by Beyond Mammoth Cave- A Tale of Obsession in the World's Longest Cave (epub)
Back at Z152, we discussed what to do for the remainder of the trip. John’s party would survey cutarounds downstream and search for the Cave City lead. We might not see each other after our parties split, so we made no plans to get together again. Our party would check other leads at higher levels. Lynn and I set off to find the drain from the pits above us to see whether or not it bypassed the sump. Pete and Darlene went off to retrieve a hand line left behind on an earlier trip.
I could not find the pits or the drain. The area was more complex than I recalled from two previous trips. I felt foolish, not being able to show Lynn the master drain that had been at the center of my connection dreams for the past two years and four months.
We found Pete and Darlene and ate a meal. I told Pete I was worried about his ability to keep a lid on explorers like Don Coons and John Branstetter. Not only had they kept their own counsel on secret trips, they had also unsuccessfully tried to stand in the way of the Proctor-Morrison Cave connection. They were bulldozed aside there and now were pissed. Scooping this connection might be their form of vengeance.
Despite the patching of relations between Don and the CRF, he and Sheri continued to refer to themselves as “nonaligned.” I once questioned this, and Don replied that he worked for Quinlan and thus represented neither the CRF nor the CKKC. This was bullshit, given the full and open participation in the two organizations that Don had enjoyed over the years. No, “nonaligned” here meant simply he could screw anybody or any organization if he wanted to.
“Pete, I don’t think you have much time to sit on this connection possibility,” I said. “There’s too much cold air blowing.”
“It’s pretty hot, you mean? Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that,” he replied.
It was getting late. We surveyed a few hundred feet of cutaround and left plenty for future parties.
We traveled out of the cave in near silence. We struggled out of our wetsuits and pulled on our damp clothes in the changing room beyond the U-Tube. Darlene punctuated the long silence by asking if we kept the wetsuits here so we could skinny in and make the connection between Mammoth Cave and Roppel Cave!
“Why else would anyone think of stashing those nasty, smelly wetsuits?”
Lynn explained again that there were plenty of passages to explore without going for a connection.
“Don’t lie to me,” said Darlene. “You guys and Pete don’t fool me for a minute!”
Darlene had to be talked up the chimney approaching the Rat Scratch Passage, a few hundred feet from the entrance, but it was easier than talking her down had been. She was motivated to get out of the cave.
Near the beginning of the Rat Scratch, I pushed my pack ahead of me as I squirmed through the tight belly crawl.
Boom! My eyes were blasted with a ball of flame and sand. My carbide lamp flame had ignited a cloud of acetylene gas escaping from my spent carbide bag inside my pack. My face stung, my eyes were centers of excruciating pain, my ears rang. In the distance I heard Lynn say, “Are you okay?”
“I blew up. I’m hurt!” I could feel and smell my singed eyebrows and eyelashes. The hair on my wrist had crinkled. The blast had blinded me. I tried to force my eyes open, but it hurt too much. Lynn and Pete were at my side in a few seconds.
Pete was an M.D., professionally calm but reassuringly concerned. “Let’s get this sand out of your eyes. I’ll use some water from your water bottle. It’s not sterile, but that’s not the main thing right now.” He squirted the water into both of my eyes to irrigate the tissues and wash away the sand. I was glad to be able to see the light from his headlamp, but I could not focus on anything, and it was painful to sneak a blurred peek. How would I get out of the cave?
“I’ll take your pack,” Pete said. “Think you can move okay?” He slipped a sourball candy in my mouth.
Lynn said, “I’ll go in front of you and talk you through.”
I started crawling. I remembered the route as a succession of tight squeezes requiring wedging in the top of a canyon. Once, when I had just started caving, a friend and I challenged each other to find our way out of Carpenter Cave in Pennsylvania in pitch dark. Instead of an ordeal, it turned out to be fun. The trick was to close your eyes, not keep them open. In a few minutes we began to get clues about the route from sound echoes as we moved. Knowing the route helped, of course.
