Storm
I'm lying in the tent, listening to what's going on around me. I can hear a violent wind rising in the treetops, howling and howling. The thin fabric of our temporary shelter flutters timidly in anticipation of a downpour. In the distance, I can hear rumbles of thunder and a growing roar—a storm is approaching. I say out loud, "A storm is coming..." Denis snores, confirms through his sleep—aha...—turns over onto his other side and goes back to sleeping, as if nothing had happened. A man's lucky! He falls asleep in half a minute and knows no worries. And here I am, imagining all sorts of misfortunes. Judging by the approaching thunderstorm, it's going to be a serious one. Now the first handfuls of drops are splashing forcefully onto the roof. And off it goes! The rain has begun to pound with terrible force. It pours down, gurgling, flowing around the tent from all sides. The air was filled with moisture and the smell of ozone.
I'm not afraid of a thunderstorm, but the tent site is too packed down, the water won't soak in, and it's slightly sloped—it'll probably seep under the floor. Oh, I should have tightened the guy lines on the sides better! But it doesn't seem to be dripping inside... Denis's sleeping pad is too short—part of his sleeping bag will definitely get wet... Stuff?! It's stowed in the car. Good. I feel the top corners of the tent—sure enough, they're already damp. Oh, damn, it's going to get worse if the storm doesn't stop. The phone! Put it on the mesh shelf under the ceiling, quick! It's crazy, it's already almost two in the morning... Sleep, sleep!
The storm ebbed and flowed, pouring down all night. My thoughts swirled and haunted me. Just as I closed my eyes, another source of worry emerged. It spoke in Denis's voice:
- Well, shall we get up?
- What?! It's already... How long?
- Well, yes, we wanted to stay on Michigan time.
In a light rain, we awkwardly stuffed the tent into a waterproof bag and the sleeping pads into a backpack. We quickly gathered our other belongings—thankfully, we'd packed almost everything away the night before—and drove away from this rainforest. More thunder rumbled from the sky after us, but fortunately, we and the cloud were heading in different directions. Outside the car, it was damp, gray, and gloomy, just like my sleep-deprived body. Oh, if only I could use some coffee right now! But the forest around us was still wet, and the gas station coffee was lousy. Besides, it was still very early. I glanced at Denis. He was as alert and fresh as a daisy. At least he'd gotten enough sleep; let him drive, and I'll take a nap, I suppose… And to the drone of the audiobook, I drifted off to sleep.
Devil's Tower
When I open my eyes, everything around me looks different. The forest has given way to gently rolling hills, and the clear morning sun shines above them. The road is easy and dry. And right ahead, a giant rock rises like a monolith. It stands out so strangely in the overall landscape. Why alone? After all, if there are mountains, there are many of them, but here, all alone, there's nothing special, as a friend of mine says. But that's precisely what's so interesting.
There are many legends and theories surrounding Devil's Tower's origins. One is that it's a "reverse volcano." That is, whatever was in the crater, likely lava, fossilized and remained, while the volcano itself eroded over millions of years. It's unclear, however, why this is an isolated incident.
Ah, my zest for life has awakened, which means I managed to get some sleep. We pull over to the side of the road and photograph the cliff from afar. The morning light makes for some excellent shots. Against the blue sky, Devil's Tower looks fantastic!
Another ten minutes later we arrive at the foot of the monolith, where there is a recreation area.
In the center of the clearing, a large black man in bright red robes sits in the lotus position, offering prayers, facing the rock. "We must have stumbled into another place of power," I think. "I wonder what gods he's praying to. Or maybe the devil? His clothes are red..." But we don't bother him.
Denis gets out the camp stove and breakfast supplies, and I hang the wet tent, mats, and sleeping bags on the fence. The sun is already hot, so everything should dry quickly. And indeed, while we're cooking buckwheat porridge and coffee and eating a leisurely breakfast, the thin nylon tarp dries in an instant—you just have to unfold the folds. Meanwhile, another car pulls up with other unfortunate souls like us. They're unloading a multitude of wet things to dry. Seeing our tent on the fence, these people also start hanging their pillows, mattresses, sleeping bags, towels, and wet T-shirts and socks there. We exchange a few words and realize we're from the same places. Fellow sufferers! Everything around looks like a gypsy camp has set up camp. The ranger doesn't chase us away, but smiles understandingly from the window of his car.
We throw our still-dry sleeping bags on the roof of the car and head off along the trail that leads around Devil's Tower. We see quite a few people, and it's clear this is a popular spot. Interestingly, the trail isn't always visible from here. Occasionally, you'll glimpse it sideways between the trees.
"Will you climb the Devil's Tower?" I asked.
They nodded affirmatively, and I wished them luck. Not everyone would dare to venture into the depths of hell.
Well, that's it. Devil's Tower isn't a national park where you can wander for ages—you couldn't see it all in a year. It's a national monument. We walked quickly, just two and a half hours, and then we moved on. Our sleeping bags were dry. And even that wet group that arrived after us was gone. We had to move on.
On the side of the road
The bikers, a glittering, noisy swarm, stopped for a moment by the side of the road, imprinted the Devil's Tower on their hearts, and sped on. And it's time for us to go.
Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep deprivation on the trail, I got behind the wheel. And the prairies and deserted roads stretched out. In fact, the almost complete absence of civilization often accompanied us on the journey. It was very useful to know where the next gas station was. In these parts, they could be hundreds of miles apart. Occasionally, there were cattle ranches, and there were no rest areas at all. Feeling hungry, we couldn't find a suitable place to have lunch. Finally, we pulled over on the side of the road, in the blazing sun, stuffed ourselves with food, and quickly drove on. We washed down our lunch with mineral water as we drove.
Without an audiobook, it would have been difficult to navigate such vast spaces. By evening, the greenery had thickened. The river appeared, along with willows and poplars lining its banks. Mountains appeared on the horizon. We also began to see settlements. Near one of them, in the town of Dubois (or Dubois?), was our hotel. It smelled pleasantly of wood and turned out to be quite cozy. Such roadside inns are a stopover for car tourists heading to popular national parks. There's nothing to see in the surrounding area, but the location of the temporary shelter was strategically placed. It used to be like this: you'd drive and drive, get tired, spot a caravan by the side of the road, spend the night, and then continue on. Now you have to book everything in advance. Or go in the off-season. By evening, our hotel was filled with cars and car tourists like us. We washed off the road dust in the shower and decided we didn't want to drive into the town center. We were tired. We simply cooked some pasta in the microwave and went to have dinner on the riverbank near the hotel. There was a canopy, soft chairs, and a small table. What more could a weary traveler need? Well, maybe a glass of wine.
There weren't enough of us left for the campfire, even though it was included in the cultural program. Why? Because we'd moved to a different time zone. While it's still nine o'clock in Wyoming, it's already eleven o'clock in Michigan. We want to live on our own time, so we went to bed before dark.
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