Mud and Guts: Caving in the Wilderness

Over a year ago, I started caving. And while I say "I", no one can start themselves into caving. You have to rely on the kindness of established cavers to train you and make sure you don't do anything too stupid at first.

This calls for the head-first approach, right?

I was overwhelmed even by small caves then, but I listened to stories and dreamed about some caves that had achieved an almost mythical status in my mind.

So when I was invited to tag along with some of the most experienced, expert cavers in the country on their caving expedition in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, I accepted even with the awareness that I was probably going to pee myself in fear. Ten days in the wilderness was about 8 days longer than I'd ever been in the Wilderness before, and easily the most remote caving I had ever done. Just hiking around on the surface you are pretty much beyond rescue, let alone in the depths of the caves themselves.

Ten days of backpacking, caving, and rafting, with a group of mostly strangers--I was well out of every comfort zone I have. When the day of departure came, my farewells to my family had almost a note of finality to them.

I had one main goal: don't cause trouble for the group.

Wilderness sign...OF NO RETURN!

There were so many things to worry about that by the time I started hiking I couldn't possibly worry about them all, so I just focused on one step, one mile at a time. I stuck by the side of an older and wiser friend who tolerated my beginner-ness with saintly patience.

For the first time in my life, I didn't need an alarm clock. My inner alarm (i.e. fright) woke me consistently at 5:30-6:00 AM each morning. Afraid of being too slow and left behind, I jumped up to get ready each morning. I saw something like 9 sunrises in a row, easily a record for me.

I learned more in these days than, I suspect, an entire semester of school. I slowly got to know each of my companions and became even more awed by the company I was keeping. These were incredibly intelligent, competent adults, miles ahead of me in every aspect of life, with PhDs and life experience to their name. They taught me to run survey instruments and gain vertical caving skills. And they never passed up an opportunity to make a dick joke.

It's so big!

Every day scared me, but the work was fun. I helped map a new section of cave where no human had ever been before. In the meantime, the others were pushing deeper in a cave that would prove to be the deepest in the US. After 3 days of caving, I took a rest day to hike around and look at plants, clean my gear and nap in my tent. It was absolutely gorgeous, of course.

I thought I wanted a day to enjoy the beauty of the wilderness. But that day, as I lay in the full sun surrounded by flowers and swatting at numerous flies, I realized I would actually rather be underground.

So I went.

The next day, I found myself at the bottom of Virgil the Turtle, one of the deepest caves in the US. I had told myself around a year ago that this was the cave I wanted to get in someday, thinking it wouldn't be for a very long time. Sitting at the bottom of Virgil was a surreal experience. I wasn't sure if it was actually happening, or if I had somehow died and was having a very realistic fantasy.

Although a very dimly lit fantasy.

Then one of my companions reached over and smeared some of the abundantly present mud on my face, breaking the spell. In the midst of wrestling to try to mud him back, I realized that this was definitely real, and there was nowhere else on--or in--the earth I'd rather be.

Plenty more mud where that came from!

At the end of the trip, we floated out on tiny, inadequate rafts on the South Fork of the Flathead. Even that part was scary (maybe the scariest!)

But it wasn't with a group of strangers anymore.

Lead the way!

 I accomplished my number one goal (well, mostly), plus a few others. And I have no regrets.

The cave suit, tragically, did not survive.

In Search of Bats: The Underside of America

Tonight I am back from my first week of bridging--or batting? Anyway, I have a few reflections after some comic misadventures.

Dash across 4 lanes of traffic without dropping 5 things-ready, set, go!!

1. Octopus arms. As in, I need several pairs. It's incredible how juggling binoculars, GPS, camera, data sheet, and potentially a pole-extended recorder can require inhuman juggling abilities. As soon as I figure out how to hold all these things at once, surveys will go much faster.

I think we need a longer pole to reach that bridge, Captain!

2. Pulling myself together. I recheck my forms about a hundred times before moving on to the next bridge--forgetting something could range from a giant inconvenience to impossible to fix. I know this already from the fieldwork I have done before, but when it is solely my own responsibility, it gains new meaning.