Now, it was not fun. I hurt. But the sound clues did help, and I made steady progress. It was reassuring to touch Lynn’s ankle now and then. I’d squeeze it to show my appreciation and affection. Lynn rigged my ascending harness on the forty-foot standing rope at the entrance. Going up blind was almost automatic.
“On your way home you may want to stop at the hospital emergency room and get your eyes looked at,” said Pete. “There’s some trauma. They can put antibiotic ointment in to prevent infection and lubricate it.”
“What do I owe you, Doc?” I said as we moved along the path to our parked car.
“Not a dime,” he said. “I don’t have malpractice insurance in this state, so I didn’t treat you.”
We telephoned the Caverna Hospital near Horse Cave. I told them my carbide lamp had exploded, blowing sand into my eyes, and that we were on our way to the emergency room. When Lynn and I arrived, they were all set to neutralize battery acid in my eyes. I explained the chemistry and physics of carbide lamps and acetylene gas versus unsafe electric lights that used acid batteries while the EMT washed out a few more grains of sand and applied soothing ointment.
I was thankful for Lynn’s coolness and Pete’s cave-side manner. We wondered, however, whether Pete could control the nonaligned cavers who now knew that the Mammoth Cave–Roppel Cave connection was no longer a matter of mere politics. An open shot at making it seemed there for the taker. Would Pete’s order be sufficient to stay a “Let’s do it!” attitude?
23
Stark Reality
The CKKC Surrenders to the Odds
Pete Crecelius called me—Jim Borden—following the trip that had surged through the sump towards Roppel Cave. I winced as he told the story. The situation appeared to be desperately out of control. The damage was evident, but we were powerless to stop it now. The Ferguson Entrance was uncontrolled. At least a half dozen individuals—loyal to neither the CRF nor the CKKC—knew the situation and would think nothing of pursuing the virgin passage independently to its ultimate conclusion. These marauders would not care about political sensitivities, fair play, or history. Neither of our groups could do anything. But did the CRF even want to do anything? The CRF could sit back; we could not. The CKKC had the most to lose by a connection, no matter what the circumstances.
At first, I decided to lie low, delaying a decision until the facts could be better evaluated. A short delay did not seem to be a risk; after all, there was a gate on the Ferguson Entrance. Yet, there were still many questions. Indeed, Roppel Cave and Mammoth Cave were now no more than six hundred feet apart, likely closer since Chris Kerr had followed the breakdown beyond the last survey station. The caves could, in fact, be less than one hundred feet apart. I thought again about Bob Anderson’s report of the last trip he took in Roppel Cave: “It does not go.” I repeated the words to myself.
Was the breakdown penetrable? Chris Kerr turned around in virgin going cave and the wind was blowing. I did not know Chris well, although I had been acquainted with him back in high school and had gone on caving trips in Virginia with him. Would he hide anything in his description of his trip into the breakdown beyond the sump?
It became clear to me that we would have to mount a trip soon to resolve the questions, or someone else would answer them. It was not a question of if or even when a connection would be made; it was a question of who would make it. I would not permit the connection to be made by a few self-serving cave rapists who cared little about the caves or the CKKC.
The dream was unraveling, a victim of other passionate cavers in Mammoth Cave. So be it. However, I knew one thing for sure: those of us who shared in
the dream of Roppel Cave would be the ones to end this dream. Nobody else had that right, and nobody else could steal that from us. Our years of negotiations with the CRF were not going to be for naught.
I had kept my ear to the ground but had heard no scuttlebutt indicating that secret scheming was going on. Things seemed calm, and I wanted the time to think things through completely.
However, I was deluding myself in thinking that no one else had taken an immediate interest in the recent events.
