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.

Finally Savoring Something

I have become thrilled with all aspects of cave surveying of late. Mapping the unknown appeals to me. So, I agreed to visit my friend Mark’s latest project—Savor It Well. I knew going into the day that the hike in would be steeply downhill, so going out was guaranteed to be brutal. Still, Mark wanted people to survey, and I wanted to practice sketching. A redundant sketcher sounds like a good idea in theory, right? More than one perspective would be useful, and perhaps one sketcher could keep a running profile. I was happy with my role in the scheduled events.

So, I hiked in following Julie, carrying what seemed like all of my gear. Vertical gear, rope pads, wetsuit, sketching supplies, and my pack with essentials for the day. We could not have asked for more beautiful weather; the sunlight filtered through the trees, and the seventy-degree weather was magnificent, enough to tempt this caver into staying on the surface. But the underground beckoned.

We came across a few new possible cave entrances on the way to Savor It Well, marked them, and moved on. Adventures for another day. I donned my wetsuit at the entrance and threw the essentials into the cave pack. I was already heating up as I wrestled my vertical gear on. I know it doesn’t seem like a little wetsuit layer should turn putting a harness on into a wrestling match, but it does. I wriggled and won. Thoroughly attired, I followed Mark into a tiny crack. I don’t know how everyone else made it through. I was miserable enough, and Mark seemed to think I could mostly free climb, make my short legs reach impossible holds somehow. Nope. I rigged my rack for the six feet to the floor.

I was mostly unamused by that point. It’s a sign. You should just turn around. Back to the sunlight. But I can’t listen to that sensible inner voice. That ninny has no sense of adventure. Everyone else had already been to Savor It Well, so I followed Mark forward as they shimmied through the crack. The way onward was not intuitive. I wanted to follow a big walking passage, but the path actually took us through a small belly crawl, near the edge of a pit. I inched along with my vertical gear catching at the ledges in the floor. Mark rigged the pit with Brandon, and Julie came through to keep me company as I steadfastly refused to hang around the edges without a safety. And Mark rigged one to the bolt so that I could make the scary traverse across a stone spanning a pit, to the edge of the second drop. Mark and Brandon went down first, and there were calls for more rope pads along the way. (For non-cavers, we pad the sharp edges so that they don’t cut the rope while we are climbing back up.)

I just love when we need a ton of rope pads. Julie joked that she remembers the drop as “98 rope pads, 102 edges”. No one tells me these things until I’m right on top of them, of course. I made it this far; I’m all in. So, I rappel over the edge of the ~100 ft. drop, setting a new rope pad along the way. I land on a gravel slope where Mark and Brandon are sitting on a ledge—twenty feet from the actual floor, much to my horror.

The ledge was wide at least, but I don’t like unclipping on ledges. Period. And the gravel slope had me worried. The stones felt loose beneath my feet, and I imagined them dropping onto the floor below. I carefully scooted across the pit’s edge, to sit under a rock with Brandon. That rock was the only shelter from the incessant rain. Again, no one mentioned I’d get rained on. But I’m a tough lady. I would deal. Julie made it down to us, and we four huddled under the rock shelter to discuss survey plans. The last survey station was on this ledge, and we needed to get to the bottom of the pit. I hung out up top, sketching the drop with Mark while Brandon read the instruments and Julie set a station below.

I was relieved to finish up and get off of the crazy ledge. We set yet another rope pad at this spot. (I think that made four?) And I put my feet on solid ground. I sketched with Mark again, and we dedicated our time to moving forward into a watery, stoop-walking passage. I had a difficult time keeping up. The roar of the water made hearing readings, as the fourth person in line, nearly impossible. And I am not a fast sketcher. I don’t think I’m particularly slow, but Mark was sketching nearly as quickly as Julie and Brandon could set up stations. I trudged on, sketching as well as I could, finding Brandon and Julie were finishing out a loop. No matter how I sketched that loop, it just wasn’t closing. Mark couldn’t get it to close either. Behind on readings, sketching too slowly to keep warm and keep up, I declared myself done. A redundant sketcher is just that—redundant.

