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

Invincible

   People who have watched some of my adventures at a distance--i.e. through Facebook--often have the impression that I'm totally gung ho about dangerous stuff. People who are not so at-a-distance, like the pals I went caving with last post, have told me that I act like I'm invincible and that I need to learn that I can die just like anyone else.

   I am sort of amused to hear this because it is so terribly untrue. Sometimes, I think I am the most frightened, scaredy-cat person in the world. I have an incredibly inventive brain that is able to think of every possible way I could die/get mutilated in any situation.

Particularly this situation.

     It makes me wonder if this is the case for a lot of daredevil type people--people famous for their free solo climbing or extreme kayaking, or those crazy backcountry skiers who purposely trigger avalanches to outrun them. Maybe they are scared too, and the only way they can think of to overcome it is to run straight at it, head on.

    I doubt this is unique to me. In fact, it seems like a very human trait. Where would we be if someone thousands of years ago hadn't decided to pick up a spear and chase after a giant woolly mammoth? If we'd stuck to trapping chipmunks and squirrels, I doubt we would have ever made it out of the stone age. Easy prey brings small reward.

Eh, plenty of reward here on this pillow.

As a species, we owe a lot to fear. It alerts us to danger, obviously. But there seems to be an equally strong pull toward it in humankind. My most reliable signal for when I ought to do something is when I am afraid of it. (Note I say fear and not downright repulsion, like playing chicken on train tracks or something. Big difference.)

Humans, in fact, almost seem addicted to fear. Look at some of our favorite pastimes, including horror films, theme parks, and extreme sports. As a species we are all about the fear.  Judging by the actions of a typical teenager, it seems to be a biological mechanism to curb our overpopulation.

 Strangely, my enjoyment of a situation shoots up along with the danger level. I like climbing routes while on a top rope a lot, but I enjoy climbing lead even more (and I am definitely not alone in this). The difference: the risk factor. Skiing at a moderate pace is pretty fun. Racing to the point where the trees become blurs is awesome.

And yet, every time I go skiing my brain is wondering if I'm going to break a leg today. In the middle of my Banff adventure, I suddenly became paralyzed with fear that the car was going to break down and strand us in the middle of the Canadian wilderness with no help for days. Sometimes I am afraid even to go on a hike because I am afraid of not being able to keep up the pace. Before I do just about anything, I am afraid of failure.

Seen here: lovely piece of FAILURE TO REACH THE SUMMIT

I have learned that the more often you give in to fear and avoid whatever it is you are afraid of, the bigger it grows. It compounds on itself until you are suddenly wrestling with a giant beast everywhere you go. And/or the nagging knowledge that you didn't make it to the top of the peak because fear turned you away (not that this is personal experience or anything. . . )

So instead of avoiding it, you might as well embrace it. Contrary to my friends and family's beliefs, I am all too aware of each mortal breath I take. There are a million ways to die, and we only have control over a very limited number of them. I could try to avoid all of them and spend my life in a sealed underground bunker. . . but, realistically no, I could not. No one can predict that if you spend your entire life not doing "dangerous" things, you won't just trip over a curb and break your head open on the sidewalk. Generally speaking, I take calculated risks, and carefully decide if what I am about to do is worth accepting that risk.

And. . . sometimes I'm just young and dumb. My bad.

Cliff diving: because your friends told you to.