The weekend after Chris Kerr’s trip, I attended the Old-Timers Reunion near Elkins, West Virginia. The Old-Timers Reunion was the ultimate caving party. Fifteen hundred beer-drinking and howling party fanatics would descend upon a small campground, set up tents, and indulge themselves in almost every conceivable excess for nearly three straight days. This was a cherished annual rite-of-passage event for many cavers from all over the United States and Canada; some would drive for days to attend. Fortunately, its organizers had a few years back located the Old-Timers Reunion in a remote area, isolated from normal society. In the past, unwitting and innocent weekenders would find themselves surrounded by the melee, their children wide-eyed at the spectacle. Appalled beyond belief, these fleeing families would forever stereotype all cavers as incorrigible hooligans to be avoided at all cost. Now, an entire campground was cordoned off for the enormous blast to spare innocents from the shock. Amazingly, attendance for the weekend shindig was greater than the more-touted annual NSS conventions that lasted a week, were better organized, and were more socially responsible. Some cavers just like to unwind. They never claimed that the reunion was a Sunday school picnic.
It was a fine and sunny Labor Day weekend. Everyone was out socializing, beer in hand, or participating in the remotely cave-related activities that the attending grottoes had organized. The cave was far from my mind, and I was having a great time. I was looking forward to the Speleo-Olympics in the afternoon and the big party later that evening. By chance, I ran into Geary Schindel among the sea of tents. Geary lived in Bowling Green and was doing thesis research at Western Kentucky University. I had known him, though not well, for years and had caved with him a time or two. I had thought of Geary as a fringe caver, not in the mainstream of caving in the Mammoth Cave area, but he seemed to know what was happening. A true gossip, he could cause trouble, but I was totally unprepared for his coming assault.
“I heard all about the trip last weekend. What did you think?” He was baiting me.
“How’d you hear about it?” What was he up to?
Geary smiled. “Oh, I have my ways.” Then he set the hook. “I hear Chris Kerr probably made the connection.”
“Really?” I asked. “What are you talking about?” I was trying very hard not to play his game.
Several cavers circled us, listening. Geary continued, “Well, he pushed pretty far into the breakdown. He must have gotten into Roppel Cave.”
I was already emotionally drained by the recent whirlwind of events—thoughts of a connection, events out of my control. It was a big tornado, and I was worn out. Geary’s provocations struck a nerve, and struck it hard.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! I heard about what Chris found and I know all about the breakdown at the end of Logsdon River in Roppel.”
Geary was itching to argue this. “Oh, I heard all about Anderson’s trip to the breakdown, too. Anderson was bullshitting you. He left going cave back there and didn’t want to tell you—especially after you guys threw him out for no reason.”
The crowd around us was growing. I could feel more anger welling up from within me. What was Geary trying to pull?
“Don’t think so. Anderson found nothing—anything else doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Geary laughed. “If you guys are sure he didn’t connect, you guys better do it, and do it quick.”
“Why?” I was defiant now.
“If you guys don’t connect right away, someone will do it for you.”
“Who might that be?” My sarcastic tone was giving away my anger.
Geary kept pressing. “I might just go in there when I get home and connect the caves myself!”
“You’re full of shit! You wouldn’t dare!” My face was burning.
“Watch me,” he snorted.
I turned and walked off. Hot. I heard Geary over my shoulder.
“Remember, if you don’t . . . I will.”
He had made me furious. I had taken his bait like a stupid bass lunging for a fisherman’s lure. As I walked among the hundreds of nylon tents, my indignation increased. I was incensed at this attack—and annoyed at my response. Although I had known immediately after the trip that the situation was out of the CKKC’s control, I was not ready for such a blatant and immediate threat as Geary’s.
The situation was grave. Whether Geary Schindel was playing some kind of game or not did not matter. He was capable of whipping up a frenzy in other cavers, setting the ball rolling even if he himself was not involved. We could not wait. It was time to move . . . now!
Roberta Swicegood also attended the Old-Timers Reunion, along with her numerous friends who had made the long drive from Alabama and Georgia. It took me fifteen minutes to find her. I told her about my shouting match with Geary. “I think we’re going to have to connect. Connect now!”