I followed the team forward, but I didn’t press a miserably watery crawl Brandon ventured toward. I would fit, but I was already shivering. The idea of lying down in water was insanity. So, I remained with the others, waiting for Brandon’s report. And it goes. However, everyone opted to explore that section on a drier day, and we finished out the loop we were in. Between the cold and futility of being there, I was miserable. I ate a snack when we popped back out in the main room, but I ran out of food. I contemplated staying put as the team pushed onward to a different passage. I was already cold following them, and this was a large room at least. But Mark and Julie encouraged me to move forward, and I pressed miserable crawly leads with Brandon. At least I moved enough to keep hypothermia at bay.

This passage, too, looped to the stream flowing toward the third drop. The water rushed around my boots, and I worried about where the water actually fell. Don’t get too close to the edge. Down is death. I held the tape and set the stations with Julie, and we stopped for the day before reaching the third drop, which was a wise decision. All of us were frozen, and none of us were ready to be pounded by a waterfall during a rappel and climb out.

I climbed out first, stopping at the 20 ft. ledge, unclipping again. Yes, my inner voice of reason and self-preservation screamed at me once more. She’s quite an unreasonable harpy.

I had to stop there because no one at the bottom could hear anything from the very top. A person on the ledge could relay information. So, I did. Julie came next, carrying a rope. And I told her to keep moving. There was no sense in getting off of the rope and letting me on. So, she did, after some trouble with the rope pad, which had to be tied to the rope.

I had planned to pass it like a knot. She took it off, planning to put it back in place. I agreed to take over that job, silently dreading my role. I waited until she got off rope, then I crept to the edge, velcroing the pad in place and tying it back to the rope. Then, I sat back, scared to move and knock rocks onto my friends below. Mark weighted the rope, and of course, the pad was too low then. My heart sank as the rope rubbed the edge, and I shouted for Mark to stop climbing. I crawled to the edge once more, pulling the rope pad higher, cursing the situation in general and releasing my ire entirely upon that poor rope pad.

When Mark reached the edge, I was still only a few feet away, terrified to move and accidentally brain him with a rock. The only words I said to him were significant ones, “I’m ready to be off of this ledge now.” I imagine this came out firmly, in a determined voice. More likely, I squeaked the words at Mark, and my skin was a shade lighter than pale, so he handed the rope off to me after he landed on the ledge.

I frogged up in my wetsuit, the motion rubbing the backs of my knees, keeping my joints from bending right. Wetsuits aren’t made for caving. Fifty feet up, I saw what I couldn’t see from the floor. The rope rubbed one of those countless ledges. Please don’t be rubbing my rope. I frogged as gently, as gracefully as I have ever done, until I could see the spot and determine that my rope wasn’t damaged. Able to inhale completely, I continued onward, negotiating the edge without issue and traversing the pit’s lintel once more. Then, I reached Julie, and we moved forward through the crawl. And after my spirits were drained away, leeched out of me by the numbing cold, she was still animated and happy to carry the conversation.

Earlier in the day, I had warned her of my arachnophobia, lest she wonder at my horror of crayfish and spiders. And I am relieved I did so. The eight-legged horrors had been busy as we explored and surveyed. She knocked six webs down, just calmly telling me to stay put. She found three more after. I thought that the bone-chilling cold was the last straw, but, no, Mark bringing me to an awful place where spiders seal you in with their webs—that’s the last straw. I am eternally grateful to anyone who saves me from the spiders. Seriously. So, I was concerned when Julie began protesting at Mark’s rigging as she tried to exit the cave.

I normally just curse my way out of such situations, but she reiterated, “This is not how I rig this spot. We are definitely showing Mark how this spot has to be rigged before we leave.” Her way is constructive, but maybe less satisfying and humorous for those below. I was at a loss for how to help her from below, but she didn’t really need my help. She wiggled her hips through the crack until she found a way through. I had to do the same constrictive dance, and we were out in twilight.

