Devil's Tower: Temporary Escape From Death

After twenty long years, what I remember most is how cold it was. With a sunny, warm forecast and bright gleeful souls, the three of us started up Devils’ Tower, located in North East Wyoming, early in the crisp morning with ample time on our side, or so we had thought.

The monolith is striking, even from a distance, as the barren land is flat except for the anomaly. Indian lore states that the serrated marks were made from a mythical bear. The arduous climb would prove to be a bear that would change the course of our lives.

Stranded while descending, we all had time to reflect on the course of the days events. Dressed in dreaded killer cotton, which provides no precious warmth when wet, all three of us had clattering teeth and numb, blue hands. Mental facilities were waning. There was little hope that any of us would survive the night, as hypothermia had already placed her mighty grasp around our fragile bodies. Our footholds were mere bumps in the smooth, water slicked rock. The special climbing rope, which looses strength when soaked as thoroughly as it was, was wedged a hundred unobtainable feet above our heads. I was to blame.

Initially we were as excited about the climb like a rustled hornets nest. This was a special trip that had rejoined three college friends, who at the time lived thousands of miles apart physically, but were still joined at the hip. A group of four climbers, three husky guys and a pretty woman, were in front of us. While we had limited skills at rock climbing, they appeared especially slow. More than three hours into the steep, unforgiving climb, the reason for their slowness became obvious: they were drinking alcohol. Rock climbing is inherently dangerous: there are a lot of possible mishaps that are beyond any climbers’ control. To introduce alcohol while climbing Devils’ Tower is ludicrous.

After a major portion of daylight had been wasted straggling behind the drinkers, they decided to retreat before the halfway point. Now we were golden and the climb, while much later in the day than anticipated, proceeded without much delay. As we neared the summit, darkness was calling. A drastic change in temperature occurred and distant storm clouds were quickly proceeding in our direction. While the weather changes were significant, we were confident we would finish the climb. Just below the summit my best friend, someone I would sacrifice my life for, stated he had no reason to summit and suggested that the two of us go up ahead and sign our names on the paper in the sealed metal canister that lay chained down to the mighty rock. Time was rapidly becoming a factor and my friend and I had little time to relish our success on the top of Devils’ Tower.

It was suggested that I lead the first part of the descent, though I had never done it before. Part way down, with darkness closing in and a fierce wind upon us, I became disorientated and wasn’t sure if I was on the correct route. Surely, I thought, that large shelf to my right must be the stopping point for this leg of the descent. Cautiously I moved over and sighed with relief as I found a piton in the rock, something solid to tie into. When the others joined me and read the description of the route to me once again, it became obvious of my error. Never, to this day, has it been brought up: until now.

My best friend led the next section, and I would be third. By the time they had reached a precarious, but safe position, the rain had started its’ bone chilling horizontal descent. The intensity of the storm was alarming and soon lighting and thunder surrounded us and would temporarily light the monolith up in eerie shadows of doom. With the three amigos tied to safety, I started to retrieve the rope. We all agreed which direction to pull, for to pull the knot upwards would be disastrous. With little more than fifty feet of the soaked rope retrieved, it became stuck. First we all thought I had pulled it the wrong way, but the rope wouldn’t move in either direction.

The cruel weather was quickly taking its’ toll. After a half hour my constant flicking of the rope yielded no positive results. For a short time we simply stood on the half-inch projection of rock we called a ledge, and we were all quiet, except for the disturbing sound of clattering teeth. Later we would find out we all were on the same wavelength, this is where we would die.

Voices from below shouted and echoed their way to us. It was the party of drinkers with a search crew. A tremendous bright light shone on the rock above us and moved methodically about. From below all that could be seen was the reflection of the torrential rain, and the searchers didn’t know that they had actually spotted us just before shutting the powerful light off. We screamed till our voices were sore and muted, but we were not heard, though we could make out the sound of the retreating trucks.

