Devils Tower National Monument: A History

In Short

This administrative and cultural history traces the evolution of Devils Tower from its origins in Kiowa and Cheyenne mythology to its designation as the first national monument in the United States. It documents the transition from a remote, mysterious formation into a public park, detailing the challenges of infrastructure, the eccentricities of early tourism, and the eventual professionalization of the site under the National Park Service. It serves as a record of how a singular natural phenomenon shaped local identity, federal policy, and the American impulse to preserve the wilderness.

The Story

The story of Devils Tower begins long before written history, rooted in the oral traditions of the Kiowa and Cheyenne peoples. For the Kiowa, the towering rock was a savior, a surface that elongated to protect seven little girls from pursuing bears, their flight creating the Pleiades. The Cheyenne tell of seven brothers and a kidnapped wife, whose escape resulted in the same geological rise, its vertical striations said to be the claw marks of a frustrated bear. These legends provide the spiritual foundation for the site, long before white explorers even registered its presence.

By the mid-19th century, curiosity regarding the formation grew. Though explorers like Lieutenant G. K. Warren and Captain W. F. Raynolds navigated the region, the Tower remained largely peripheral until the 1875 U.S. Geological Survey brought it into the national consciousness. Colonel Richard I. Dodge popularized the name "Devils Tower," a translation of a local term for the "Bad God’s Tower," effectively supplanting the indigenous "Bear Lodge." Following the gold-driven displacement of the Cheyenne and Sioux, the land transitioned from a protected reservation area to a contested frontier, eventually inviting homesteaders and railroad expansion.

The late 19th century saw the Tower transformed into a local spectacle. In 1893, rancher William Rogers orchestrated the first formal ascent, constructing a 350-foot wooden ladder wedged into a vertical crack. This feat drew a thousand spectators, marking the beginning of the site’s life as a tourist destination. As the 20th century dawned, political figures like Representative Frank W. Mondell championed the cause of federal protection. In 1906, Theodore Roosevelt used the newly enacted Antiquities Act to designate the site as the first national monument, a move intended to prevent private exploitation.

The ensuing decades were defined by the struggle to make the remote site accessible. From 1908 through the late 1920s, the monument was neglected, lacking permanent staff or adequate roads. Visitors frequently struggled with impassable fords on the Belle Fourche River. It was not until the Great Depression that the Civilian Conservation Corps provided the labor to modernize the site, installing infrastructure that remains the bedrock of the visitor experience.

The modern era brought new attention, most notably the 1941 incident involving parachutist George Hopkins, whose stranded landing atop the Tower triggered a national media frenzy and a complex rescue operation. Following World War II, the monument saw a massive surge in visitors, leading to the Mission 66 development program, which expanded facilities to accommodate the growing interest in rock climbing and scenic tourism. By the 1970s, the Tower had become a fully integrated, managed monument, balancing its status as a geological treasure with its history as a site of human endurance and spectacle.

How It Unfolds

The mythic origins The narrative opens with the spiritual significance of the Tower to indigenous tribes, focusing on Kiowa and Cheyenne legends that explain the rock’s unique vertical markings as the result of a desperate, celestial escape.

The shift to discovery The book tracks the cautious entry of white military expeditions into the Black Hills, documenting how the formation was mapped, named, and eventually identified by geologists as a volcanic anomaly.

The battle for status The text examines the legislative maneuvering of the 1890s and early 1900s, explaining how the Tower narrowly escaped private settlement and speculative development before gaining federal protection.

The era of the ladder A pivot occurs with the description of the 1893 ascent, shifting the focus from the Tower as a geological curiosity to the Tower as a stage for human ambition and recreation.

The modern administration The final beats detail the difficult transition from informal, dangerous trail-hopping to the organized, CCC-developed tourist site, culminating in the professional management of current park superintendents.

The People

• William Rogers and Willard Ripley: These local ranchers embody the late 19th-century spirit of frontier adventure. By building a 350-foot wooden ladder to the summit, they satisfied the public’s craving for spectacle, transforming the inaccessible rock into an arena for exhibition.
• Colonel Richard I. Dodge: A military commander whose 1876 publication solidified the name "Devils Tower." His decision to record the name as a variation of "Bad God’s Tower" highlights the process by which colonial naming conventions permanently altered the identity of the land.
• Frank W. Mondell: A Wyoming Representative who serves as the political architect of the monument. He acts as the primary bridge between local interests and federal preservation, persistently lobbying for the funding and infrastructure necessary to sustain the site.
• George Hopkins: The professional parachutist whose 1941 stunt provides the book’s most dramatic interlude. His presence exposes the vulnerability of the monument to sudden, uninvited spectacles and forces the National Park Service to coordinate a complex, high-stakes rescue.
• Newell F. Joyner: A dedicated custodian during the 1930s and 40s who provided the author with the archival materials necessary to write this history. He represents the unsung caretakers who moved the monument from a neglected plot of land to an organized federal facility.

In Its Own Voice

According to the Kiowas, who at one time are reputed to have lived in the region, their tribe once camped in a stream where there were many bears.

This passage introduces the oral traditions that defined the Tower before the arrival of white settlers.

Its summit is so entirely inaccessible that the energetic explorer, to whom the ascent of an ordinary difficult crag is but a pleasant pastime, standing at its base could only look upward in despair of ever planting his feet on the top.

This quote, from geological assistant Henry Newton in 1875, captures the intimidating physical reality of the formation.

The children are still in the sky, seven little stars in a group (the pleiades).

This sentence concludes the Kiowa legend of the Tower’s origin, linking the earthbound stone to the constellations above.

What It's Really About

The book explores the tension between the "natural wonder" and the "managed monument." It questions who owns the landscape: the tribes with a spiritual connection, the pioneers who sought to conquer it, or the federal government that seeks to preserve it. The narrative argument suggests that the identity of the Tower is a shifting, human-imposed construct, moving from sacred ground to a backdrop for daredevils, and finally to a static educational site. It posits that the "history" of the monument is not merely the story of the rock itself, but the story of American bureaucracy catching up to the public's fascination with the untamed.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the history of the American West or the evolution of the National Park Service will find this an essential, if modest, case study. It is a work of clear, administrative precision, offering a window into how the federal government transformed remote wilderness into a public commodity. The book does not attempt to romanticize the era; instead, it presents the facts of development, bureaucracy, and the often-bizarre ways humans have interacted with the Tower.

You will encounter a dated, matter-of-fact prose style that reflects its mid-century origins, including a perspective that focuses heavily on the "conquest" of the summit rather than the conservation of the environment. The book is not a sweeping epic, but a deliberate, thorough record. It is best suited for those who appreciate the quiet satisfaction of a well-organized chronology. The tone is utilitarian, but the details—such as the description of selling flag-souvenirs or the struggles of building a bridge in the 1920s—provide a grounded, human texture that remains surprisingly engaging. It is a perfect companion for anyone who has ever stood at the base of a monument and wondered, "How did this become 'ours'?"