I was relieved to be done, and we dreamt on possible food. Pizza is my dream food after a rough survey day. I stripped off my wetsuit and was dismayed to discover that I didn’t have a dry shirt left. The sopping wet ones had no appeal, so I was gearing up to hike out in my sports bra when Julie saved me from a cold evening, handing me a shirt. I thought the guys would be along shortly, but night fell. There was no food left. My dreams of pizza became a raging need for it. And Mark and Brandon finally emerged—too late for us to acquire my food. When they were all packed up, we prepared to don our gear and hike/climb out. (For the record, on the way in, my pack felt like ½ a Brandi.) But all of that gear was now wet. And as I swung my pack on, for the first time in my life, I fell over backward with it. Yep. That happened. I was at the hysterical laughter portion of the day, so I laughed at myself with everyone and slowly rose with my ¾-a-Brandi-weight pack.

You’re thinking by now that this tale has to end, right? Surely the misery is over? No. This day just kept on giving. We hiked at a steep angle out of the sink, and I groused the whole way, naturally. Brandon kept saying that we were almost at the old logging trail. Almost. After the third time he said that, I started shouting back about the “mythical” logging trail. We eventually hit a level patch, but that was almost out on the main road. There’s simply no easy way out of that sink.

When we got back to our vehicles, I was paranoid as I stripped because this road was well traveled. That’s just what I need—to have to explain to some cop why I’m topless on the side of the road. So, I speedily stripped and hastened to throw clothes back on. Meanwhile, Julie and Brandon were complimentary about Savor It Well, already planning a trip back. I just looked at Mark and said, “I love you, Mark, but I’m not coming back.”

In the car, on our way to civilization, to amenities like cereal and milk, Julie joked, “What? You didn’t savor it well?” I let my voice drip with sarcasm as I settled back in the seat and said, “I’m finally savoring something.”  

Crickety Kennamer Trip

Mark and I were determined to check up on Kennamer Cave soon, especially since the last time we saw it, the cave was flooding during the holiday Paint Rock River overflow. I suspected at the time that the cave had sumped at the lower entrance, but had no evidence for the theory. So, Mark, Tony, and I met up and hiked to the lower entrance. Mark was determined to do a bottom-up trip, but I find those difficult to manage. There are some places that it’s just easier to wriggle down than launch upward.

Still, I am always trying to improve as a caver, so I agreed. We made the crawl through first, and I always forget how awful it is, getting wet in the pools. If you are a typical caver, you’ll get wet from the thigh down in the lower crawl. And though the water chills me, I am still petrified of all things arachnid—including crustaceans. And the crayfish are quite at home in these lower pools; their albino outsides standing out in the clear water are a stark reminder of their presence. I’m not sure what’s worse: going first and seeing all of the crayfish or going after someone has muddied the water and not seeing all of them.

My flood theory was confirmed as leaf debris clung to the low ceiling, and my imagination went into overdrive as we crunched through more debris in the pools. Kennamer shouldn’t be crunchy. Why is a cave I love crunchy?! And the pools reeked of rotting plants. Just rotting plants, I tell myself. I had a difficult time reconciling the cave I love with its new swampy state, and Tony has seen me caving only a couple of times. By now, I’m sure he’s decided I’m a wimpy lady, but I grit my teeth through the weird cavy textures and sounds and push forward, despite my misgivings on the issue. Out of your comfort zone, Williams. Get out of your comfort zone. I try to give myself a pep talk, but I’m having none of it, as the wimpy part of me says, We are way the hell out of our comfort zone. We passed that a couple of hundred feet ago. There’s nature on us!

I follow Mark through the familiar path, backwards from how I’m accustomed to. We get to the bypass next, and Mark scrambles up. I am not yet so fearless. Or maybe I just value my life. Either way, I brought a webbing harness and QAS to hook onto the rope—the rope I insisted Mark bring. Tony started to climb up without issue and without rope. I am terribly jealous of such bold skill. He waits on the ledge as I slowly, slowly slink up the rope. And I was happy to reach the end of the climb, until I noticed that Mark hadn’t really rigged the rope to much of anything. It passed over a smooth rock, and the end was under his foot. But there was no knot to be seen. This is why I have trust issues. But I lived to tell the tale.

After we made it through the bypass, I scrambled forward and upward through the rocks, into an area I normally don’t visit. Mark let me take a wrong turn, and I’m glad that I did. I saw a top-view of a canyon I’d never witnessed, and some tiny wannabe cave pearls. I dubbed them the “white corn of Kennamer”. They do look like corn kernels.

