Beyond Mammoth Cave
Page 36
“We’ve already named it the Ferguson Entrance,” Carter said. “I’ll tell her about the map.” Carter wondered if we could supply some labor to help install Dave Weller’s new gate. I said sure. A secure gate would give us some breathing time and allow the CRF to prepare our pre-Congress field camp and trips for international visitors.
Through the year, I had been talking occasionally with Jim Currens about the desirability of holding a seminar for project caving. We set a date, 12 and 13 September 1980, in Lexington, Kentucky. The NSS was interested in co-sponsoring it as the Third Cave Project Workshop. Two similar meetings had been held in the east with some benefit for the growing cadre of cavers in the country whose interest extended to a sustained series of trips into significant caves. The CRF had more experience than any other group and had practically invented project caving. When we set up the CRF, it had been designed to avoid the worst characteristics of project caving in this country. The CKKC had been evolving along the CRF model, although Jim Currens and Jim Borden claimed to deplore the CRF’s regimentation and elitism. Currens was genuinely interested in how a caving club could be transformed into a professional institution that would endure and sustain excellence. Both of us knew many of the movers and shakers of project caving in the country, so it was fun putting together presenters and lists of cavers to invite.
It was the teacher in me that loved this aspect of caving. Cave projects in the U.S.A. suffered many common problems. One such was how to get rid of the charismatic firebrand leaders who started a project, then became irascible as they aged. They wouldn’t hand over “their” organization to young Turks who “haven’t paid their dues.” More often than not, such leaders became disgruntled, rolled up “their” maps, and disappeared, leaving the troops with no information. The cycle would repeat.
Another example: How could surveying and cartography problems be handled without chaos in a large cave system? Organizing and keeping track of the data is a major undertaking. Microcomputers were becoming popular, and there was wide interest in plotting cave maps using computers.
Finally, how could a monolithic project caving organization accommodate the varying interests, abilities, and motives of a diverse group of cavers? Of course, we sought cave pushers, but the CRF had also deliberately set out to champion diversity in cavers, developing and using each talent in assignments that best suited that individual. We encouraged women to assume leadership roles. The primary challenge was to provide opportunities for cavers, not to order them around.
The workshop was a big success. Jim Currens still seemed to have unspoken suspicions of the CRF, but we had worked together and enjoyed building bridges at all levels between our organizations.
“Hello, hello?” Jim Quinlan’s cheery voice greeted me on the telephone. “Don’t wish to impose. Could you help us with a radio survey to locate Logsdon River and fix a position for a new entrance?” Jim Quinlan was well known for his comprehensive survey of all the water inputs, outputs, and drainage basin divides in the Mammoth Cave region. It was one of the best scientific efforts ever undertaken in the region, and I would do almost anything for Quinlan.
He explained that Frank Reid, an Indiana caver, CRF Joint Venturer, and cave radio expert, was coming down to the cave. Quinlan wanted us to take the radio antenna and transceiver into the new Ferguson Entrance to Mammoth Cave. Frank would roam on the surface and operate his direction-finding cave radio. The test would fix the exact surface location and vertical distance down to a survey station deep in the cave.
“I may be able to get some money to put in an entrance in Doyle Valley to Logsdon River,” Quinlan said. I had been on these radio-locating trips several times before; the most recent had been in Morrison Cave. It was interesting and important work, but there were problems. Often there was a lot of farting around establishing radio contact. The main problem was the bulk and weight of the cave antenna. Frank’s early rigs required carrying a hernia-producing twenty-pound coil of wire mounted on a two-foot piece of plywood.
“Sure, we’ll help. But it may be tough getting the antenna through the J Survey at the Ferguson Entrance,” I said.
“Already thought of that. I’ll give you Geary Schindel. He’s one of my crew. He’ll carry the antenna. You won’t have to,” Quinlan said. “Just show him the way, because I don’t think he could get there by himself.”
