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.

Boundaries

Spring--real, birds-singing-and-flowers-blooming spring, arrived today. It was one of those blue sky breezy days that made it absolutely impossible to do anything other than get out and dive right into it. So I did what any self-respecting college student would do, and skipped class.

Let me explain that I do not skip class lightly. . . but today was so rare and beautiful that my valuable life-dollars would have been wasted if I spent them in class. An hour and a half of class, or a half-day of climbing craggy limestone cliffs amongst the junipers?

After making that tough decision--toughest I'll make all week--I called the friend who had invited me out, Matt, and told him I was in.

It was an interesting chance to climb with someone different than my usual partner. It's always cool to gain new perspective and experience with someone different, though there is also a certain sense of apprehension. I am still pretty rough around the edges as a climber and there is a lot for me to learn yet before I can manage myself completely safely on the rock.

Speaking of the rock, it was gorgeous--a blank, monolithic slate of limestone that rose up out of nowhere beside a rough single-track road. I was in awe just looking at it. There must be some sort of natural climber in me though--I was immediately unsatisfied with merely gazing at it from the ground. I needed to be on it.

I was soon to get intimately acquainted with that rock. As a "warmup" Matt led a 5.9 route while I belayed. I have caught a lead fall before, but only in practice when I was warned well in advance. With Matt it was lightning fast. I watched him slip and the next thing I knew I was smashed up against the wall, still gripping the rope tightly down by my thigh.I blinked up at him in surprise to see how he was doing, but he was more concerned with me than his own fall.

Despite the hard knock to my elbow and shin, I was sort of glad it happened. Now we both knew that I could catch him when it came down to it, and he got his fall out of the way.

Matt took a second go at the route  and managed it without any more falls. I could see how crazy it was at certain points though, how he'd risked quite long falls on nearly nonexistent hand and foot holds. Now that he'd gone up first, I could have chosen to climb the route on top rope and eliminate any risk, but. . .(see last post).

I decided I would lead it, not realizing that it was about to push my boundaries much further than ever before. Only a few feet up, I could hear a loud beating in my head, and it took me a moment to realize it was my heart nervously hammering away (this lasted the entire climb). Every time I have lead climbed in the past, I was painfully aware of how far I was from each bolt, and how long of a fall I would be taking. This time there was no room for such calculation. I had to focus every ounce of my being in just moving my ass to the next available hold, because none of them were trustworthy enough to stand around on and think about the universe.

I had a brief thought at one point--flung far out to the right of the previous bolt--that I was standing on literally nothing. I even shouted down to Matt that I had no clue what was keeping me on the rock at that moment. Two single fingertips and maybe a single toe from each foot had contact with the rock, and I was at a place where slipping would have been a very rough scrape indeed.

                   (The tiny dot in the center of that photo is Matt at the top of the 5.9)
Actually, I'm pretty sure it was only my incredible fear of death (okay I would not have literally died, but it kinda felt like it) that kept me suspended in the air. Amazing what motivation can do to a person's strength. I could've done a pullup easily at that moment, hell yeah. Panting and dripping with sweat, I reached a nice ledge to stand on below the anchor at the top, and gratefully hugged the nearest outcropping of rock. Safe.

Matt and I continued climbing after that, including one disastrous lead on my part that ended in a free climb back down, which was a bit touch-and-go. But truly, what happened after that for me did not matter, because I'd conquered myself and my fear already. I cheered Matt on as he (top-roped) a 5.10 like a champ, envious but admiring as always. The hours had burned away magically while we weren't looking, and it was time to get back. We packed up and headed back to the vehicle, both having tested our limits for the day .

On the way back, I bought us some victory ice cream, which we ate while watching crazy kayakers enjoy a beautiful evening out on the Clark Fork river. Today--today life is good.

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.