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.

Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve, Somewhere, Idaho

If you've ever wanted to visit a vast expanse of endless churned up land being prepped for the largest suburban subdivision in the universe, have I got a place for you.

If you never get out of your car and take a closer look, making sure to read the signs that explain what you are really looking at, it would be easy to whisk by the Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve assuming that a lot of land was about to be sculpted into something twee and dopey like "Gentle Meadows" or "Coyote Hills," complete with minimalls and parks and maybe even a library. All with matchy matchy stonework and raw wood paneling and cursive fonts.

My adventure that day began like any other, in search of coffee, which I found easily by backtracking to Bellevue. Then I made the terrible mistake of trusting Google Map Woman who is, indeed, trying to kill me. First it was the bay, now it was sending me on a dirt road to nowhere that got bumpier and more precarious by the minute, and even became a bit of an offroading experience in some patches where the holes turned into little caverns of death that I managed not to fall into while cursing Google Map Woman, her family, her programmers, and Skynet in particular since I know they are behind this somehow.

Breadcrust Bomb, the tastiest of bombs.

My mistake was punching in "Craters of the Moon" which Google Map Woman interpretive danced into "Craters of the Moon National Monument & Preserve"...dead center in the middle of the park where no one but rangers go. Even though the map never cut out, the tiny road on the map reached a point where it no longer existed in real life. It was still on the map and insisting I go flying into a black field, but there was no road in front of me. I had to find a way to turn around without sliding into sharp rocks and backtrack to the highway.

We shall love him and hug him and call him Dusty.

I should have punched in "Craters of the Moon visitors center" and saved myself about an hour and a half of misery and terror for my car and the tires in particular. I did get to see parts of the park that most don't, but since it was from my car, it literally looked like a never ending, abandoned housing development inexplicably placed in the middle of nowhere.

Of course, if I'd seen the extremely tiny sign on the way in, I could have avoided this little adventure, but I missed it and paid dearly. Word to the wise--make your plans with laser focus!

I finally arrived at the visitors center and walked through the brief, somewhat discombobulated exhibits. It seemed like I was walking through the footnotes of the book about Craters of the Moon, and if I'd had no context, I might've been a bit lost and a little annoyed at the choices they made when putting it together. It was also apparent that the exhibits needed some care (and dusting).

Cinder Crags

Another sign of the off season happened when I left the visitors center to enter the park's main drive through, with stops along the way to see the sights close up and learn more about the area through the different signs posted on hiking paths. There was no one to take admissions, which they were still charging, so visitors were advised to pull over and pay via a card machine or, if you were like me with a season pass, to place the pass on the dash so rangers could see it. Not that I saw a single ranger, but I did as I was told.

Ropy Lava

Craters of the Moon does look a bit moon-y, if it married Mars and had a big, craggy, ugly Lava Baby. Because that's what it is: huge fields of lava that have been there some 2,000 to 15,000 years (x). On the first stop, you can walk through the northern lava flow and check out the origins of the flows to the south, where it is evident that one large hill was active much later than the one next to it due to the vegetation growth. You can see many types of lava flows (my favorites were the "ropy" variety, though we all love a good striated pattern, ay) and giant cinder crags like hunched, tortured gargoyles guarding the meanest corner of Hell.

The second stop I made was to see the spatter cones, described here. They are apparently very rare and very delicate--the site has signage with photos that show the deterioration of the cones over time, which is noticeably dramatic. They have a paths built so that you can walk up and see inside them. I went to the smaller one which was still scary when looking into the maw and imagining a churning cauldron below. Everything around Craters of the Moon is dormant for now, but it lies in an area that can change depending on future geological activity.

Spatter Cones

Background hill is the origin of this particular mess.

I am glad I went--it was nice to hike around and see different types of lava flows and just how extensive the lava fields are. What was wilder was the fact that it was in the middle of Idaho. When you are driving past all the sage grass and rolling, soft hills, or beautiful snowy mountains, the last thing you would expect, especially in the middle of nowhere, is spiky chunks of lava for miles and miles. It seems dropped out of the sky, perhaps teleported from planet Xenon to freak out the resident ape life.

I have tons of pictures to share, most posted below, with comments as I see fit. Back in college, I got a solid C in Geology--shocker, I know--but now I wish I paid more attention. I think I've learned more during this trip than that class or any geological knowledge I've accumulated over a lifetime. I certainly didn't intend for this leg of my big road trip to be so volcano-centric, but that's how it has turned out.

Origin hill.

   

More ropes.

Spatter dome from the side. You can see the steep path spiraling to the top.

Spatter domes side-by-side.

A look inside a dormant spatter dome.

Miles and miles of chunkage.

See the mini cave?