Geary Schindel, a young, strong graduate student in Nick Crawford’s cave and karst studies program, wore his wetsuit into the cave. He flipped the heavy antenna around with apparent ease. We pushed through the U-Tube into Logsdon River, then ate a meal and rested. Lynn Weller asked what Geary thought about the Mammoth Cave–Proctor Cave connection route.
“It’s a bunch of bullshit,” he said, looking around. “Is this the river? It’s a cinch to get here. You guys move slow.” Geary was a different sort of caver. He reminded me of the Cincinnati newspaper reporter with his bravado. But unlike the sport in the new red coveralls, Geary’s clothes were shredded. Here was a caver who could handle himself extremely well in a cave while burdened with an antenna resembling an eighteen-pound toilet seat.
Geary continued: “The politics of this stuff suck. It’s totally outrageous to hold off hooking together this river with Roppel Cave.”
I said the delay was the desire of the CKKC. They alone could decide when and whether to connect the caves. From the viewpoint of the CRF, we had plenty to do without connecting. There were walking leads in several places heading toward Cave City, Park City, Nashville, Louisville . . .
“I wouldn’t be bound by anything as dumb as that. Nobody can dictate where you can go and can’t go.” Geary’s eyes narrowed. “What’s to stop me or anyone else from just making the connection?”
“If you were part of the CRF, we’d throw you out.”
“I’m not part of anything,” said Geary. “I might just walk in here and make that connection myself, if people don’t get their asses in gear.”
“I think it won’t be that easy,” I said. “The river sumps upstream at the Roppel end. I’ve been there a couple of times. There’s no easy connection to be walked into. I know.”
For all of his abrasiveness, Geary seemed intelligent, capable, and an enjoyable caving companion. We set up and operated the radio successfully at the appointed times and heard Frank Reid’s encouraging voice in response.
In later months, the radio survey was performed again, at a better location for the entrance drilling rig in Doyle Valley. However, the memory of Geary Schindel’s threat remained alive in my mind: “I might just walk in here and make that connection myself, if people don’t get their asses in gear.”
22
Gasoline on the Fire
The Control Freaks Find Themselves Out of Control
All of us—particularly me—were curious about the Logsdon River upstream siphon and the upper-level leads there. Would those passages connect to Roppel Cave? Pete Crecelius, the CKKC’s president, was willing to run trips there, and we egged him on. If one of those trips found a connection with Roppel Cave, the blame would fall on the CKKC’s own man. If we found miles of additional cave passageway but no connection, so much the better. On one of these trips, in February 1983, Norm Pace found a new dome complex near the domes my son Tom and I had discovered. There seemed to be leads everywhere.
In January 1983, Lynn Weller and I were married. We spent our honeymoon in the Mammoth Cave area at a much more leisurely pace. Most weekends, we had led separate parties on grueling river trips in wetsuits. Occasionally we would cave together, which I much preferred.
In mid-August 1983, Pete Crecelius led Billy Matlin, Don Paquette, and me back to the area of Norms Dome. We entered through the new Ferguson Entrance to Mammoth Cave. The water was low through the U-Tube, and it was extremely hot wading through the shallow pools of the river in our wetsuits. The neck-deep cooling pools of the past were mostly gone.
We explored several side leads off the river on the way to the domes at the en
d, most of them promising. We surveyed more than thirteen hundred feet through more domes and canyons and were sure that the area would yield additional discoveries through the leads we found.
The most interesting discovery was that the upstream siphon was gone. Now there was a one-inch airspace with a steady breeze issuing from it. I had not expected this! When I first saw the siphon in 1979, and again on the “Secret Trip” in April 1981, the river welled up in a pool at survey station Z129. Deep down we could see the underwater passage that fed the pool, and it gave every indication of being a permanent siphon. The streambed at the pool’s exit was floored with cemented rocks. There was no gravel, nothing loose to dig to drain the pool. But now, during low water, the pool level had lowered and the siphon was breached. But one inch of airspace did not exactly thrill us.