After a course correction, I made it into an area that finally felt familiar and into the register room. My favorite route normally avoids the oh-so-friendly bypass. I was happy to narrate about previous trips as we went to Tony, who was seeing a large, technically horizontal cave for the first time. From there, I recognized all of my favorite landmarks, and the cave was full of unusual life washed in from the flood. There were dozens of forest salamanders, scurrying out of sight. Salamanders are common in caves, but these had different coloration than I typically see. And there were new bugs along the way, gnats plaguing us in the crawl, and more crickets than I’ve ever seen in Kennamer.

Though we had not experienced a recent rainfall, we still came upon a pool in our route. I had trouble recognizing a few parts of the path, and I thought perhaps Mark was kidding about going through the water. Nope. He wasn’t. I balked at the water. I didn’t bring my wetsuit. I’ll freeze in this. My absolutely-not expression must have shown on my face because Mark came back and toted me piggy back through the pool, much to Tony’s amazement. He quipped, “Are you gonna carry me, too, Mark?”

The only good reply in this situation is a smart ass one. So, I batted my eyelashes at him and explained, “Well, you are going to have to bat your eyelashes at him.” I’m pretty sure he thought about splashing me.

After pointing out the formations that draw me back to Kennamer, we were getting close to the second bit of climbing I dread. I have been practicing my canyon skills lately and am buoyed by the hope that I am better at this than before. However, reality quickly set in as I saw that these walls are completely different and inhospitable compared to those I’ve recently climbed. These are slick and wet with few good holds. I can make it halfway, up to the stone we all pause on. But then I arrive at my usual problem. There are footholds, but no handholds to drag myself to the top. Just smooth edges everywhere. Mark has launched himself off the foothold to the ledge before, but I don’t have that much courage yet. Or perhaps insanity. I had hoped he would scramble up and dangle webbing for me to use. But no. He decided that now would be the opportune time to see if I’d become a serious canyoning woman.

Well, I’m not. And I’m still not crazy enough to launch myself toward a ledge and hope for balance and force to work in my favor. So, Mark shoved me upward, and I sat there on the precipice, watching the skilled guys negotiate the climb without issue.

After that, I had little left to dread. The normally drippy domes were raining on us fiercely as we passed. And I saw another animal I’d never seen in Kennamer as we moved past Moby Dick. In the side passage beyond the massive boulder, a cave rat scampered, terrified of us and our lights. I called to Mark, but the critter hid before Mark could make his way back to us. And we scrambled up the mud slope, the spot where I normally pause to appreciate the massive scale of Kennamer with its ceilings towering far above me. The water drenched me again on the way out, and that wouldn’t have been so terrible so close to the Dug Entrance. But Tony and Mark riled up the crickets. The most crickets I’ve seen in Kennamer. So, they were terrified and leaping off the walls, at my face, on my neck. Oh, no. Is there one in my clothes?! Please don’t let there be bugs in my clothes. So, shrieking like the good Southern belle I revert to under pressure, I climbed out of the Dug Entrance, happy to embrace the inky night and exit cricket hell. 

Green Grotto Cave Parts 1 and 2

Green Grotto Cave Trips 1 and 2

            Recently, a friend of mine approached me about exploring a cave on some newly acquired property. Any caver knows how exciting such an offer is. I had looked on the survey, but I didn’t come up with a cave in the area, and I was excited about the possibility. So, Mark, my two friends, and I headed out with lots of gear to the cave as my friend had explained that we would need rope to rig the drop. We hiked into a sink, and the entrance was beautiful, a huge dome framing our way. I began removing gear from my bag, longing for rope to avoid the crazy ladder that people were using to enter the cave. But, alas, due to an extraordinary miscommunication, Mark and I had failed to see which of us was carrying the rope, both assuming the other had it. We got all of the way into the sink with no rope! Still, I wanted to see what I could, and Mark agreed. I bypassed the fragile-looking ladder that someone had rigged. I find the webbing and rung ladders more terrifying than free climbing. So, I took my time climbing into a crack off to the side, using stones as my holds until I got to the same spot everyone else landed in. The entrance had a nice dome and an obvious path onward, filled with wood and leaf debris.

