Huge snowflakes, slowly descending onto the smooth blackness of the highway, unexpectedly turn into a greenish, bloody pulp on the car's windshield. Not snowflakes, but millions of moths on their suicidal pilgrimage towards the light. Fatigue is setting in. Neither the cigarettes smoked one after another nor the deafening roar of The Cure from all the speakers is helping. My eyelids are dangerously heavy. There are still over a thousand kilometers ahead of me to reach my destination, the northwestern corner of Wyoming. I have to stop and rest.
Six in the evening, I've arrived in Moorcroft. A typical American shithole, a few rundown wooden shacks, a few mobile homes, a bar, and a rusty gas station. I turn off the highway at the huge sign reading Devils Tower National Monument. The surroundings have changed. The flat, sun-scorched prairies have given way to small hills covered with stunted forests. However, nothing here suggests the existence of any big rocks. With growing impatience, I reach the top of another hill, and ... there it is. Bathed in the rays of the setting sun, standing out against the dark green of the valley, The Devils Tower.
Despite the approaching night, I quickly throw my stuff out at the last free camping spot, and drive through a winding forest road right to the base of the rock. The area around is meticulously developed; kiosks, souvenirs, hot dogs, a huge parking lot for buses, and even a small amphitheater where rangers explain to the tourists how these crazy people with ropes manage to scramble to the top. Obviously, the main goal here is to get as much cash as possible from the crowds that roll through. I walk around the rock on a comfortable, partially paved path. In the moonlight, it looks mysterious and menacing. Silvery-black chimneys, cracks, crevices and corners. Huge columns, in some places reaching all the way to the top, in others cracked and leaning, seem to wait for the touch of a hand only to collapse. No long approaches, no descent problems (prepared rappel stations), solid rock, clear routes. In short, pure climbing.
The first ascent to the top of Devils Tower was made in 1893. Two farmers, using wooden pegs driven into the cracks, built a kind of ladder that enabled climbing. This work took them 6 weeks and the remains of this structure can be seen to this day on the south wall. The first fully alpine ascent was made by a team led by Fritz Wiessner on June 28, 1937, also up the south wall, via a route now bearing his name.
Waking up dazed and confused, I hear the rattle of gear from the huge neighboring tent, occupied by bearded scouts in short shorts. It’s dawn. Fearing the legendary crowds on the wall, I grab my already prepared backpack and run uphill. Considering the lack of time, my poor form, and the need to climb with random partners, I’m not feeling overly ambitious. First of all, I want to reach the top and, if possible, by more than one route. The problem of a partner, unresolved the previous evening, remains.
I choose a shelf with a logbook (the only one in the USA) at the ranger's station as my ambush site. After a while, two young guys appear, hung with gear like a Christmas tree. They introduce themselves as students from New York. They don't have, as they freely admit, very much climbing experience, but they’ve decided to try the Durance Route on the south wall. They agree to my proposal to form a three-person team with a bit of suspicious (and scary) enthusiasm.
We’ve finished roping up when a group of a dozen or so familiar scouts approaches the wall, shouting and rattling like a herd of Alpine cows. The first pitch: two parallel, fairly easy but insanely polished cracks, and then the Leaning Column, which is the size of a large truck. I know that thousands of people have passed this stone, somehow still clinging to the wall but, for peace of mind, I tap it with my hand. It's not the best way to check its stability (lol), so I try not to put too much weight on it. At the belay station, I belay Bob and then Jerry who, not having too much trust in his buddy, demands that I belay him. The second pitch is Durance Crack, the most difficult, fifth-grade section of the route. A corner on the right and a parallel crack on the left. The only problem is the old iron left in the crack, which I cut my hands on a bit. The heat becomes unbearable, and we idiots are without a drop of water. The next pitch, Jerry leads. After one, he's had enough, so the last two to the summit are mine. We pass a group that seems to be preparing to camp, and it’s getting incredibly crowded below us.
The summit: We write a few words in the book we’ve found in a metal tube. I smoke a cigarette, and we gather ourselves for the descent. There's no point in sitting here any longer, the heat is terrible and the views are uninspiring. We start rappelling down. It's not that simple. There are several people on each ledge. Some idiot is blocking the entire station in the middle of the wall, giving a lecture on belaying. A tangle of ropes under the merciless sun. Finally, solid ground under our feet, my mind is focused on some cold beer. There are so many tourists, cars, buses, and the hot asphalt burns my feet.
Bob and Jerry pack the car, as they're leaving today, and heading east. Kurt, from Germany, appears. He’s heard that I'm looking for a partner, so we make an arrangement for tomorrow. I suggest El Cracko Diablo because ... I liked the name, lol. Devil's Crack, on the east wall, is basically a two-pitch, sixth-grade crack, and above it, two easy pitches to the summit.
I lead all the difficulties, belaying myself quite poorly due to the limited number of large hexes. Sadly, for financial reasons, we don't have any cams. I’ve completely forgotten about bandages for my hands, which I’m now regretting very much, but I'm carrying a large bottle of water, which certainly boosts my morale. Once again, the summit. Once again, the rappelling. The crowds and the heat are just like yesterday.
Lying with Kurt under a tree, we sip beer hidden in paper bags and stare at the western wall, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. Of course, we both decide to come back here one day, but now it's time to hit the road. Kurt is heading west towards the Grand Tetons, and I'm heading south. My next stop: Boulder, Colorado.
Andrzej
*pictures 1-3 were taken in year 2009