John Branstetter, who had been on the trip with us to survey the connection between Mammoth Cave and Logsdon River in Proctor-Morrison Cave, puzzled about the mystery of where all the water came from. He later discussed the question with Don Coons, Sheri Engler, and Jim Quinlan. The problem was the same one Tom Brucker, Diana Daunt, and I had used as a cover story for the Secret Trip. About half the volume of water just appeared somewhere between the Mammoth Cave connection point and the upstream sump. “We need to search for the source when the water is low,” John told Quinlan.
Quinlan left no river unsurveyed so long as he had money in his hydrology project budget. His crew owed him many hours of caving for pay advances made to them; now, armed with John Branstetter’s news, he called them in. The water level had been dropping all summer, so he ordered a thorough search for the missing water input. John agreed to lead the search for water coming in from Cave City.
John contacted Pete Crecelius, the active leader of exploration in this part of the cave. They selected 27 August 1983 for a large trip in two parts. The first group would enter the Morrison Cave Entrance, where some of the party had stashed their wetsuits. John Branstetter, Don Coons, Sheri Engler, and Chris Kerr changed into their wetsuits in Thrill Shaft for their plunge into Logsdon River.
Pete Crecelius, Darlene Anthony, Lynn Brucker, and I entered the Ferguson Entrance to Mammoth Cave. Darlene was new to the Ferguson Entrance, but she was reputed to be a strong caver. She was about five feet, seven inches tall and stocky with an animated face, engaging smile, and southern accent. She was part of Quinlan’s summer hydrology crew of cave explorers and mappers. She carried her wetsuit in a pack and maneuvered through the tight Rat Scratch passage with yells and protests.
At the end of this passage, a canyon opened in the floor. We would have to chimney down the wide opening for thirty feet; the descent was difficult for most cavers. Darlene stopped.
“I’m not going down this without a belay,” she said.
Nobody had a hand line.
“You can make it,” I said. “Everyone else has.” I lied.
“Give me a line or I’m not going.”
I climbed down partway and braced between the walls. “I’ll spot you and tell you where to put your hands and feet.” Her request was reasonable, but we had no line, so the safest approach was not possible. Lynn spoke calmly, persuading her to start down the climb.
“If I slip, there’s no way you can stop me,” Darlene yelled down.
“You climb. I’ll stop you. Money-back guarantee.” She made it, but her lecture about safety continued for some minutes.
We reached the changing room where Pete Crecelius, Lynn, and I had hung our wetsuits on rock projections at the end of the last trip. We wiggled into the clammy sponge-rubber suits. Darlene asked if we were concerned about the sanitary aspects of leaving wetsuits hanging in the cave between trips. We told her we had done it for years.
Pete explained why explorations in the area between Mammoth Cave and Roppel Cave were sensitive. Now here he was, on CRF urging, leading CRF trips to prevent a connection. He thought it was a reasonable solution. And in truth, he was as curious and as excited as anyone about that part of the cave.
“We’re going to look at the end of the river, but other things too,” Pete said. “We want to find the Oasis River that Quinlan dye-traced from the Cave City Oasis Motel into this river. There are also several cutarounds to survey. And there’s plenty to survey around the domes above the end of the Z Survey.”
We walked and waded upstream in the river. The water was over our heads in only one short stretch of pool. The ceiling began to lower, a sign that we were near the end of the river.
As we covered the last few feet of the passage, we were astonished to see that the one inch of air space at the former siphon had opened to eighteen inches! Apparently the stream had cut down its bed or somehow had reduced the bar at the exit of the pool. We ate a meal, waiting for the other party to reach us.
Pete led onward through the formerly flooded siphon. We were in virgin passage, twenty feet wide, filled with water to a depth of two feet with eighteen to twenty-four inches of headroom above the water. The ceiling rose to four feet. We alternated between crouching and walking in the flowing river, our excitement mounting. After 120 feet, the passage had grown to twenty feet wide by ten feet high. We passed a crawlway on the right. I fancied this would be the other end of the drain I had found from the passages above on the Secret Trip.
“I’m counting the distance,” said Pete. “We’ll go one thousand feet or until we’re blocked.”