            It didn’t take our group long to arrive at the pit’s edge. I didn’t want to be anywhere near it, but Mark looked down and declared it to be about 25 feet. Still, it would be impossible to free climb, and I was ready to turn around. Then, Mark looked at a spot under my feet, and said, “Look, a Brandi hole!” (Brandi holes are any kind of miserable crack or crawl that Mark wants me to check out before he stuffs himself through.) And sure enough, there was a crack that I could try. I climbed down to the entrance of the crawl and had to go through on my side. I was pressed in and the rough edges felt like sliding through a cheese grater. I cursed for the duration of the crawl.

            My two friends were on their first cave trip, and they didn’t know that I could curse quite so proficiently. I think they were getting a little alarmed even. I heard Mark reassuring them, “Oh, she’s fine. She’s loving this.” I wanted to curse more upon hearing that little statement, but I kept my profanity in so that I didn’t alarm the new people once I saw that my crawl opened up into a beautiful dome room. I began excitedly shouting for Mark to follow. The dome overhead looked to be a bit more than 30 feet, and it was raining water down on me. I wasn’t sure if the new guys would be brave enough to follow, but I badly wanted to explore and hoped they could overcome any claustrophobia they possessed. One followed. Then, Mark and finally the last guy struggled through. I could tell he found the squeeze challenging, but he wasn’t cursing or hyperventilating, and I was impressed that the new guys managed that tight space on their first trip.

            I loved watching the surprise on their faces as they looked up into the vast space. Being underground is astounding.  The vast rooms and carved domes stupefy us all. And I could tell they were ecstatic to witness a new realm. We followed the water to an even larger water fall with an amazing, pounding flow. Mark scrambled up to see its entirety, and I opted out because I didn’t want to be soaked for the rest of the adventure. And the others followed my lead on that issue.

            Mark returned, and we went down a side passage, noting a pool as we went. Mark believed that to be where the water went and of especial interest. But that was not on my agenda for the day because it looked like a tiny wetsuit-requiring squeeze. Instead, Mark and I went down into a shallow canyon area, following the walls into a large, sandy room. The other two went over the top where we went down, and we were surprised that we all popped out into the same area. Mark and I pushed the edges of the whole space, crawling into tiny areas of leafy debris even. Mark believed that entire space to be an overflow room. We reluctantly parted the area, unsure if there was a cave map for it and made plans to return.

            On the day following the trip, Mark did a thorough search and found a map of the cave. Alas. Not an original find. But that didn’t stifle my curiosity. The drop that I didn’t get to do on the first trip was haunting me, and, like Mark, I wanted to see where the water went. So, we made plans for another weeknight trip. One of our party had to bow out, and I am always sad for anyone that can’t go caving. But we were still a party of four and carried on. We hiked into the sink and rigged the drop this time. The two people with us were not vertically qualified, and they prepared to do the crawl that would get them through the rest of the cave. I did the rappel and was amazed to see the spot where there was a pool last time at the bottom through the crack. And it was dry now. I climbed up into a crack that had gotten a “too tight” symbol on the map, and it was, indeed, miserable. I didn’t go all of the way, but I suspect it came from the surface. It was filled with debris. And our pool was missing. So, we went back up, tracing the water.

            I saw a flash of white in a pool and was astonished to see not a crawfish or a seed pod as I’d thought, but a white-finned catfish, trapped in a puddle. We had no way to remove him and tried to leave him alone. Mark and I went onward toward the waterfall climb that I now wanted to do, and our friends opted to explore the Buddha Room at the bottom. On our way to the bigger dome, we saw that all of the water was disappearing into the stony floor. The cave takes a good deal of water, but if you wanted to find out where all of that went, you’d have to dig.