Also, I have learned this: don't leave any personal items where people might happen by and find it--your entire family will assume you are dead in a ditch somewhere (this lesson brought to you The Hard Way).

I know I left the truck lying around here somewhere...

3. Soliloquy. I have already started talking to myself. And my truck, Rocinante, as if it were my noble horsey steed. I don't feel any shame about it, but I wonder what I will be like in 3 months' time. Locals are probably going to start rumors about a crazy lady who haunts bridges and has sticks and poop in her hair.

And spiders.

5. Batsssss. After surveying a few dozen bridges, of which most had bat sign (read:poop) I can pretty well expect to find a ton of signs of use, but I have very little expectation when it comes to seeing bats. I will probably pee myself when I actually find a living bat.

THEY WERE HERE JUST HOURS AGO. Yes, this is a picture of poop. I AM NOT SORRY.

6. Interstate bridges are disgusting, and so are people. That's just a fact.

I don't even care if it's true, I still hate humanity.

7. Fear. I am afraid of failure, still. I am less afraid that the project will be physically impossible, but I am afraid of myself being incapable or insufficient.  Of course, I guess nothing is sure in life, on that note. But there are so many people who have supported me in this, I am terrified of failure. Perhaps abject terror will make me work harder. Who knows?

Step into my office...

So there you are--my first thoughts and some second ones. Back to batting tomorrow!

I remain--Batgirl

Over the hills, through the woods

A cave adventure (caventure?) in north central Montana

Step One: Wakeup

 The cast assembled bright and early on a cold Saturday morning: a crew of five teenagers, two adults, and whatever I count as. Our mission was to reach two caves by plodding across the snowy hills, so that we could check them for hibernating bats. Everybody strapped into their snowshoes and followed the somewhat erratic guidance of my GPS.

During the first mile or so of a hike, I realize I actually hate hiking and should give it up and find a cozy chair and a book somewhere. Fortunately endorphins kick in after that, and I start to enjoy it (at least that's what I assume is happening).

Not too proud for hands and knees.

 We huffed and puffed our way over the hills, floundering in the dry, sugarlike snow. The views of the sweeping plains made it a pleasant experience, but we were relieved to reach the first cave, Wind Hole. Unfortunately, there was still a mile and a half to our real destination, the next larger cave, and there was a formidable ridge between us and it.

Crawlway into the Wind Hole

We would have to climb the mountainous ridge twice. A few members of the party decided it wasn't going to happen and called it a day, turning back to follow our packed-down trail out. The rest of us needed to pick up the pace if we were to get out before sundown.

Step Two: The Work

The way in!

 There was so much snow, we worried that the entrance to Cave #2 might be sealed off--a legitimate fear, as it turned out, as there was a giant mound of snow filling it. We rode the snowpile down in, crawled in the low entryway and got to work. Our efforts paid off--bats!

Or frozen batsicles.

Because of their presence, we placed a data logger to record temperature and humidity, snapped some shots of the bats for ID purposes and got out. It was a small cave, but combing every inch of it for bat sign still took time. We were in a race to get back before the sun set (and the temperature dropped even further).

Step 3: Get the Heck Out

Attempting a time-saving glissade down a snow chute

I don't usually feel that I am all that much use as a chaperone. The kids are spunky and resourceful, and could make it back on their own if necessary. But I was still happy that I was there to check in and make sure no one's fingers were getting frostnipped, and to herd them onward whenever they got sidetracked.

Eventually, we all made it back to the warm, waiting bus. It was well after dark, and the kids and I were pretty well exhausted. I found it surprisingly easy to nap during the six hours on the bus ride back to my car, adopting all sorts of contorted positions.

Step 3.5: Learning

It seems like I am learning more than the cave clubbers are, despite my supposed chaperone status. I'm trying to be patient but still push them on. Learn how much to help them, or let them figure things out on their own (so far, erring on the side of the latter).

One of the main things I am discovering is how much these kids are capable of. It is an amazing thing to watch a group of 15-year-olds take a burly hike in freezing temperatures and still get down to business and take their work seriously in the cave.

