Sheldon's Cave

Yesterday, I was invited to tag along on a trip to Sheldon’s Cave. I’d been a few years ago after an Alabama Cave Survey meeting and done the horizontal portion, but I’d never rigged it from the very top of the entrance and rappelled to the bottom. So, I jumped at the chance to get outside with a few awesome Huntsville Grotto members. I met Rebecca, Alexander, Eric, and David at the HIG. (Hardee’s In Gurley, for non-locals)

I love the quirkiness of cavers. Rebecca started the trip in a caverly fashion, raising the hood on her car and disconnecting her battery. “It’s just got an electrical issue that I isolated to the door. It’ll drain if I don’t disconnect it. This is working for now.” I had to laugh because it’s so typical of a grotto of engineers and the stubborn caver personality. Rebecca and I carpooled with David, and we headed to the outskirts of Scottsboro.

Once we’d parked on the side of the road, everyone eyed my ridiculous pack. I knew about the rain we’d had, and I knew about the waterfall at Sheldon’s. I wasn’t taking chances on hypothermia, and my wetsuit was taking up considerable space in the pack. I also wasn’t taking chances on not having a rescue plan either, so my pulleys and extra webbing, and all of the carabiners were in the pack, along with the things that make life worth living—lentil soup and enough brownies for everyone. So, burdened with about one-third of my body weight, I followed the others, slowly, but without complaint.

The ACS point for where we wanted to be was not quite right, and I just knew that we were about to climb to the top of the wrong ridge for no good reason, but we picked a stream bed, and it turned out to be the right place. The path was worn from water eating its way down the mountain. And I panted my way up the rocky slope with 1/3 a Brandi’s weight. I felt vindicated as I heard the water roaring before I saw the entrance.

Sheldon's Cave Entrance

The entrance was as I remembered it, but with more water cascading down at a higher volume than I recalled. Alexander eyed the tree he wanted to rig, and we climbed higher, beyond the entrance to rappel down over the cave’s gaping mouth. We took our time climbing to the rig tree, and I began to dig through my pack. Wetsuit first. We imagined that the bottom could be watery and that getting off rope might not be possible. But I didn’t plan to let a thing like freezing water stop me. I did the awkward dance-shuffle-jump that is putting on a dry wetsuit. (They don’t get wet before cavers need to put them on usually.) It clung to every inch of my legs and thighs, not wanting to rise no matter how I tugged. Rebecca helped me zip it up, and I thought that dry wetsuits are really more like caving corsets—breathing optional miseries.

Alexander and David rigged a tensionless hitch and padded the rocky edges that seemed the most threatening.

Alexander on rope. 

They rappelled to the bottom, and Eric, Rebecca, and I waited at the anchor, lounging and taking pictures of creatures and plants. 

Eric rappelled next, and then Alexander climbed out, gleefully telling us that we’d remain dry during the rappel and suggesting we rappel next.

I remained deeply skeptical and was already chilled from the overcast sky. So, I kept the wetsuit on and got on rope. There was no point in calling on rope to anyone. No one in the bottom could hear over the roaring falls. I saw there was slack in the rope, and I rigged my rack onto the rope and tested it. (I haven’t been caving as much after my recovery from a recent attack, and I was more nervous than usual.) I went smoothly on my feet down the slope before I got to the first rope pad and the next edge that swiftly followed. I have always been scared of heights, but I have become less afraid over time with repetition and learning to trust my gear. But I felt my old fear creep around me like a second skin as I paused to negotiate the last edge. It was 90 degrees, and I would be in a free hang over the drop. It’s the sort of rappel I’ve always hated—wide open, no walls, and plenty of light to see exactly how far I can fall. I don’t mind 300 ft. if it’s enclosed and dark. I took the edge on my knees, as I usually do, and leaned back to clear the rappel rack from the edge. My heart slowed its double time slightly when I went into the routine of rappelling again.

I was scared when I cleared the edge, adjusting the bars at the precipice. I have spacers on my rack, and I usually can’t rappel on more than five bars. But that’s on dirty 11mm rope. And this was very clean rope. I was scared of moving too fast, and I added another bar. I laughed at myself, where no one could hear me above the water’s roar. I was dangling over the falls and not locked off, but not going anywhere on six bars. I went back to five bars, business as usual, and told myself to relax and enjoy the ride to the ground.

I couldn’t believe the flow rate, and I wondered how I would stay out of the water, but the rope was rigged just far enough away. And I landed in a damp patch of rocks, not far from pieces of a ladder that looked like it was thrown into the pit. I removed the rack from the rope and waited for the adrenaline to subside.

Shakier than I should be, I put one leg in front of the other and went to see the waterfall at the side of the drop, rushing down into the next available path and drop. And I couldn’t resist taking picture of the tail-less salamanders clinging to the decrepit ladder.

Rebecca came down next, and then David began to climb, followed by Eric. 

David climbing out of the pit. 

I shed the top half of the wetsuit so that I wouldn’t overheat and got on rope after Eric tugged the rope up a few times so that I would know he was done climbing. Frogging in a wetsuit is inconvenient at best. My range of motion was not ideal, but I moved gracefully, feeling my old power return after my month of 5Ks. I was in awe of the falls as I ascended, able to pause and gape at them, 50 ft off the ground. I was struck by how much more majestic the view in front of me was than any cathedral I’ve been in. And I’ve been to St. Peter’s Basilica, so that’s saying something. Nature always leaves me in awe and reminds me that there’s so much left to see and do. I’m grateful to be present in those moments, suspended above vistas so few get to see.

I crossed back over the edge that had scared me earlier, more confident, but glad to be done with climbing. When I rejoined the guys at the rig tree, I savored the cotton candy sky. Pinks and blues brushed the edge of the horizon, and I was grateful to bear witness to it. After Rebecca finished her climb up (and on one leg, like the badass and stubborn caver that she is), I distributed the brownies, and the de-rigging alacrity was borne of all our desires to find dinner. We found a beautiful trail we’d missed on the way in, and made it back to the car in plenty of time to finish the day at Joe’s Pizza. There was a rightness to the fading adrenaline, the soreness setting into my muscles, and a stomach full of carbs. Like coming home.