            That mystery was somewhat solved now, and I scrambled up the rocks. I paused to enjoy the high—87 ft.—dome. The water was pounding out of a tube near the top, and I am certain that there’s got to be a third entrance up there somewhere. We walked around on the upper level, and Mark did the step across to see the rest, while I opted to enjoy my perch near the waterfall. We returned along the same route and were caving back to our packs through the crack. Right before I could go through, a cave rat scrambled before me. You’ll be thrilled to know that this daring adventurer did not shriek about the rodent. However, I may have hesitated in following it through, and I might have been worried that it was hiding in my vertical gear. If you’ll recall from my recent Blevins Gap article, I only recently discovered that cave rats actually exist, in spite of my years of caving. They are still shocking to me.

            The little guy must have been frightened and hiding because I didn’t see it again. We donned our gear, climbed out, and rejoined our group as we de-rigged. They seemed thrilled to be underground again, and I am glad to have some of my big questions about the cave answered. I groused my way out of the sink, and I’m sure those guys were thinking, “How the heck has she been caving so long? Don’t people hate her?” And the answer is, the ones who love me have started to ignore the complaining. It’s a coping mechanism. And I’m sure that in spite of my onslaught of complaints about our angle of ascent on the hike out, that those excited faces will be back underground. They may even be back underground with me.  

Blue Spring Cave and Crabb's Quest for Crystals

           I know that I can’t be the only person in TAG obsessed with crystals. But, seriously, when I’m in a room full of them, my large vocabulary becomes irrelevant. I get lost in wonder, and the only adjective I seem to remember is shiny. I found out that my friend Jennifer Crabb feels the same way, and I knew that she had to see my favorite place—Blue Spring Cave. It has all of my favorite things—mostly dry caving, gypsum, and crystals.

            So, I plotted the trip and managed to convince two other people to join the crew. We piled into my van bright and early on Sunday morning, and off we went. After a second breakfast in McMinnville, the journey was without incident. We piled our gear together, lamented the fairly cold morning as we hiked to the entrance, and made it to the door, where I wrestled the lock. There were three keys on my lanyard. And I must have chosen poorly, but the key went in, and I thought there must be a magical trick to making it turn. So, I flailed, my arm lost in the door’s orifice. Crabb finally had mercy on me and came to help while Mark looked on with amusement. She got a different key to work, and we were blasted with air.

            I love the first part of Blue Spring. It’s almost like tourist caving. Easy gravel and beautiful formations. And we made it to the ladder in no time. Mark convinced Crabb that the register was up the ladder, and she was determined to sign it and see it. She was halfway up the old thing before I realized she’d been taken in. Mark was gleeful that there was finally someone with us not afraid of heights at all. Together, they explored the historic entrance, and I remained happily at the register with Jeff Burchfield. I kept thinking, I don’t think anyone actually climbs that ladder. Who does that? Don’t they know it leads to a gate? And poor Crabb might not have known, but Mark certainly did, and back down the ladder they came.

            After that fool’s errand, we recommenced our journey. Our destination was the Cathedral Room; Mark was getting over a nasty cough, and we didn’t want to exacerbate the situation with a strenuous trip. I was in the lead for much of the day, occasionally taking wrong turns as I fought to remember the way. Sometimes there are obvious mud trails, and other times there’s mud everywhere. I almost took us down the Joop Loop. I knew of its existence and have heard enough stories to know that I don’t really want to go that way. I began down the crawl, and Mark was entirely too thrilled. When he starts laughing and sounding ecstatic, I know I am in for a rough day. Luckily, I had barely poked my head in before the tell-tale laughter began.

            Then, I scurried backward and made my way along the correct route and to the bridge. Down the ladder and onward. The main borehole is starting to feel quite familiar, my old friend beckoning me to its depths. I remembered the correct turn off to the left and was feeling quite pleased with myself. I would have missed the turn off for the Cathedral Room though. I’ve only been there once, and I probably wouldn’t have realized my error until I approached the familiar BO Crawl. Mark had no intentions of letting us go that far astray, so we made our turn. I may have further explored another bit of side passage along the way. But, luckily, all of the passages I find are completely foreign belly crawls that no one would endure for long. So, I backtracked and went onward.