When I was 15, I would have literally died in the attempt.

It is the club leader, their high school teacher, who pulls off this magic. All I can do is come along and hope to pick up some of his wisdom, if he'll allow it.

Some days, I don't feel qualified to oversee grass grow. I am making mistakes, and I don't know what I'm doing most of the time. I can only hope that I stay humble and open toward these lessons. If I don't learn from them, there isn't a point.

After all, I have something important to work toward.

           Snuggling this adorable creature. (jokes, of course...)

Ready, Set. . .

A year ago, I learned that I was accepted for a position in Alaska working with waterfowl. I was excited and scared at the prospect of traveling so far, and living in unfamiliar territory.

In the land of tiny fish. Or really big people.

 This year, I won't be leaving Montana. But I am probably equally as nervous! I am not working as a technician on a field project. I will be my own technician for my senior thesis project (finally a sure thing as of today, though I've been tearing my hair out about it).

My postings on this blog are scattered at best, so I propose to update this blog as the project goes on. It will be a good place to check in, and may be useful for review later as I inevitably make mistakes.

I am a little scared. But I am going to be surveying bridges to determine where and what kind of bats are roosting there in the summertime. Since this is something we really don't know, I'm very curious what the results will be. Also, as a budding scientist, I am going to have to practice real, legitimate science that will be scrutinized by other scientists. (Ack!)

I turned down a very decent, well-paid job for this. . . so I might be crazy. But I'm doing it. Crashing into wildlife biology head first.

Let's do this!

Staying in Montana is such a painful prospect.

With Montana it is love. . .

If I ever forget why I love Montana (God forbid), haul me up and take me on a backpacking trip. There is something about traveling country by foot, and nothing else seems to be able to replace it. It is looking down at a dizzying drop, knowing it was your feet and legs, attached to your rapidly beating heart, that took you up there and nothing else.

Red Gap Pass, Glacier Nat'l Park

I try not to romanticize the outdoors in my own mind too much (though it is probably inevitable). The mountain does not give a shit that we are walking on it. The cold stream doesn't care. We can certainly impact these places, whether positively or negatively, but the earth does not care about our little ant scurries.

What we take away from it, however, is invaluable. I'm not really sure why, but as much as the mountains and rivers and lakes do not need people, people need them.

Preferably as grueling as possible.

 I probably could have stayed home all weekend and worked on chores, homework, and other life demands, and still not have finished everything. Instead I fled responsibility and escaped into the mountains--the Mission Mountains Wilderness, where I took a short backpack trip with friends. After spending an enjoyable night by a high alpine lake I still hadn't escaped my restlessness. That need had not been quite fulfilled.

Behold, Daughter of the Sun

The peak featured in the center of this photo sits solidly at 8,777 feet--not enormous, but an impressive mountain with a lovely name. The sight of it had teased us all the way up on our hike. Myself and an intrepid partner (or leader, more accurately. . . ) parted from the rest of the group to tackle the summit (see previous photo of ridiculous scree scramble).

Without a map or knowledge of a good route, we eyed a possible line up to the ridge and headed up. We hiked over a boulder field, which turned into near-vertical loose talus, and finally hit giant stacked boulders to scramble up and over all the way to the top. The route required Class 3/4 scrambling, according to the people at summitpost.org, but I wasn't expecting quite that much sheer vertical climbing. *After some research, turns out I accidentally did Class 5 (roped climbing) free solo on this trip. Don't try it at home, kids. . . *

I wish I had taken more photos to prove how epic the climb was, but on the other hand, I was pretty focused on not dying. The climbing was easy compared to the rock climbing I've done before-- except I was wearing hiking boots, a pack, and had absolutely no rope protection. Even Intrepid Partner, not known for his cautiousness, advised me to make sure every hand and foothold was 100% before I tried it.

"Looks solid."

Several times we attained false summits only to throw our hands up frustrated, realizing we had yet another ledge with hundreds of feet of exposure to climb. Returning the way we came seemed impossible (and in fact probably was). We had gone too far to turn back now. Somehow, inching across ledges and climbing up narrow slots, we made our way upward. Stepping onto the summit was a ridiculously joyous, heady moment.

