Devils Tower, near Hulett, Wyoming

When I was eight my grandparents took me on my very first road trip. We went through Western Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, and Oklahoma before returning home to Wichita. I was in a bad place mentally at the time, so the surreality of the trip didn't start to lift until we reached New Mexico and spent quality time with my great aunt Elsie and her clan. These were gorgeous, all-American, milk drinking, church going, genuinely kind and friendly people with glowing, healthy tans and white teeth. Their friendly, joshing, and well meaning demeanor helped set my dials back to normal and loosen the strangling cloak of pain that I'd been living in for awhile. It was a healing and good experience.

I remember quite a bit about that first road trip, like driving through a thunderstorm in the otherwise pitch black night, keeping a wary eye on the dashboard dial marked with a lightning bolt. I asked my grandfather if that meant we were more or less likely to be electrocuted, and that's when I learned about grounding and the relative safety of rubber tires.

It was the first time I tried rock candy (at the time, a revelation; now, I shudder to even think about it) and talked my way into getting a skinny monkey puppet named Bobo. We went to see the Muppet Movie in the theater in Albuquerque (a cinematic triumph) and visited a second cousin's new baby (no holding allowed, especially since I tended to drop them).

And I remember visiting some other cousin in a trailer park, not only to catch up on old times (a painfully boring endeavor for any 8-year-old who wasn't present for old times), but to watch a movie on the big projection TV they had set up in their living room. I'd never seen such a thing in my life and thought they must be the richest mobile home owners in the land. The cousin, whose name and exact familial association is lost to me now, was a skinny, balding man with dark hair and impish eyes; his wife was not memorable and is only a shadow whenever I try to recall that day. What I do remember was his curling eyebrow and purposeful grin. He said we're going to watch a movie. It's a really scary movie. Do you like scarrrrry mooooovies?

To which I recoiled and said NO I DO NOT and it took some time to convince me that this movie wasn't in fact scary and that he was only teasing and I should probably stop crying. Healed, maybe, but not unmarked.

All I remember about watching the movie that first time was sitting wrenched in anxiety, waiting for the trick to double back, and for things to turn from action-packed but not scary, to skin broiling terrifying. By that age, I had learned that at any moment the rug could be pulled out from underneath your entire life and how you understood things should be—and it could happen again and again no matter how well you behaved or how much you prayed—so it was not beyond the possibility that the impish cousin was lying. At that point I was pretty practiced at sitting still and expressionless while every alarm clanged and shrieked in my head and through my heart, so for all they knew I was fine.

The next time I saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I was nearly an adult. It was vaguely familiar to me, but mostly a new experience. And a wonderful one at that. I loved the effects, the writing, the plot. I loved the music and the acting was superb, especially from Richard Dreyfuss, America's favorite Messy Hero.

The part that synced to my psyche the most, so much so you might imagine you could hear the click, was the mashed potatoes scene, which turned into the "Let's rip the garden up and drag it into the living room scene." There was something about that impulse, the intense, overwhelming, undeniable drive to get at the thing, understand the thing, and possess the thing. For Dreyfuss's character, it was the immutable monolithic shape jutting from the earth, a thing he did not know was called Devils Tower until he happened to see the newscast reporting the government's (bogus) evacuation of the area.

The Thing, in this context, became an obsession because an outsider (alien life) imprinted the message in his mind via light pulses (in his first encounter, at the railroad tracks). But the metaphor works for a lot of things if you think about it...and could be acutely relevant to an 8-year-old trying to get her mind right and set her world back on its axis. It's an immense and unfair predicament for a child to be in, but it happens all the time. As an adult, so many years later, I could relate to that vision, that Thing whose physical representation, if reached, would somehow crack open the mysteries that had been vexing me for so long, if only I could just find it, go to it, and cast a light bright against its immovable mass. Perhaps it would answer questions, heal wounds, melt scars, fix everything.

Being an Oldish Goat now, the visage of Devils Tower is more of a moving, sentimental treasure. I no longer need those answers (I have them), but it represents a time when I was shredded, exposed, caught, and looking for some sort of deliverance, a saving grace. I knew by then not to seek it out at church (o wolves o wolves, how you so seem like sheep), or school (which school, when or where, a revolving door of new schools, new faces, new teachers, no permanence), and certainly not my family (they had their own problems, I was certain, plus this is the rule of all children, forever trying to figure out how not to be a burden).

