Rusty's Cave--Trip 2

Caving has been different with PTSD. Since my attack, I thought so many kinds of things. I thought maybe if I caved, I would feel like myself again. I beat myself up for not loving everything I used to love. And over the last year, I have finally put my finger on my love/hate relationship with caving. 

I was always petrified of heights, but I enjoyed overcoming my fear before. I felt the adrenaline rush and loved it. But now my body is always full of adrenaline. My body always thinks we might die, someone might kill us, no matter what I am doing. Now, adding extra adrenaline has meant panic attacks at times. 

I have had peaceful trips with my kids, never doing anything too scary. And I have overcome discomfort on rope to teach Ben how to rappel, to belay him at the bottom of pits. But I still crave cautious trips. Today's choice seemed to fit that bill. I remembered Rusty's Cave as an easy, happy trip. We got our permit beforehand, and we ventured out early this morning. It's a bit of a drive, so we got to the preserve at 10:00. After turning too soon, we had some bushwhacking to make it to the pit entrance. (Alexander had the forethought to plug coordinates into his app before we left.) 

The pit entrance was as I remembered it, but there was a bolt this time for easier rigging. Alexander rappelled first, followed by Ben. I talked Ben through everything. It was his second vertical cave rappel, and I worried, though I shouldn't have. 

I have more vertical experience than the others, so I went last. But it all feels new after the attack, new with PTSD on top of old fears. And I was shaky and determined as I rigged in. I tested my rack and rappelled the 35 feet to the others. The drop is close for half and then opens up to a free hang for the last 15 feet or so. 

We took off our gear when we landed in the stream, no further vertical required. I insisted we go to the right and see the formation galleries I remembered. I craved beautiful sights along the way. And quickly I was rewarded with columns and draperies. A bit of scrambling over breakdown yielded a forest of formations and soda straws.

I played with catching water droplets in photos until Alexander and Ben lost all patience and insisted we move on. (There's more cave!) 

I loved the microrimstone and every pristine white formation. I am choosing to see hope in the heavily trafficked places that everyone still leaves untouched. 

This is Alexander's wall. "Brandi, you've got to appreciate these layers. It's geology!" It also happens to be where we had lunch. 

I loved this dome. I crawled through a watery spot and into a constant rain to see it. And the guys are standing in the drips to light it all up. 

Here are the guys standing in the drip zone. They were mostly good natured about being my lighting crew. 

And the pictures stop here, but the story doesn't. I don't do well with heights anymore. I used to straddle canyons in Fern, but I always hated exposure. I took time with careful placement of feet and hands not nearly as long as Ben's, as I followed in giant footsteps. There were no serious drops, probably never more than 20 feet. But it was still that extra adrenaline in my flooded system. We made it into a crawl area with stream and cobbles. I opted to not continue while Alexander and Ben relished the misery. I stayed behind in a warm spot with the only bat I saw. And I reviewed my photos, thrilled with my progress. 

I was tired as we routed and turned back to the entrance, but still in good spirits until we got back to the dome and canyon section. We did a lot of up and down through there to find the best route earlier. And I was frustrated because the guys told me to climb up and then decided about three steps later that I should really stay down. *Facepalm* I haven't learned my PTSD adrenaline/cave limit yet. I had a panic attack today on the ledge when I had to get back down after. To their credit, Ben held me, and Alexander produced a Snickers when I was not at my best. 

I remained at the lower, grabbier, tighter level as much as I could. And I barely noticed the formations that enthralled me before. We got back to our gear pile, and Ben climbed out first. I went next, and I was grateful to frog out. I felt so sure on the rope, climbing back to the top. Then, Alexander made it out, and we packed up. Our hike out was much easier than going in because we had a trail this time. And my spirits were a bit lifted to make it to the car before dark. (Unlike so many Byars trips before!)

Many thanks to Ben and Alexander for working with me and to the Southeast Cave Conservancy for preserving caves for all. If you enjoyed my photos and trip report, please consider donating to the SCCi here. 

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.

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.