At the summit, the rest of the world seems to stop. Human things look very small and inconsequential from up there. They look the way they ought to, maybe.

I was concerned about coming back down, knowing that downclimbing is much more dangerous. I took my time edging carefully back down the mountain, taking a slightly different route with looser rock but less exposure. I hopped down from solid hold to solid hold, sending showers of loose rock plummeting hundreds of feet to the ground. Intrepid Partner sailed down with a grin on his face, skiing (skreeing?) over the rocks in his boots. 

There wasn't much time for celebration at arriving on solid ground again. At the bottom, we shouldered our suddenly heavy overnight packs and continued on 6 miles down to the trailhead. Tired, but totally content (and in my case, happy to have some solid earth under my feet).

Why do humans seek adventure, and inherent with it, risk?

Sometimes, just because we can.

Just too good to pass up.

No Fear in Ophir: Caving Round 2

Ever since my previous adventure into caves I found my appetite whetted for the dark, dirty and cold underground that my beautiful Montana has to offer. So for two months now climbing partner Ben and I have been plotting and scheming our next move. It took us that long just to be prepared--this time, we did not intend to rush headlong into the unknown.

"The Unknown"

Also, caves in Montana, as we were about to discover, are one of those closely guarded secrets. Because people have a knack for getting into shit they shouldn't be doing, this is probably a good idea. But it makes trip planning difficult. We analyzed topographic maps for likely cave locations, cross-referenced them with Google Earth images, and matched up features with terse descriptions from an old book called Caves of Montana published in the 1970s. It was very much like following tattered pieces of a treasure map.

Finding the cave was secondary, though, to being prepared to enter it at all. We chose Ophir--what we thought would be a nice practice cave for rappelling and ascending free drops.  Ben and I agonized over every detail of the setup we should use and practiced ascending a tree behind his house to perfect our system. I was very grateful for these hours of practice when it came to the real thing.

Just one of Ophir's towering, milky walls

 After all our preparation we loaded up with two other companions with some climbing experience and adventurous spirit, Dean and Kay. We left Missoula at 1 PM and headed for the forest. We were unsure of our route until we came across "Cave Gulch Road." Gotta be a cave there, right?

 We took comical pictures posing outside the entrance of the cave, while that familiar feeling of apprehension mixed with excitement grew in me. I was half raring to go, and half what the hell are we doing here? Fortunately, I usually ignore that half.

Enter the Double Throat and it shall swallow you whole. . .

I had heard that someone died in the cave in 2009 by falling down a man-made mineshaft in the entrance room. The shaft is completely fenced off now, so it would take some extreme effort to die in it, but some wiseacre decided to make a helpful note.

In case you can't read it, the arrow points down the shaft and helpfully points out "Dead End."

Thanks, dude.

Our real surprise in exploring Ophir was that it was much bigger, and less straightforward, than we imagined. The entrance room was huge, and it branched off into a right and left fork. We ventured down the left side and spent a good hour just exploring the spidery network of passages there.

The going was incredibly slow--we were climbing over giant rock breakdown that was often filmed with a slippery coat of mud. Travel was strange and awkward--we were moving around in a type of maze not designed for humans or our idea of comfort. 

Or our butts.

 

 After satisfying ourselves that none of the other passages continued--at any rate, nowhere we had the least desire to go--we returned to a hole we had found earlier and decided it must be the route. Ben carefully set up the anchor. It was only about ten or fifteen feet of rappelling, but it was sufficient to trap us down in that hole if anything went wrong, because there was no way of climbing out of it.

 Ben the Fearless Leader lowered first down the shaft. If it immediately pinched out he could find out for us and ascend back up fairly quickly. The rest of us waited until he said the magic words "it goes!" before joining him. As second most experienced, I helped Dean and Kay safely set up their own rappel gear to follow. Descending into the bowels of the earth was a bit foreboding, but sitting above listening to dripping water that sounded horribly like footsteps was worse, so I hastily joined them.                                                        

Doesn't even look a little bit like a mouth. Not at all.

