be a person who didn’t get
chewed on. I walked on emotional eggshells, carefully
monitoring Clive’s moods. But my own mood was dark that
afternoon, what with the dreams about the dog, so for
once I cared about something more than what Clive
thought. Knowing what I know now about that damn Dog,
none of that was an accident.
There I was,
hanging out with all the coal bed methane and oil and
mining muckety mucks, playing dutiful girlfriend, biting
my tongue while they bitched about the new BLM
restrictions on sage grouse. And the next I was out the
door. Somehow without consciously making the decision to
leave.
“Damn birds aren’t
even good eating!” One guy in an ostentatious Stetson
laughed ruefully, sipping his scotch.
“What gets me is,
these birds have lasted thousands of years – a few more
wells aren’t going to make that much difference. Not
like they’re going to disappear overnight.” This from a
hyuk hyuk type drinking Bud from a can, clearly with no
concept of geologic time. I smiled sweetly at him.
“Tell that
to the environmentalists! They’d sooner see this country
go down in flames to the Islamics just to save a grouse.
Do you know how many kinds of grouse there are?” The
silver-haired man in the suit should have known better –
I wonder if he deliberately said “Islamics” instead of
Muslims. I sipped my Jameson’s, relying on the smoky
flavor to encourage me to keep my mouth shut. Similar
conversational clusters dotted the room, which was
decorated in the de rigeur faux saloon look that seemed
to be all decorators could come up with for Wyoming.
That and the lodgepole furniture/Indian blanket look.
“Damn
terrorist-loving tree huggers from California is what
they are!” The Bud guy pointed an emphatic finger.
“It’s always
amazing to me,” Clive jumped in and I sighed to myself,
“how people want to bite the hand that feeds them.”
I ran my tongue
over my teeth. Nope, couldn’t bite it any longer.
“This particular
hand feeds the oil conglomerates, Clive – and while the
locals receive some economic benefit from the extraction
industries,” I toasted my glass towards the execs, “our
wildlife resources are also important commodities, with
tourism, especially outdoor activities one of our
largest sources of income.”
Clive didn’t look
at me. “I really don’t think tourists are lining up to
see yet another grouse hiding in the sage,” he laughed,
inviting the guys to share in the joke. Bud guy hooted
in delight.
“It’s an indicator
species, and well you know it, Clive. The proverbial
canary in the coal mine – saving sage grouse habitat
means preserving an ecological balance that affects
hundreds of other species, both plant and animal.”
“That’s your
opinion.”
“No,” I said
carefully. Really I was trying. Not that it would save
me from a lecture later. “That’s an educated
perspective based on sound scientific evidence.”
“We need to find a
balance,” Scotch guy inserted, “work together to find
the right path through all of these things.”
“Yes! Engage in
continued dialogue..”
“Listen to you!
‘engage in continued dialogue’” Clive mimicked me in a
Betty Boopish voice. “She’s so young,” he confided to
the others, “that she doesn’t know how the world works.
I can’t believe I’m dating a girl who doesn’t remember
Kennedy’s assassination!”
I smiled, as if I
shared in the joke, while they laughed. I’d mastered
making a smile out of gritting my teeth. Scotch guy
looked surprised, maybe a little disappointed when I
excused myself. Something in me must have been let down,
too, because I felt an odd strength welling up.
Something ferocious.
I really just
intended to swap my empty Jameson’s glass for a glass
of wine. I’d sip that slowly and the anger would
subside. Drinking whiskey never contributed to my
resolutions not to fight with Clive – a lesson learned
many times over by my Irish ancestors about fighting in
general, but one that still eluded me. Some cool white
wine, I thought, would keep me from pointing out that
Clive had been six when Kennedy died.
I set my highball
glass on the bar, nodded to the bartender… and kept
walking, pulling my coat and purse from the hooks near
the reception hall door, barely pausing.
No one saw me go.
I didn’t really
even think about what I was doing until I was heading
down the highway, listening to the Nickelback guy assure
me that everything would be alright. But just not right
now. So true.
Now that I think
of it – I’m almost certain that I broke my mother’s
favorite wine glass only the weekend before. Omens are
so obvious in hindsight and rarely useful before the
fact, I’ve found. Even now, with all the magic I have
learned, along with the vaster magics I’ve lost, those
clues to the future remain maddeningly elusive. Darting
bits of foreknowledge glimpsed from the corner of my eye
that only gain relevance after the disaster’s damage
lies scattered around me.
It was the one
time – I should say, the first time – I saw the dog
outside of my dreams. I stood at my mother’s kitchen
sink rinsing dishes, watching my reflection gain
strength with the lights against the picture window as
the dusk purpled and deepened outside. The world outside
faded from sight until all I could see was my own face.
But just before that moment – there – was that a
movement? A black dog running past. There and gone.
Black stars pricked the edges of my vision, which made
me think I could faint, though I never had. It’s a park
out there after all; lots of dogs run past. And
creatures from nightmares don’t turn up in the waking
world. But the broken wine glass in my hand agreed that
I knew better.