“Well, James, you’re probably right.” She looked out across the campground, admiring the multicolored display of tents. “We’re dealing with unpredictable people here. Best we act now, while we still have the chance.”
“And one chance is all we’ve got,” I added.
What to do next? In the distance, I saw cavers swinging wildly on a rope hanging from a tall tree, hooting before dropping spectacularly into the river. Insanity.
“We can’t let on that we’re planning this trip. We have to keep it an absolute secret.”
This time, someone was swinging naked on the rope, screaming like Tarzan.
“And do it soon.”
“Makes sense,” Roberta said.
“We’ll get a whole bunch of people, some from the CRF and some from Roppel.” I frowned as I tried to cobble together the final pieces of the plan. “Since this is a breakdown area, it will probably be hard to connect. We’ll have to send a party in each way and meet at the breakdown.”
“And bring hammers,” Roberta added.
“Of course. We’ll shout to each other to find the way through.”
Roberta nodded her head in agreement and smiled as she thought about it.
“But who should come?” I asked.
Roberta mused. I knew she wanted to go.
“Well,” began Roberta, “we should invite those who are most currently active.”
We ironed out the details in the next couple of hours, talking quietly in one corner of the campground. We watched carefully for anyone who might be listening—especially Geary Schindel. The sun had long set and the big parties were cranking up. I was missing it. Loud music throbbed from the central pavilion that was crammed with happy cavers.
We would connect the coming weekend during an already scheduled CKKC expedition. In the next few days, we would assemble two parties, one made up of representatives from the CKKC, the other from the CRF. Also, we would ask some of the more active nonaligned participants. This would ensure that we included Don Coons, John Branstetter, and Sheri Engler, who were as vested in this cave as any of us. One party would use the Ferguson Entrance to Mammoth Cave and the other the Weller Entrance to Roppel. Each party would proceed to the breakdown on a timetable. By hammering, shouting, moving rocks, swimming, or any other necessary means, we would attempt to link the two caves. If the connection was successful, each party would proceed out the other’s entrance. This would be a double crossover trip with each party making the complete connection through-trip.
Because of all the controversy, I wondered if it would look like a staged event—not that it mattered. However, to maximize the probability of success
, it seemed best to approach the endeavor with this large group of cavers, however ceremonial their selection appeared. All the cavers would be strong and capable. And we did not want to fail. A failure would not only be a bitter disappointment but would also leave the door open for Geary Schindel, or anyone else, to connect the caves. Our failure would be their incentive. We had to throw everything we had at it.
During the next couple of days, I called the people on the list that Roberta and I had compiled and later cleared with Pete Crecelius. The CKKC group was easy to enlist, although I encountered three surprises. Pete declined, for reasons I did not fully understand. He just said, “Let someone else do it.” Tommy Brucker refused also: “I don’t need to be on the connection; the CKKC expedition needs me.” I shrugged, recalling his refusal eleven years ago when offered a chance to participate in the Flint Ridge–Mammoth Cave connection. I was as perplexed now as others had been then.
With mixed feelings, I finally asked Jim Currens. I actually thought he might accept, but he too declined. “No. Not interested at all,” he said.
I shook my head, “Unbelievable.” I hung up the phone.
The final CKKC list included Roberta Swicegood, Dave Weller, Dave Black, Bill Walter, and me. It was not perfect and would inevitably be second-guessed; certainly, everyone deserving could not go—we had limited our party to five. But it was the best list we could come up with.
For the CRF party, I first asked John Wilcox. Although he had been inactive since the French Connection, I admired him greatly and wanted him along—I owed him one. He refused also. Was he really that modest?
I moved on, eventually arriving at Roger Brucker and his new wife, Lynn. Nobody had invested as much in the caves as Roger, and his emotional investment in the connection was as high as mine. I thought he deserved a shot at this connection, his first as far as I knew. Lynn had been a strong contributor in exploring the difficult passageways in Mammoth Cave that extended towards Doyle Valley, as well as in the river itself.