If we thought the entrance room had been confusing, this was even more so. There were false leads everywhere, tunnels that led us in circles and seemingly, nowhere to go. After a while, we all gathered to discuss our options in a tiny chamber below the surface. We had nearly decided that this was the wrong shaft after all, and we'd better go back up and look at one of the others.

However, on one of my explorations I had found more passage, but turned back when I got too far away from everyone for comfort. "It seemed to get narrower and might not go anywhere," I admitted. Ben was game to come with me and see it. We slid and slithered through cramped passage, chimneyed down short drops, and came to a halt at a wide spot right before the passage grew very tight. I could tell it kept going but suspected it couldn't go far, as it seemed to be getting narrower all the while.

Though hardly the first explorers of this cave, we went ahead and named some features anyway, and we dubbed this spot Makeout Pinchout because of its intimate quarters. In the spirit of exploration I decided to go until I could go no farther, so I squeezed on through and kept going. After the tightest squeeze yet, which required straddling the rock with one leg and sliding your body after in a move I dubbed "straddling the pony," I actually stood up in a pretty spacious chamber and looked down at a heart-pounding drop.

Moments after straddling the Pony

"Ben. . . " I said. "You've got to come see this. It goes."

The rest of our party was in disbelief that this was the correct route to the bottom chamber. We still didn't know for sure, but it was clear that the passage opened up and was at least another place to go. After a considerable amount of time taking stock of ourselves and deciding whether we wanted to pursue it, we pressed on.

As we meticulously set up a three-way anchor on surrounding boulders, I asked Ben if I could go first this time (in some sort of fit of insanity.) He and I went either first or last, with the less experienced climbers sandwiched in between us. He readily agreed, and I began to lower myself down after making dead sure I had every piece of ascender equipment necessary to come back up. Still, it was with a sort of feeling of no return that I dropped down.

The drop was more like two than one. After about fifteen feet I landed in another chamber, and this time I saw immediately down a hole into the ceiling of a vast chamber below. I called up nervously to my companions and asked if I should wait here for them or continue. I don't think they really understood what I was saying, but they urged me on. I took a deep breath and threw the rope down the hole, was relieved to hear it hit the floor, and went after it.

The free drop

The bottom chamber of Ophir was so vast and beautiful that I forgot to be nervous. As soon as my feet touched solid ground I got off the rope and shouted up to the others that I'd made it, then looked around in wonder.

The room was easily 100 feet long, and toward the back of the chamber, as much as 60 feet high. The walls glowed with what looked like white waterfalls of calcite. And everything, I mean everything, was soaking wet. Including the cave register, which was sadly a pulpy, unreadable mess.

The others were taking an awful long time to follow me. I wandered back to the rope and looked up to see their headlamps bobbing in the blackness above. I'd been alone in the chamber for a good twenty minutes before they relayed their decision to me. Dean and Kay, having seen the 40 foot free drop, would stay at the ceiling chamber because of the time and effort it would cost them to ascend back up.

Ben, though, would join me. I was glad to see him--spending time alone in the chamber had been magical, but I was more than ready to share it with someone.

Much of it looked a lot like poop, to be honest.

We did a quick exploration and snapped some photos, Ben just as awe-inspired as myself at the size of it. There was more passage to explore, but it was nearly ten o'clock and we were feeling the pressure of the task that lay ahead of us--getting back out. So we bid farewell to Ophir's 184-foot depths and started back out, which was to be the true adventure.

Ascending the 40 foot free drop was surprisingly easy. The 15 footer after that, not so much. That drop involved a sharp overhang that was impossible to get the ascenders over with your weight pinching them against the rock. It proved tricky to get over, nearly impossible if you didn't have the brute strength to essentially do a pullup over it, as Kay did not. We were delayed at that point for quite some time--the only part of the trip where I truly began to wonder if we were going to make it out at all--but we kept relaxed with jokes and casual chatter. Kay would only get up over it if we stayed calm. She refused to give up, and swung herself over and around the rock with great difficulty.

We were much more relaxed after that, because we knew we'd already gotten over the most difficult part. It was interesting how, after many hours in the cave, we became more at ease there--with the cramped spaces, dripping water and persistent darkness.