And I've come to see it for what it is outside of my own context: a miracle of nature, so rare and bizarre I'm surprised there isn't more religious relevance attributed to the place, with millions of pilgrims streaming in every year to gape in wonder and awe. It does hold spiritual significance for area Native Americans—there are signs warning tourists to respect this, stay on paths, and to never disturb artifacts—but for the rest of us, Devils Tower is that cool, freaky place from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. An oddity, hard to get to, but fun to consider. And to most, little more.

The valley opposite the tower.

First of all, Devils Tower is a double misnomer. From research via Wikipedia and the visitor's center, I learned that its true name is Bear's Lodge (or "House," "Lair, "Tipi") based on ancient Lakota, Cheyenne, and Sioux oral traditions about children fleeing from massive bears (x). In each version, the rock either rises beneath them or the children are lifted by the Great Spirit or Creator, where the bear then claws those unmistakable vertical marks along the side in a futile effort to reach them. The name "Devils Tower" resulted from a bad translation during an 1875 expedition. Further to that, according to the FAQ page of the official National Monument webpage, the possessive apostrophe was lost due to a "clerical error" (x).

The "wide side."

Second, as magical as it appears, there is a geological explanation for how the tower came to be. They are not 100% sure of its origin story, but they do have solid theories. While I read the explanation via Wikipedia and the monument's website, neither were clear enough for my satisfaction, so when I arrived at the visitor's center I set about grilling the resident geologist to explain what the hell was going on here. How is this thing real? And here? This is what I remember from my personal, Devils Tower geology lesson:

The tower and the debris field.

 Millions of years ago, the land in this part of Wyoming was miles above where it is now. Deep in the earth, as the plates did their jimmy and jive routine, rubbing and knocking against each other, they left fissures where magma would flow and collect. Devils Tower is made of a particularly hard kind of rock while the surrounding sandstone is much lighter and softer (the geologist handed me rocks from the tower and the surrounding sandstone and the difference was huge). The shape of the tower is from the magma's flow upward into a fissure, creating what can be visualized as a tight clutch of pencils. Over time, wind and water eroded the sandstone surrounding the tower, and it became more and more exposed to the surface of the earth, to where it stands now at 867 feet from base to top (x).

Fallen columns from the tower.

I want to thank that geologist for his kind, patient explanation of the geological history of the tower. The part where it gets kind of uncertain is the formation itself—most think the scenario above is most likely, while others believe it was part of a now untraceable volcanic system. In any case, the tower itself is 50 million years old. And while there are other formations around the world that are sort of in the same arena as Devils Tower, there is nothing quite like it anywhere but Wyoming, right here in the United States of Freedom Lovin America.

When I first arrived in the area, I actually drove past Devils Tower on my way to the hotel in Hulett. I planned to attend the Orionids Meteor Shower event up near the tower later, so decided to go ahead and check in first, grab some sort of dinner, then double back when it was closer to the time of the event. But I had to pull over and gawp at it first, so I was able to snap those sundown pictures all in the midst of my screaming and gesticulations. You know those happy videos of dogs reuniting with their soldiers? Yeah, I'm the dog. I don't care. I was freaking out and so happy.

Hulett is tiny. You would think their only source of income might be tourism for the tower, but they actually have logging businesses right next to the main highway, which makes the drive into town a pleasurable endeavor with the sweet smell of fresh cut timber permeating the air. There are absolutely no fast food joints—only cafes and bars, most of which were closed or about to close when I rolled into town. There were two hotels: A local venture with little cabins, and a genuine Best Western. One guess as to where I stayed.

The Ponderosa Cafe, site of one of the Greatest Chicken
Sandwiches I have ever eaten. So good, I went back and
had it again. Chicken club, winter menu. Hot diggedty!

Hotel Humor.

The meteor shower was a bit of a bust, since we only ended up seeing a few during the hour and a half I spent at the monument. It got very cold and I kept pulling blankets out of my car to bundle up as time wore on. I met a nice lady from Wisconsin named Alayna who was also traveling solo. She had driven over from Rushmore just for this event. As we sat and watched the stars—the whole Milky Way visible in the low, country light—we discussed our travels, how she'd been in the Air Force and her son was an active duty Marine. He'd met The One and they were going to move to Florida when their tours were over. She had an aunt who lived in New York so we shared stories of the city and agreed that living in a place is so much different from just visiting.

While the meteors were minimal, the stars were still a phenomenon to me...and all the more exciting and strange with Devils Tower silhouetted in the background. Even without those striated details, the tower seems impossible. I was still some hours away from understanding the geological origin story better, so from time to time I would gaze over and study it. Assessing and forever suspicious.

