The Land of Fathers

Interstate 90 through South Dakota is a long stretch of road and not much to think about. The plains reach on for eons and while the mile markers tick slowly down, I feel idle behind the wheel, as if there is no progress unless there is light upon the land. At last we pull off the treadmill of interstate 90 and wind our way into the Black Hills with the ancient eyes of the natives watching carefully from the shadows. At 3 a.m. we pulled into an unfamiliar lot and set up camp in the dark, uncertain of what the light of morning would reveal.

We slept late after the long nights of driving and when I stepped from the Chinook the granite needles of South Dakota jutted sternly up between the pines. There was a quiet breeze through the trees and the magic of that native landscape humbled me to silence. Before long we roped up and had ticked off a handful of climbs, scrambling to the narrow summits of every spire we could.

We found some type of paradise there among the crystalline granite as we tackled classics behind Mt. Rushmore. Each climb melted into the next until the sun had finally started to fall and the waters of Horse Thief Lake embraced us in a wash of cold, clear water. Our tenure in Rushmore was short yet productive and we climbed pitch after pitch, resting only when the temperature rose in the afternoons. During the siesta hour we escaped back to the lake to swim and lounged blissfully, dripping dry on shore.

Although leaving was difficult, the day came to coil the rope and continue our journey west. A wind played in the tall grass as the Chinook chugged along up and out of the sacred hills of South Dakota. Across the plains we rambled, the sun falling slow and orange in the west and Devil’s Tower on the horizon.

That night my pre-adventure jitters stung like coffee grounds in my gut. The feeling of not knowing, of expecting, of venturing into new territory wrung its hands around my mind so that I could not sleep. I wanted to see the sunrise at midnight so we could set out sooner, to dive into the unknown and find out just what we were in for.

That night a friend who had been lost in the mountains appeared in my dream. It was as though he had returned from a long journey and he embraced each of his friends in euphoric silence. His energy was radiant and peaceful and when my turn came to greet him he wrapped me up in his outstretched arms and we embraced jovially, firmly, in celebration, heart to heart. It was warming, our reunion, and it vanished, as dreams do, in a flash that left my heart brimming with love.

We rose at dawn and set off by Chinook and then by foot to the base of Bear Lodge, wickedly renamed “Devil’s Tower.” Immaculate silence spread over Wyoming as Jack shoved off into space, the cams and draws rattling on his waist. He grunted and jammed hands and feet into the amorphous basalt, climbing higher, away from the belay. The prayer scarves of the Lakota flew their colors in nearby trees, yellow and purple and red at the base of this sacred place. Bear Lodge finds holy roots in over 20 Native American tribes and the Lakota people find solace in their creation story atop this magnificent mountain.

At the first belay Jack put me on and I followed him up the crack cleaning his pieces as I went. I stared skyward from our belay, anxious for my pitch. People I had talked to about the climb insisted that the pitch was long and sustained. As they told it, it had made each of them want to throw up. The grounds in my gut began to churn.

The dream of Joe and our happy reunion came to me at the belay as I scanned the pitch above. My heart was in my throat and my fingertips glistened with pinpricks of sweat but that moment of love pushed me onward. We had come so far on this trip to get to this point, to be standing below such an incredible opportunity. I couldn’t let my fear get in our way. It was on me to get us through the next part of this adventure.

The climbing on both pitches is in your face right off the deck and for forty meters I jammed and threshed to the belay, moving slowly upward, sweating fear and adrenaline in the morning sun. The valley floor crept away with each move until I topped out and clipped the chains, hollering primal to the sky.

Alone at the belay with the falcons and the vultures soaring below, I put Jack on and stared mystified across the plains. I tried to imagine the landscape without the specks of cars and ribbons of road in the valley below. The footpaths were no longer paved and hid among the trees as deer paths. The Belle Fourche River wound unsuspectingly with no trace of bridge or trash. In my mind’s eye it was pure and new, as though the holiness of the Tower was still humbling enough to keep people at a distance.

Jack was soon at the belay, panting as he approached. It was unreal for the two of us to be standing so high above the basin. We talked through endorphins of the beauty and of the climb until it was time to make a decision: rappel back to the ground or scramble to the summit. We looked out from the perch in unison as swifts flitted past, our hearts full of gratitude that we had come even this far. “What is the Lakota legend of the tower?” I asked. Jack paused before he spoke. “Well, it’s part of their creation story. It connects them with their ancestors.” A profound silence came over us as Jack’s words sunk in. A wave washed over me that touched to the core of the plight of the Natives. We had paved their paths, dammed their rivers and exiled them from their own lands. We had robbed their futures and desecrated their past. Cut off their hands and taken their tools. We had sworn on their sacred pipes and then broken our oaths. And now, we were about to claim victory atop the symbol of their spirituality. If we had truly come just for the climb, then the summit held no relevance to our pursuit. We had done what we came to do and anything more was a spite against the guardians of the land. In the spirit of respect, we meditated on their struggle and rappelled to the ground; a minuscule gesture for the defeat dealt by the white man to the Lakota, to the tribes of America, to Native peoples everywhere, but a gesture all the same.

Look over the plains

Touch the heart of the natives

The land of fathers