Fascinating and sort of mildly gross at the same time

My own terrible moment was to come at the Pony of all places--the squeeze I'd already made multiple times. I went at it the wrong way and somehow got myself trapped, my ribcage stuck between a hard point of rock beneath me and the ceiling above. It was difficult to breathe and even harder to stay calm when I could go neither forward nor backward. I kicked out my legs in effort to turn on the spot and get a more favorable angle, but my leg was twisted up funny against the wall.

I realized I was panicking a little bit and forced myself to take a shallow breath. Ben helped me get my leg behind me and I turned just enough to slide out of the trap.

I was definitely ready to be out and breathing the free air again. Without further mishaps we made our way back out. Toward the end my arms began to tremble from the effort, and I realized that my energy was rapidly disappearing into a vacuum of hunger and weariness. Caving is even more difficult work than I ever imagined--we had been under the surface for around ten hours.

Back at the entrance room, we gathered all our gear and carried ourselves out into the fresh night air, then collapsed in a pile. Head to foot we were coated in sticky, poo-like cave mud. We were exhausted, filthy, and radiant at our accomplishment.

To welcome us back, the outside world rained.

The fresh air was pure heaven. But it was 1 AM, and we all had lives to get back to, which we had completely forgotten about for a brief time. In the cave, nothing else seemed to exist.

I will not lie--at times, I wondered why the heck we were there or why it was enjoyable to crawl around in freezing mud amongst the bat poop. And even now I'm not entirely sure I can answer that.

Except because. . . adventure.

--Ophir Nothing

School what?

It probably seems as if I don't do a whole lot of schoolwork what with all this adventuring going on, so I'd like to state for the record that that isn't the case. To all appearances I goofed off a lot this past weekend, but in reality was hard at work.

Photographing plants is exhausting. (Viola nuttalli)

It might appear from my numerous photographs that I was just on a fun jaunt looking at pretty flowers, when in reality. . . okay, it was a fun jaunt with flowers, but it was also homework!

Lupinus!

This semester I am taking Rocky Mountain Flora, my first real wildlife class. It is an encouraging sign of things to come that while it is challenging, I also enjoy it a lot. Surprising considering I never gave much notice to plants before, but now I'm totally nerding out on them.

The plant world might seem staid and boring--after all, they don't run around hooking each other with giant horns like some game animals are wont to do. They are easily trampled underfoot without uttering a squeak of discomfort or protest.

And yet, silently, plants are at war with one another. War, incest, sometimes even SELF-incest (that's a new one. . .), murder, and genocide ensues wherever there are plants.

In short, plants are pretty badass.

If you don't immediately believe me, remember that there are such plants as Venus Flytraps out there in the world that snap up and digest prey with their juices. And those "pretty" petals on that lupine up there are really a siren song designed to call insects away from other plants and toward itself instead. Don't fool yourself--every plant you see is risking its life to stake out the best possible territory to survive and pass on offspring. A meadow of flowers is more like a battleground, and your prancing through it aimlessly is altering the outcome of those battles. (So, watch your step.)

MURDER DAISIES!

Sometimes--by which I mean a lot of times--seeking a career in wildlife biology is a bit discouraging. It is a lot of hard work for very little payoff. But sometimes, it is also awesome, and the only place I can imagine myself being. It is a career I pursue, definitely not for the money, but purely because of my own personal motivation and love of all things wild (animal or not).

There is something to be said for that.

Cave Quest

After the trip to Banff, it wasn't quite time to return to reality just yet. I originally planned to do some ski mountaineering on a nearby peak with some buddies, but spring rain intervened and kept us indoors. How could we have an outdoor adventure and still stay out of the rain?

An idea dawned on me. I had never once thought to wonder if there were any caves large enough to explore nearby, so I started Googling. As it turns out, caving is not a vastly popular activity (I also learned that real cavers do NOT like the term "spelunking"). But I came across a few vague mentions of a cave a few hours' drive away, found only by careful navigation and a topographic map.