He guessed that the distance between Roppel Cave’s breakdown and the former end of the river was more than two thousand feet. This agreed with my own estimate, but I was skeptical that Pete would stop as long as the passage continued. My heart pounded at the thought of going right under the upper-level pits and domes we had seen on earlier trips. There was no stopping this passage, I thought.
“Right here!” Pete was standing at a constriction of black boulders that filled most of the airspace. The main ceiling slab had fallen and formed an open book, spine down, at the left side of the passage. “This is a good place to stop the exploration, so we’ll build a cairn.” We stacked up a teetery pile of muddy rocks that would be obvious to anyone coming from either direction. Then we retreated to Z129, expecting to find the other party there.
They were not there, so we started a survey. We carried the survey almost due east, more than one hundred feet though the low ceiling reaches to where we could stand in thirty-foot-wide passage. At Station Z134, we noted a small waterfall entering from a too-small crack in the ceiling. Fifty feet farther, a major tributary entered from the south wall. The entering stream passage varied from two to four feet high, and it broadened from a few feet to fifteen feet for three hundred feet. A strong breeze blew toward us from the continuing passage.
This one would go, but we merely noted that fact, then returned to our main survey in time to meet John Branstetter’s party.
Sheri Engler said, “We got started late. It’s so far out here. I tried to get these guys to slow down a little. My legs aren’t as long as theirs.”
Chris Kerr and Don Coons were ready to go to work.
Pete Crecelius told them to continue walking upstream until they came to the cairn. “Start a survey back toward us. When our surveys join, we’ll decide what to do next.”
As the other party slogged past, Pete continued, “Don’t go beyond the cairn. We don’t want to connect the caves now.”
They didn’t answer. John’s party soon had waded out of sight around the next corner.
We surveyed for several hours in passageway twenty-five feet wide by four to five feet high. After about a thousand feet, we set Station Z152 at the beginning of some breakdown. There were thick piles of twigs and other organic fragments in the pool bottom and fifty or more blind white crayfish. This was where the large passage became constricted, but Pete found a small crawlway high to the right that led one hundred feet to a plug of rocks with wind blowing through it. We checked the breakdown in the center of the passage. After two hundred feet, it became too low to follow. Based on their
tracks they had left, the other party had climbed through the open book route on the left-hand wall. The cairn was sitting right where we had built it, obstructing the natural path. But where was John Branstetter’s party?
I smelled a rat. Pete had told them to survey from the cairn back to us. Lynn wondered if they had just decided to connect the caves and worry about the consequences later.
Pete didn’t speculate. “Let’s go find them.”
Within two hundred feet, we encountered John’s survey party calling off a bearing, heading toward us. Pete asked if they had missed the cairn. They said they had not seen a cairn but thought they might be going a little far, so they had turned around in virgin cave and started an R Survey back toward our Z Survey. There was some low conversation I did not hear, except for a defiant proclamation by Chris Kerr.
“No way!”
Chris took off into virgin cave. Don Coons was right behind him. John Branstetter and Pete Crecelius raced after Don and Chris.
In ten minutes, Pete and John caught up with Chris and Don. Chris’s lamp was nearly out. Ahead, the route narrowed and was tighter.
“We really ought to leave this,” Pete said.
Chris just looked at Pete. He continued to try to nurse a few more minutes out of his failing light.
“I’m out of light anyway,” Chris said.
Chris got up and headed back toward the R Survey.
Fifteen minutes later, the party was back together. Pete explained what they had found.
“We went back to R1, Branstetter’s first survey station,” he said. “It’s marked with orange flagging tape. We went 250 to 300 feet farther into virgin cave where there’s more breakdown, but plenty of air blowing. We stopped there and talked over the situation. We agreed to turn back.”
The situation, I thought, is out of control. Pete somehow had the trust of the CKKC, and yet he seemed to be parleying with Don Coons and John Branstetter about when and how to make the connection. And with Chris Kerr? Wasn’t Chris friends with Geary Schindel? I thought that in about two minutes, Pete was about to get run over in a connection stampede! Cold wind blew at us from what I knew was Roppel Cave.