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 seems to pivot on that moment, just before I
walked out. My mood might have been dark, what with
the dreams about the dog. 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 canary in the gold 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.
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.