Left alone we pondered our options. Descent without a rope was impossible to survive. Not only was the rain blinding, but also streams of it were flowing down upon us like a chilling waterfall. My best friends hands were becoming useless, he could no longer make a fist. Refusing to give in to fate, I restarted my flicking of the heavy rope in silence. What seemed an eternity later, the rope freed itself and came crashing down upon us. The instant joy was overcome by the realization that we may still be in serious trouble. My best friend and I agreed to stay behind and send our mutual friend down first. Normally a few minute process to retie the rope became a half-hour ordeal. We were all aware that the rope had lost a significant amount of strength, and our friend proceeded down with the utmost caution. A fainted scream alerted us that he had made it to safety. We looked at each other, with our club hands and feeble minds. As I felt responsible, and even more important, my love for him was greater than the love I had for my own life, I would have it no other way than for him to go next. It was an incredible challenge for us to get him tied in, and we had to open the carabineers by pressing them against the rock with our bodies, as our hands wouldn’t respond to our the signals from our minds. We knew that if it were this difficult for the two of us to tie him in, I stood little chance doing it by and for myself. To this day I remember looking into his eyes and thinking it would be the last time I would see him.

His decent into the frigid dark abyss was tedious. It took his full concentration and strength to make his way down. Over a half hour later I saw the rope slacken and heard his cry from safety. Repeatedly I attempted to unlock my safety carabineer, but I wasn't able to loosen the nut. As a last attempt I held it in my mouth and pushed it against the unforgiving wall. The crude method worked and then I had to focus onto tying into the rope. With my hands nearly useless, I grasped the carabineer with both clubs and held it firm against my body, then pressed it into the remnants of the mystical bear claws. With the gate open, I grabbed the rope into my mouth and pulled the stretched rope out. It would take me nearly an hour to tie myself in, and then start the final descent.

Hands were wrapping around my legs as tears came to my face. Once down we still had a difficult time traversing the huge boulders to get to level land. We kept our hands under our armpits and proceeded to our rental car.

We found an empty restroom that had a series of hand dryers. We wrung out our shirts and placed them over the vents of three of them while we tried to gently warm our hands. My best friend and I were ready to hit the bar and drink to our amazing survival. Our mutual friend was subdued, yet happy. While my best buddy and I viewed it as an incredible and lucky adventure, our mutual friend saw it as intervention by God. He would join a church that has unique beliefs and he traveled the land for years in and attempt to gain membership for his religion. He wasn't the typical fit, for his very essence was against church protocol and acceptance.

Years later, while recovering from a traumatic brain injury, I received a phone call from my old best buddy. Since I had come out of the closet the year before, even our adventures together weren't enough for him to accept me for whom I am: today we rarely speak. His call came at a time when I wasn't sure of who I was and both my parents were very ill. My father had severe coronary problems and my Mother was dying from ovarian cancer. At times I would travel between two different hospitals to visit them, then go to a third specialty recovery hospital for myself. My friends' news was disturbing, our mutual friend had killed himself. He had already given up on his church, but was unable to accept himself. It is often said of the deceased what gentle souls they were, as if a jerk never dies. Our friend was a shining example of love. He would do incredible feats for others with nothing expected, or wanted, in return.

These last few years I have seen what I don't believe in, ghost. For me they are projections in our minds of things we want to see. The first ghost I saw I knew was my loving sister who had succumbed to Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Lately I've seen another, and at first I thought it may be a fellow I tried to save in Wyoming, but who's death I blamed on myself. This ghost is different, all black; he wears a hat, and is not transparent like my sister was. Now, writing about this adventure, I think the new ghost is my deceased friend from Devils' Tower. Even my dog has seen and reacted to him, so my theory needs revamping. Just a few months ago, this tall thin black shadow of a man repeatedly walked to a wall where our fireplace is. He would vanish at the same point each time. My partner and I were feeling sick and all the dogs were lethargic. The next day I visited the area my old friend kept walking toward, and I smelled gas. Over 150 gallons of propane fuel had filled our home through a defective pipe, which had developed a pinhole. Only the night before we had lit candles to mask the odor. The man from the gas company could barely speak; all he kept saying was 'Splinters'. The house should be a pile of splinters. Call me crazy, but I believe my old friend called me one last visit, as I have not seen him since.