            I saw a passage ahead that looked familiar, and we were all spellbound by the glittery walls and ceiling. Crabb announced that I must be her only friend because none of her other friends had taken her here. I was pleased that one of my favorite places was so well appreciated by others. We clambered up a small spot, and made it to the STOP rock above. I always chuckle when I see that small rock because someone felt compelled to put it there. I wonder if anyone has actually gotten so lost in the glittery moment that they simply walked over the edge. Without much further to go, we made it to big borehole again and journeyed toward the Cathedral room. It was mostly familiar. I remembered the giant flowstone wall and the cussing hole. I couldn’t remember what side the cussing hole was on, but it wasn’t relevant, as the left side was completely flagged off to protect the rimstone. So, I used the right wall for leverage and made it to a flat level that we could walk to the left side on and the tiny entrance. I made it through without much fuss; mostly I tried to avoid the water. A day in the Cathedral Room means wet legs, and wet clothing is frigid to me. I don’t know why I climbed so gingerly. I knew there was a pool to get through next. I have misstepped in that room before, and I had no intentions of letting Mark muddy up the water and put me in hip deep, breath taking liquid hell again. I went first, warning Crabb as I went to feel for her foot holds, lest she suffer the same fate.

            We made it to the other side, and I suddenly remembered the bits I’d repressed, for I am excellent at repressing unpleasant experiences. It’s how I keep caving with Mark Ostrander, after all. There was a knotted handline, and I was supposed to use it to climb up. I remember how scared I was the first time I did that, convinced I would fall, that my puny arms would fail me, and I’d skin my body as I slid down. Now that I’ve been canyoning lately, I know my arms are stronger than that. And after straddling death-defying chasms, the flowstone didn’t look so terrifying anymore. My mind was shocked that this graceful body belonged to me.

            I love the giant draperies at the top. They remind me of wings tinged with water, and I can’t look away. But eventually someone always comes up the slope, and the moment passes. We move onward through the room to our destination. And even more than the flowstone I’d just climbed, I had buried the sketchier climbdown that awaited me deep in the recesses of my brain. My stomach sank as I approached the end of the line, and I remembered the pool and pit. And I saw another knotted rope. I don’t know how Mark talked me through that during my last trip. I am certain that I was probably a shaky mess. This time, I went first, and I didn’t have any moments that were unmanageable. Jeff and Crabb didn’t know what a huge achievement that was for me, but I was proud of the moment. And I was rewarded with the pristine white splendor I could glimpse across the way. The others have no fear, and they made it down without any problems. We paused to get the full effect and continued on toward our goal.

            We made it back to the Cathedral Room, and I’d forgotten the scale of that place. What I didn’t forget was the formations and the way the pure white ones glitter with a riot of color. I was content as I heard Crabb’s squeals of glee. This is what it’s about. Sharing the places that are so beautiful to me they seem sacred.

            After we’d exhausted the wall of beauties, we went through some breakdown. And Mark was sitting on an undercut rock, and we all watched in horror as it gave way. There was nothing I could do. If any of us had been closer, we would have been crushed anyway. My heart stopped as the moment happened in slow motion. You’re probably waiting for catastrophe here. It never happened. Mark proved himself to be the legend he is in my mind as he rode that shelf down, surfing on the rock, and landed on his feet like a cat. He was unshaken, while I was left nearly hyperventilating from the experience.

            After a close call, I was happy to leave the Cathedral Room. But we’d packed our vertical gear and rope in because Mark had unfinished business with a chasm that wasn’t quite free-climbable on our previous foray to the Cathedral Room. So, on the way out, I rigged the rope around a nice large rock, and we rappelled to the bottom in pairs. There wasn’t a lot of space to stand, but there was a beautiful pool that no one wanted to disrupt because the crystals were shining through the water.

            Upon packing our gear away, we had a brief chat with the Nashville Grotto group and went to the Moonscape Room. I find it interesting, but not a serious draw. However, Crabb couldn’t turn down the opportunity, and it was right there. We all speculated on how the sand piles got that way. Most of our explanations sounded like the start to some horrid B sci-fi movie. Then, we journeyed out. And, for once, we made it to the cars in daylight. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before. And we may have looked like vagrants with our muddy arms in Applebee’s as we ate a serious amount of food, but we were the happiest group in the room, huddled over the Blue Spring map book and plotting the next trip.