Tom Pack Cave

Itching to be underground, I was thrilled when Mark suggested we go to Tom Pack Cave. I began to wonder what I’d gotten myself into as we bounced over rocks in a streambed, beating the shocks on Mark’s SUV. It didn’t feel like autumn, but the promise was there in the leaves drifting down. Mark had mentioned a few worrisome terms in our earlier planning discussion—“puddles” and “mostly horizontal”. These should be read as “underground river” and “you’re going to need rope”. I waffled on bringing my wetsuit and a full frog system. I settled on bringing gear to rig a safety as I climbed and grabbing extra shirts.

We hiked across the valley when the road was no longer passable, Mark and Tony humoring me with spider web clearing. I knew we’d reached the entrance when the air temperature dropped twenty degrees. And my dismay at the low ceiling must have been evident because Mark tried reassuring me, “It really opens up after the low airspace.” But I was looking at the cobblestones I’d have to drag myself across, close to the entrance, probably crawling with spiders, and my progress would be slow. I groused as I scraped my chest across the stones, “You could be a normal girl, Brandi. You could be shopping, doing your nails, baking right now, but, no, you have to go and volunteer to drag yourself across cobbles in a demented sense of fun.” By the time I was done questioning my life choices, I was nearly out of the risky spider zone. The key is to lie to yourself, to tell yourself everything that’s moving is crickets.

Upper level formations. Photo by Mark Ostrander. 

Tiny rimstone pools. Photo by Mark Ostrander.

The cave did indeed open up as promised, and I was thrilled immediately with the formations along the way. We did have to get our feet wet early on, but we never got into water above my knees, so I continued on, not frozen. I noticed the formations in this level were all white, gray, and black, sometimes starkly contrasting. Mark stopped for photos, and I brought out my food. I was completely at peace, sitting in the darkness with my peanut butter sandwich while he adjusted the lighting. I thought I was doing quite well after my recent caving hiatus, at least until Mark pointed at a ledge we were climbing up to see a formation gallery. Tony scrambled up with no problem, but I had to step up on Mark’s back to move on, gracelessly. I was thrilled to see what all of the fuss was about—crystals lining a pool, colorful sparkles catching my light at different angles, and giant draperies and enormous columns that I couldn’t stop gaping at. I took in the beauty I’ve missed for months and knew this forest of formations was well worth the spiders, the cobbles, and the water.

We had to clamber down next, and we followed the beaten paths in the cave, leaving the untrodden areas as they were. I was floored by how many cavers were preserving the area so well over the years, caving lightly. It gave me hope for wild areas staying beautiful. We reached the area where Mark stopped on his last trip, and I was optimistic at first. Mark free climbed a slope and wanted to know if I could do the same. It was about 25-30 ft. up to where he was. I took my first step up and instantly regretted it. I had no handholds for the next step up, no purchase in the too dry dirt. My fingers slid down. Frustrated, I called for the rope.

Mark and I had discussed the rope before the trip. (I’m cautious. I’ve got things to live for.) So, I tied my own harness, and Tony did the same. But the devil is in the details. Did it occur to me to ask what kind of rope? Nooooo. Of course not. Most of Mark’s ropes are dirty 11mm that I can barely move on. Just the way I like it—ALL OF THE FRICTION! But not this trip. This time, he tossed down 5mm rope. It looked like death string. But the engineers, literal rocket scientists with me, were insisting that it was well rated to hold my weight. I put my faith in their assessment and attached my safety to the rope. It held, though I doubted initially that it would catch. And I made my progress up the first 30 feet on the slope.

When I got to where Mark was, I got off rope on the landing in the breakdown, and Tony ascended next. Our climb spiraled up through the breakdown to the next level, but I was not at all certain about my capability or the exposure, so Tony went first on the second ascent. And as he cursed the very high, exposed climb, I knew I would need rigging. So, Tony re-rigged the rope, completely good natured as I nagged about just what kind of knot and anchor he was using. I ascended last, and there were a few stretches that made me wonder if I shouldn’t have brought a full climbing system. I thought I’d made it to the top, only to see another steep slope awaiting me. We untied our harnesses, and the webbing from Tony’s became our handline for the slope. At the top, we were surprised to find the cave register. The first names were from 1998! The paper was in remarkable condition for decades in the cave. But this level was dramatically warmer than the one below, dramatically drier as well. The dirt around me was much like Blue Spring Cave’s dirt, and I hoped to see gypsum here as well. We followed the well-beaten path to our next destination, clambering over breakdown piles along the way. At times, we were in completely level, huge passage, no obstacles in sight.

Pristine floor. Photo by Mark Ostrander.

Mark was determined to make it the Faith Room. And I went on, figuring we’d know it when we saw it. Eventually, the passage opened up in a flabbergasting fashion. The room below us was enormous, surrounded by breakdown piles the size of football fields and pristine mud below. Mark climbed to an edge, and we couldn’t see a way down, but he was not turning around when we’d come this far. I saw a tiny hole above a house-sized rock that I hoped to squeeze through because the other options were exposed to dramatic heights with terrifying fall potential. I made it through, and so did the others. We scooted, slid, and climbed down to the bottom of the room, standing on the edge of the mud lake. There were a couple of places people had stepped before, carefully considered paths. And we took those, going as far as we could without touching the never disturbed floor. It was a patchwork of cracks, and I loved the details close up, like miniature mountain ranges. We turned back to the breakdown pile and followed a path up to a new lead.

"Climbup is a dead end. But the air blows from below.
Can't find a way."Photo by Mark Ostrander. 

We crawled through the sandy dirt, uncertain we would reach anything spectacular. We reached a breakdown dead end, and Tony pushed through the rocks, feeling air flow and looking for a way onward. I stared at the fossils in the ceiling as he looked for a path, fascinated by the ancient sea relics—crinoids everywhere. I asked Mark if he was going onward, and he joked that “maybe we should read the instructions first.” I laughed. Yeah right. The instructions. If only we’d thought of that. But sure enough, the original survey team had left their instructions on a bright popsicle stick that was falling apart. They’d never found a way on.

Brandi in the giant chamber. Photo by Mark Ostrander. 

So, we turned back. We came down, and Mark took some photos of the chamber. Then, I was on a mission, entrance fever gripping me. But in this case, entrance fever was in proportion to my waning energy level and my rapidly depleting food supply. When we got back to the slopes we’d rigged before, I thought I could use my safety and climb down, but it was not to be. I realized I couldn’t reach my next footholds and would be stuck hanging in my uncomfortable webbing harness. I’d never rappelled on a Munter hitch, but it was my best option. Tony rappelled first on a Munter; nervously, I followed. It’s not exactly a controlled rappel. I hung on to the rope in my hand for dear life, and I made it down. But a Munter on 5mm rope is enough for this adrenaline junkie for a while.

I drank in the sights, not sure when or if I’d be back here. And as much as I like to visit a cave, there’s nothing like seeing daylight ahead. We made it out with a couple of hours until sunset, and the whole world seemed rich and verdant as we trudged back to the car. Though sore, tired, and out of food, I was restored.