There will be no specifics in this caving story because cavers are secretive people and if I tell you where I went they’ll have to kill me. Cavers are also pretty serious people. There are a lot more rules to crawling around on your stomach in the dark than you might expect. I only willfully (and wrongly) touched something once. Generally, I learn quick when yelled at. But I couldn’t stop smashing my helmeted head into the cave roof when crawling through constricted spaces. I seem to have an irrepressible need to pick my head up to see where I’m going. I didn’t mind the impact, which generates more noise than pain in a helmet. I just felt bad that I kept inadvertently impacting the fragile environment. On the other hand, whacking your head against the ceiling is arguably more pleasant than muddy boots in your face, which is what happens if you slither too fast without looking.
My friend Tim said that caving is like anchovies: you either love it or hate it. I guess that’s as good a place to start this story as any because my reaction was very middle ground. As with skydiving, I enjoyed it and would do it again if an occasion came my way (bonus points to caving for being much cheaper than skydiving), but I don’t think I’d go very far out of my way for it. And as with canyoneering, my prevailing impression was more appropriate to the day than to the sport, e.g. canyoneering was cold; caving was muddy.
On the “hate it” side, I don’t have any of the the fears that might make caving scary for some people. I only feel claustrophobic in traffic and I’m small enough that I figure if someone else can get through there, I can too. Properly outfitted in Cathy’s knee pads, Neal’s coveralls, and leather gloves I bought for navigating the spiny cliff-tops at Cayman Brac, the belly-squirming was reasonably comfortable and just challenging enough to be fun without being frustrating (if only I could have kept my head down).
I have great night vision so I’ve never had a fear of the dark, not that I could have seen in the caves without headlamp assistance, but it wasn’t something I worried about. Twice we all turned our headlamps off together to enjoy the dark. I’d have liked to have kept them off a little longer to see if my eyes ever did adjust to the point where I could see shapes at least, but in the time I had, they never did.
The little climbing we needed to do was slimy but within my comfort range. The torrential rains I was being blamed for bringing to California (oops, I just revealed that the caves were in the state of California) had made the cave entrances in particular muddy. Since most of the climbing was near an entrance, it was all pretty wet. Leather gloves have better friction than I’d have expected and “three points of contact,” as we were frequently reminded by one of the trip leaders, were enough to keep me safe and steady. I have to be honest and say that I probably enjoyed the climbing moments most. Climbing just feels right to me.
On the “love it” side, I’m perhaps not enough of a nature-worshipper, scientific scholar, or adventurer to get a true charge out of caving. The other beginner in our group was eager to explore the cave on his own, whereas I was content to follow along behind, assured that the way ahead was safely known. I did worm my way into a few rooms and corridors alone but never without checking first and always within easy conversational distance.
The clean, crystallized stalactites were beautiful but generally the caves were a dim, muddy brown. The best view was lying on your back in a small room, the sparkling stalactites just beyond your nose. Cathy and Mark, our trip leaders, pointed out and named the cave features for us. I learned to recognize ribbons, soda straws, and bacon. As Cathy said, they name things kind of simply in caving. If it looks like bacon, they call it bacon.
We were warned not to step on the millipedes or any other “wildlife” we might encounter. They’re precious and rare and adapted and so on. When we finally came across one of these millipedes, I recognized the creature that infests the Gunks and offered to ship them a few million if they were running short. I’m told they’re not the same, but I’m pretty sure ours would do in a pinch. Later we saw another creature which I’d have called a centipede, not a millipede, because it looked mean. It wasn’t as big as the one I saw in Mexico but it looked just as lethal, in a small way. No one had to warn me not to touch that one, and as for the other ones–I’ve already touched more of those than I like to think about.
After exploring three caves, we peeled off our muddy clothes. Cathy had warned me to wear clothes I didn’t care about, but I had seriously underestimated the grime factor. Fortunately, Neal’s coveralls held up well so none of my clothes got ripped, but I had a good appreciation for how important those coveralls were. Without them, I’d have been writing off a good long-sleeved tech shirt and maybe my water-resistant, cool-weather climbing pants. My new headlamp turned out to be bright enough and my helmet washed off, so thanks to Cathy’s outfitting I had everything I needed except a clean pair of shoes to wear on the drive back home.
It was a fun day with good people and some interesting memories but no new titles to add after my name. I’m still a climber first, a runner second, and trying to learn to be more adventurous and spontaneous third.