The dream always
starts with the room: long and narrow, deep below the
ground, made entirely of stone. Each brick-sized cobble
echoes every other, rounded and fitted seamlessly, each
against the other, so that ceiling, walls, floor all
flow together to make one chamber set deep in the earth.
In the way of dreams, I know the earth extends all
around me; I can sense the immensity of the ground
beyond the layers of stone.
Amber-hued, the
stones seem to pulse with warmth. As if they were fed by
some radiant heat source. They pushed up in round
curves, just short of hot, stretching the arches of my
bare feet. The floor slopes downwards, and the water of
the pool reaches only so high and no farther, like the
still water of a lake, glassy against the golden stones.
And like a lake, the water stretches away, growing
blacker with depth until it, along with the far end of
the room, disappears into impenetrable shadow. Torches
illuminate my end of the room with an even glow, but the
fingers of flickering light never reach as far as the
room goes. For all I know, the pool is infinite, as
without boundaries as my dreaming mind.
This became a
familiar place to me, comforting even, except that I
began to know what would happen next. Night after night
I stood on this ceremonial shore, trying to see into the
darkness at the end of the water.
Then the Dog is
there.
Behind me
suddenly.
And I’m uncertain
if it’s been there all along and I’ve just now noticed,
uneasy prickling of the hairs on my neck. In the dream,
this isn’t important – I only begin to wonder at it in
the daylight, a vague fear worrying at me like an aching
tooth.
Like black glass
in the night, visible only in the highlights made by the
glow of the torches, so black the shadows around it pale
to reddish gray, the Dog sits like a cat upon the stairs
I’ve descended, gleaming as though carved from a block
of obsidian, watching me with eyes that reflect back
amber coals of lantern light. But the head is no cat’s –
it is square, with a broad muzzle, polished to
excruciating luster.
I shiver nude
before him – only just now noticing my nakedness –
longing to cover myself, yet somehow unable to. Like a
lustful conqueror bent on rapine, his gaze owns my
flesh, possessive, relentless. Though he moves no
closer, sometimes his jaw drops into a canine grin,
white fangs echoing the sharply pointed ears.
I always awoke
from the dream, still feeling the press of hot stones
against the arches of my feet, a sexual sweat running
between my breasts while my stomach turned with unease.
I shouldn’t brood on the dream – those feelings just
rose up, swamping the real world with half-seen visions.
Which leads to getting lost when one is driving.
From the two-lane
highway I could see the interstate, coursing off to my
left about half a mile across railroad tracks and
prairie. I hadn't passed any kind of highway sign in
quite a while, but it seemed I'd definitely missed the
interstate access and was probably going east, not west
in the deepening evening.
Well, shit.
To get on I-90,
I’d have to turn around, which I found myself absolutely
unable to do. As if I’d gained some kind of escape
velocity from the immense gravity well of Clive,
momentum I couldn’t afford to lose. So I just kept
driving.
The billboard for
Devils Tower National Monument caught my eye promising
Devils Tower at exit 153 and the neighboring billboard
advertised a Best Western at exit 189, 36 miles farther
down the road. No contest.
I mindlessly
followed the weathered signs with the big blue arrows to
Devils Tower, up the hill and out of town. I wondered if
I'd be able to see it. Night was hanging heavy under the
trees, but the spring sky still held light. As I wound
up through the hills, buff-colored sandstone stood out
in bright relief to the dark greens of the pines, which
in turn made dark silhouettes against the gloaming.
Wyoming skies radiate light – it's one of my favorite
things about this landscape.
Rounding a bend, I
saw the tower starkly outlined against the blue dusk. I
might have seen it before, had I been looking in the
right place: down instead of up. I'd expected a peak
thrusting against the sky, but Devils Tower sits down in
a river bottom, carved out of soft sandstone by the
Belle Fourche River, until only the striated stump of
granite remains. As I dropped into its valley, the tower
showed black against the darkness, so black the shadows
around it paled to vivid blues.
On a mission now,
I followed the signs all the way into the park, drawn to
the tower. I passed a couple of signs for guest lodges,
but none felt right. If only for this one night, I was
all about doing just what felt right to me. Looking back
now, I believe I must have been following the pull of
something deep in myself. What felt like impulsive
willfulness at the time, the surprise assertive
appearance of my determined self, long subdued by my
father’s criticism and Clive’s snide cruelty, was the
result of circumstances clicking into place, like a
magic spell timed to go off at a certain moment, as
inevitable as Aurora pricking her finger on her 16th
birthday.
The Ft. Devils
Tower restaurant should have stayed open until 9pm, as
their sign promised for the Friday, Saturday and Sunday
nights that they served dinner, but business must have
been slow so early in the season yet. My car clock said
8:45, but the buildings were dark. Too bad – I’d heard
their Devils Tower Burger was amazingly good. The
Trading Post just after the turn-off was closed, too,
along with all the ice-cream, fudge and t-shirt shops.
The pony ride stalls stood empty.