The next day was beautiful and bright, with temperatures in the low 60s: perfect hiking weather. The path up close to the tower is not terribly challenging, but there are brief, steep passages that are trickier for the kneeless. It was a wonderful trek, though only half of the trail was open due to planned burns around the park. As I sat and rested in one spot for a bit, I could smell the acrid, spicy char of freshly burned wood.

I know I am in the minority, but will state my opinion regardless: I don't like that people are allowed to climb Devils Tower. I applaud their ambition and fortitude, but hate the idea of pioneer monkeys scarring up the sides of a place so singular on this earth. Native American tribes indigenous to the area consider climbing the tower sacrilegious, which has led to contentions between the tribes and climbers, with an uneven peace brokered by the parks service. During June, when many religious rites take place, climbers are asked not to climb Devils Tower. It is voluntary, with 85% usually complying (x).

Close up of the top--forgive my bad camera phone. 

See the tiny man? This gives you a sense of scale, doesn't it?

More climbers.

The geologist said that only about a third of
yearly climbers actually reach the top.

If you read the FAQ page under "Why is climbing allowed on the tower?" you will read what can only be perceived as a highly defensive take on the whole subject from the park's perspective, ending with the huffy, "The National Park Service (NPS) considers rock climbing a legitimate recreational activity at Devils Tower" (x).

I don't get it. You can't so much as lick a rock at Arches or whisper at a bird at the Grand Canyon, but scaling the central attraction and purpose for the Devils Tower National Monument is A-OK?

OK.

See the shape of the column?

One of the things the geologist told me was that the whole thing isn't going to crumble in big, misshapen chunks save a catastrophic geological event (mega earthquake). The way the tower falls apart is by losing pieces of those columns (the hexagonal pencils, if you will). When walking up the trail and around the tower, the ruble encircling the base bears this out. You can still see the shape of the some of the columns that fell hundreds or thousands of years ago.

After I was through with the trail, I bought some postcards and sat down right outside the visitors center, with the tower immediately in front of me. I filled out each card with my usual breathless drivel, drawing out the time before heading back to the hotel. The day was drawing down, however, and I'd had my long, good look at the improbable—but not impossible—Devils Tower. I headed out for my hotel, stopping once or twice along the way to get one last, then another last, and final last (maybe?) look.

Proof. It is real, I am an excellent photographer.

Campbell County Public Library, Gillette, Wyoming

Here's something you may not know about Wyoming: It is a Pretty, Pretty Princess. SO PRETTY. Sure, it is full of trucks and cowboys and antlers and beer, but damned if it isn't just the finest young lady you'd like to squire to the dance. You've already seen the Tetons and Yellowstone, but there is a great deal more...none of which I captured along my very vigorous route. But I did manage to capture this.

I love a freaky lamp.

It says nothing of the multitudinous ranges and buttes, soft hills gleaming in the long grass...it was just. Just. [Sigh] What are words, anyway? Mouth manacles, brain barriers. Phthpt.

I reached Gillette, Wyoming about an hour and a half before the Campbell County Public Library was set to close. It was just enough time to take some pictures, talk to library staff, and do some photo editing and research for the next blog entry.

As I mentioned before, I've gotten really good at guessing the ages of libraries. You get accustomed to certain aesthetics, and the more a library retains its original carpet, furniture, and decorative flair, the easier it is to zero in on a birthdate.

I ignored the plaque on the way in, but as I walked around the Campbell County Library I became aware of two things: This library was born in the mid-80s and it had been kept in almost pristine condition ever since.

If you are a regular library patron at all, you have to know how impressive it is to find an almost perfectly preserved public library. It is a rare and special thing. Even in the most well maintained older libraries, chairs are scuffed, tables are marked, the edges of things are worn bald and chewed up. It's just what happens when humans inhabit a public space for years...then decades.

I am sure if I went over every square foot of Campbell I would find signs of wear and tear, but the parts of the library I did see were in excellent condition. Was this due to a thoughtful public or a rigorous devotion to upkeep? Or the perfect, blissful marriage of both? And how do we teach it to every library, every community?

I set up shop mid-library, somewhere in the Be Quiet zone, and a staff member asked if she could help me with anything. I asked her if she knew when the library was built and she said, I should know that, let me check. I ventured that it had to be 1984 or 1985 based on the design and furniture. And after a quick check she said hey, close! 1983.

Told ya. Don't ask me to guess your age. I will say 70 no matter who you think you are. Aren't we all 70 in some form or another?

My vantage point.

Meeting room.

Shhh.

While I spent very little time in the Campbell County Public Library, it left a great impression. As did library staff who were generous, kind, and helpful.

 Nnnooo govt docs nnnnoooo.