The cave supposedly required rappeling into a 40 foot shaft. Will and John, my avid climber friends, perked up. Another detail--the shaft was likely full of ice, on which we might be able to practice some ice climbing, which we have been hoping to do all season.

We were sold, so we packed into a 4 wheel drive vehicle and headed off, having no clue what to expect. Three hours later we found ourselves on unmarked roads that could hardly be called roads--more like dirt tracks across the prairie. We jostled over ruts and rocks, and urged the vehicle on through deep snowbanks. Finally the road became entirely closed in by snow. To this point we had navigated entirely by matching up our surroundings to the topography on the map, since none of the roads were marked and dozens of them forked off at every corner. Many extra tracks weren't even displayed on the map, which was from the reliable and relevant year of 1957.

This way to the interstate?

The topography around us fit remarkably well with our map, however, so we thought we were in the right place and not far off. We grabbed our packs and climbing equipment and started hiking.

The search for the cave went on for a good hour. We struggled through pockets of deep snow, half-wondering if we were going to discover the entrance shaft in a less-than-pleasant manner. The three of us fanned out to look, keeping contact through occasional shouts of Marco Polo.

I had almost given up the quest and decided we had come all this way just to enjoy a beautiful day together on the earth's surface when I faintly heard the shout "I FOUND IT!"

Will, the map-reading genius, had realized we were mistaken about which road we were supposed to be on and found the cave where it was supposed to lie, in the drainage of what used to be a running creek (which likely helped form it long ago). We ran over to join him and all high-fived in excitement--we'd won the treasure hunt. Now--to enjoy our find.

Beckoning us in. . . .

The guys took their time setting up a rappel system on an anchor around a nearby tree. This wasn't one you wanted to get stuck in the bottom of, and the three of us had conveniently forgotten to warn anybody of where we'd gone. (127 hours, anyone?) There was brief questioning of who ought to go down first and officially be the first to enter the unknown (I was perfectly fine with waiting my turn).

After double checking the gear, John began to lower himself down.

Every couple feet he descended, the two of us remaining up top shouted to check on him, and received a mixture of swearing in reply. It turned out that the entrance was indeed a waterfall of ice, and rappelling down it was a clumsy and slippery affair. Halfway down, the melting water started dripping on your head, and at the bottom you stood in a shower, if you didn't move away quickly enough.

All this I was about to find out, for he had reached the bottom and shouted "Off belay!" which was my signal to set up my own rappel. My heart rate was quick with excitement as I lowered into the darkness, helmet on and headlamp on high. After an equally ungraceful descent, my feet touched bottom and my jaw dropped. The cave was bigger than I had expected. A tunnel to my right dropped away into impenetrable darkness. The unknown, there for us to explore.

When all three of us were down, we began our exploration of the cave. We moved slowly and carefully, gloves on to protect anything we touched, since the cave had obviously been vandalized in the past. Signatures were scrawled all over, and then covered with a slick of ice. It was a bit of a shock to find signatures from the 1800s--particularly one from an Iowan, which seemed rather out of the way.

One of many stalagm"ice"

It was an awe-inspiring place, one that somehow urged us to keep our voices low as if at the library. In two hours we made it through several chambers but were stopped at one chamber that required a short climb down to the floor. The carriage was turning into a pumpkin, and it was time for us to go. It would take us a long time to ascend the ropes back out of the entrance and we wanted to do so in daylight. Regretfully, we turned around, promising to return.

 Exiting the cave required scrambling over slippery rocks up to where the icefall began, at which point we dug our ice axes and crampons into the wall and climbed while held on tight belay. I had never been so intent or focused on what I was doing in my life as when I made a move while the tip of one ice axe bore all my weight.

After just a few hang-ups--including the rope lodging itself on a rock on the side of the shaft and getting stuck, requiring me to do a slightly risky rescue--the three of us were back on the surface, still shot with adrenaline and unbelieving of what we'd just experienced. And of course, we looked at each other and swore we were going to return and finish what we started, someday.

Watch your step. . .

Snow blew around us as we hiked back to the vehicle and headed back out. Montana has caves all right.

Happy caving :)