No one manned the
guard hut, though the gates stood open. Like any
government entity, Devils Tower now opened and closed on
schedule, requiring entrance fees and observing all
appropriate holidays. I knew the Indians – an Arapaho
friend from the Wind River Reservation had made fun of
me until I stopped saying “Native Americans” – still
used the place for ceremonies. So sacred was Bear Lodge
that the tribes regularly campaigned with the Park
Service to eliminate climbers from the monument. They
also wanted the official name changed from the white
trappers’ superstitious moniker of “the Devil’s tower,”
but the Wyoming tourism board fought that one, since
Close Encounters had made the place a household name and
thus a solid attraction. Though it seemed to me most
movie goers weren’t at all sure which barren, square
state Spielberg’s aliens had made contact in. As a
compromise, climbers were asked to observe a voluntary
climbing ban for the month of June.
I had always
pictured the Indians, in full ceremonial regalia, using
special key cards to open the ubiquitous bars that drop
to block roads into the tower – the same bars that stand
ready at every highway access in the state, to close the
roads in bad weather. But the sign posted on the hut
just asked me to register, use the self-pay station and
welcomed me in, despite the late hour.
Leaving the Honda
door open so I could see by the cabin light, I filled
out the yellow envelope with one of the three-inch
pencils provided in the bin. Name, date, car make and
year, a $10 bill stuffed inside – all dropped through
the slot into the Park Service pipe. I drove past the
black-tailed prairie dog town, also apparently closed
for the night. There was the turn-off for the
campground, admin buildings locked up; rather than
checking it out, I kept going, circling the base of the
tower that loomed so immediately above me that I
couldn't see it much anymore – at least, not and stay on
the road.
The road
terminated, fittingly, in one final curl – a circular
parking lot at the base of the tower, gleaming in the
now growing moonlight. I stood out in the dark, leaning
against the car. Some mule deer wandered nearby,
cropping the new green grass in the center parkway. I
wanted sunlight, to see this properly. What I needed was
to find a place to park off the road under some trees
and sleep until the sun rose. I didn't want to be one of
those parking lot/rest area statistics, another lone
female accosted under the bright lights with no one
within fifty miles to see.
Driving back down
the paved road, I saw a dirt turn-off to the right, to
another hiking trail. That looked more promising. When I
got to a cattle guard, I looked for a Private Property
No Trespassing sign, to be sure to keep myself out of
trouble. Instead, to my relieved delight, I saw "Friends
and Guests Only" beneath a peeling sign for Devils Tower
Lodge. I could be both. And not spend a chilled night,
sleeping in the car. Another cattle guard repeated the
invitation, as if ensuring that nothing ill could cross
the threshold with such stipulations in place.
At the end of the
road – literally – a few buildings clustered beneath the
bright light on the pole, the same blue-tinged spotlight
that every rural homestead in Wyoming seemed to have,
like they came free with cattle-guard grates, woven wire
fencing and sheet-metal tool sheds. Lights shone inside
and there seemed to be something of a dirt lot, though
empty. A new-looking Jetta parked in front of the house
and, as I walked up to the door, another sign said
welcome. Piano music tumbled softly within. Okay then. I
rang the bell.
"Hi there!" said
the guy who opened the door, as if I were a neighbor who
stopped by frequently. "C'mon in!" Which I didn't. I
hesitated on the doorstep. He wore several beaded
chokers around his neck, framed in the open collar of
his blue work shirt. A white mustache stood in stark
relief to his tanned, wind-roughened face. An ex-hippie,
I thought. "I'm Frank," he said, holding out a hand. For
a moment I thought he was going to hug me, but he seemed
to think better of it.
"I know it's
late," I tried, "but is this a lodge? I need a place to
sleep."
"Yes, come in
already. I have four rooms, all empty, you can take your
pick. When the rooms are full, you can camp in the yard.
Come any time!" He turned and walked back through the
mud room, into the house. A shelf ran along the wall
with various hiking boots and climbing shoes ranged
along it. A hand-scribbled sign said "shoes," with a
helpful arrow pointing to the shelf. I slipped off my
pumps and set them there with the outdoorsy footwear.
Frank waited for
me inside, by the now-silent piano. "I'm sorry to come
so late, without warning..." I began.
"Hey," Frank said,
"I figure everyone who comes to this door is brought by
divine inspiration of some kind – Buddha, God, whatever
you believe. It's my job to give you what you need to be
comfortable. I'll make you pancakes in the morning and,
if you want, I'll help you climb the tower."
"I don't feel a
need to the climb the tower."
"Afraid of
heights?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I
never really have been."
"That's probably
why you don't need to climb then. That's okay. When I
stop being scared I'll probably stop climbing. It's all
about the drugs – the internal drugs, you know. The ones
your body squeezes out, makes the colors brighter,
everything sharper, more real."
I nodded, though I
wasn't sure I understood. Could be the emotions catching
up with me, but I felt suddenly exhausted. That or too
much cheap wine.
Frank nodded to
the hallway to my left. "You look tired. Take the
Burning Daylight room. It's our honeymoon suite. In the
morning you'll see sunrise on Devils Tower." He said it
like there was no greater experience. Maybe to him there
wasn't.
“Do you need to
swipe a credit card?” I reached to open my purse, but
Frank just waved a hand at me.
“We can do that in
the morning, whatever you think the stay is worth.”
I closed the door
to the sound of piano music.
The Dog haunted my
dreams. |