Welcome to 1983, where that Maneater will chew you up, so you gotta run
Down Under where the women glow and the men plunder...
or end up blessing the rains down in Aaaafricaaa.

Natrona County Library, Casper, Wyoming

Upon arriving in Casper, Wyoming I determined that a sit down dinner was in order, so I started Googling around to see what was what. I eventually settled on The Office, a bar and grill with a high star rating described as a "quirky eatery serving eclectic diner fare, beer & cocktails amid Hollywood memorabilia." One reviewer referred to the interior design as "interesting" so I was really looking forward to whatever "wild" and "weird" decor was in store.

There was literally nothing weird nor quirky about The Office, other than the nonsensical name that did not match up with the basic interior that looked nothing like an office. I'm not even sure I saw any of the aforementioned memorabilia, but then I kept to front of the restaurant, so maybe it was more toward the bar? The Office was a nice place, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't special in the decorative sense. In fact, the most special part about it were the cutie pie fishies in the gigantic tank in the hallway. See how the biggest spud turns to say hiiiiiiiiiii?

What a happy little face.

No filter can save me
from lighting this bad.

The service was great and the food was excellent. I had a beef gyro with fries and a Dr. Pepper. While everything was good, the standout had to be the fries. It's worth a shout out and visit just for the fries alone. And it raises and interesting point: Why can't all fries be this good? It can't be that complicated. It just can't. So what's the deal? Why are there so many substandard fries? If you're going to eat the garbage and risk the poundage, it should at least be a spectacular taste sensation. Otherwise you might as well get chunky eating Swedish Fish and Circus Peanuts.

Side Note: In honor of Halloween, just days away, can we all agree that anyone who hands out Circus Peanuts on this, the most sacred of nights for kids, might as well put a sign in the window that states I HATE CHILDREN DIE DIE DIE? Because there is no love in the Circus Peanut. There is only a doorway to an abyss where all light dies and everything tastes like licking your 98-year-old Aunt Gertrude's kitchen counter. Sticky. Dusty. Bitter and sweet.

After another stellar AirBNB experience (I had the  basement to myself and the bathroom was stocked with every fun sized shampoo, conditioner, soap, face creams, lotions, etc. etc. you could possibly need), I headed over to the Natrona County Library, right in downtown Casper.

First of all, I loved downtown and wish I would have taken more pictures. It was as though Brooklyn and Wichita met at the Wyoming State Fair, do-si-doed, then had a fat, gurgling baby named Casper. The cutest. There were lots of old shops with old signage mixed in with trendy new places. Somehow the old coexisted in a pretty equal balance with the new. It was refreshing and dear.

The library was a hot mess of pure unadulterated PERSONALITY. I knew I was going to love it when I saw its entire front face was a gotdamned curved wall. Girrrrrrl. And born in 1972 to boot, just like me.

In addition to being a Soviet Spaceship from Polaris 5, Natrona library was bustling with activity. There were people coming and going at all corners. This was a library living up to its best potential, with an invested, present, and needful patronage many libraries could only dream of. I usually prefer an emptier library, but that's just a selfish desire. When all is said in done, the sight of a busy library warms my heart far more than eight hours sitting alone with the books.

Ask me how many times I ran up and down this ramp.

My favorite part of Natrona was the foyer. "Foyer" is a small word. Maybe "Grand Concourse" is more appropriate? That outer curved wall carries on to an inner curved entryway, with doors at either end, and an insane, 70s-perfect display case and atrium extravaganza. Interior to the outside wall are huge plants that were popular in the groovier decades: elephant ears, mother in law tongues, and so on. On the opposite side of the walkway are display cases, uniform in size and shape, curving upward as the entryway ascends.

The Office, take notes: This is how you get down in dirty with the quirky.

There was also a Barbara Bush Reading Room, pictured below. I looked her up to find that she was born in New York, so I am not really sure why Casper has a Barbara Bush Reading Room (and there is no information on their website or in my Google searches)...except maybe they just really, really love Barbara Bush?

I sat near a back corner and did some work while I watched the clock, knowing I would have to leave by a certain time in order to make it to the next library before they closed. The art throughout the library was all about the Old West, with cowboys rustling steer, lots of lonely pastorals, and representations of Native Americans that were specific to culture rather than Western legend.

I tried finding information on the artist, M. Sheppard, but ran into a wall. Per usual, Natrona's website does not have information on the art displayed there. This is pretty standard for almost every library I've visited where an art credit was required. I'm just glad there were no paintings of cowboys and indians at war, shooting their guns to and fro, all looking happy to be there.

The back door, also fancy.