Now, after 80 years of fire-prevention management, the forest is ripe for fire. Should it come now, however, the effects might be devastating. Fed by an abundance of ground fuel, a cool-burning, fast-moving grass fire could quickly become “hot.” Lifted up into the upper branches of the old pines via the closely spaced younger trees, the ground fire would quickly develop into a crown fire. Few, if any, trees would survive such a conflagration.
The role of natural fire has only recently been appreciated. However, in the small area of Devils Tower, where the scenic qualities of the pine forest are paramount to visitor enjoyment of the Monument, fire cannot be permitted without virtual destruction of the surrounding forest. Thus, for esthetic reasons, fire is regarded as unacceptable here.
After lunch I walk on beneath the trees. The openness of the mature pine forest soon gives way to dense groves of younger ponderosa. Deprived of the separation they require to develop naturally, these “doghair” stands strain upward together their trunks toothpick thin—to reach the light. Many exhibit long, yellow wounds, from which sap bleeds. This is the work of porcupines. Gnawing through the thin bark of young trees with sharp, chisel-shaped teeth, they strip away the tender, living tissue of the tree. Most wounds are not severe, but should the trunk be girdled, the moisture and nutrient transport system of the tree will be severed and the pine will die. Thus, even though fire no longer occurs here regularly, other agents of control, such as porcupine damage and insect infestation, continue to work.
The trail emerges from the deep north-slope forest, runs parallel to the visitor center access road for a short distance, and ends at the parking lot. The glare of afternoon light and shimmering heat waves is a sharp contrast to the cool, dim surroundings of the deeper forest.
Before continuing on around the circuit of Tower Trail, I stop at the visitor center for water. Beside the fountain sits an old man, leaning his chin and hands on a cane and staring upward at the broad west face of the Tower. An immense mushroom of a towering cumulus cloud billows up behind it.
“Quite a sight,” I say.
He seems to deliberate, then finally answers: “I can remember seeing a picture of this in my school book. I never thought I would live to see it. Never thought I would ever sit here like this and see it genuine.”
I don’t know what to say. One does not make idle conversation with a man who has made a pilgrimage. We watch a pair of rock doves, outlined against the white brilliance of the boiling cloud, ride an updraft near the summit. Wings set and almost touching, they dip and recover, their resonant calls clear despite the distance. Nothing more to be said, I set out toward the trail. Not once did the man take his eyes off the Tower.
With the first dull report of thunder, I hear the chiding call of the falcon again. Its sharp voice momentarily silences the mellow cooings of rock doves that filter down from the high crannies and ledges.
The trail steeply ascends a slope of broken, fallen columns, weaving among the immense rock slabs like a mouse-run in a boulder field. I am surprised to see a grove of aspens. Their crooked trunks bend in the freshening wind, their leaves dancing and blinking on and off the dusty silver of their undersides. What a contrast to the rigid stature of the surrounding pines that barely acknowledge the approaching storm.