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.

Field Magic

I spent the past week in a spectacular area of western Montana, the Seeley/Swan valley. Despite the slow torture of some brutal allergies and quarter-size mosquito bites, I was staggered by its incredible beauty. I feel as though I've been asleep for the past 3 years, to not notice some of the gorgeous places around me.

DIE MOSQUITOES DIE!

 It's hard to put my finger on it, exactly.

There was the pleasant surprise of early huckleberries...

The younglings hatching everywhere...

The kindness of the wonderful Anastasia, who let me use her kayak to paddle around and watch for bats, after meeting me for only a few minutes.

You're going to have to take my word for it--there are bats out there.

Becoming familiar with new faces.

 

(And old faces).

And the fact that I had a comrade, a volunteer who is willingly exposing herself to me and my crazy driving and doing so in good humor.

Yup, that's pretty magical.

-the Batwoman

Into the Mines!

         The Cave Club has taken me to some interesting places, but this one was truly unique. It was a cave that has not been open to the public in a decade, and getting inside is a feat worthy of Indiana Jones.

We have found the den of the redneck zombies!

     This cave boasted the sketchiest entrance I have ever encountered. The actual cave is accessible only through an old mine adit sunk in the side of a mountain. To get there, we were escorted up the steep, crumbling road on UTVs (while alarming, I might be spoiled for hiking to caves now). When the old mining road became impassable, we walked the remaining few hundred feet to the gate.

With drawings of horrible death like that, who could resist?

 The first group waited outside while the rest of the kids could be shuttled up. It began to rain, driving us to wait inside the entry chamber (into the mines!!) despite the potential zombie attack.

We were warned that the adit was the most dangerous part of our journey, but we would be fine as long as we didn't touch the walls and potentially collapse them, or breathe too much of the funky fungus. Well if that's all...

I SAID NO BREATHING.

We hustled through the tunnel, only sacrificing one or two high school students to appease the fungus. One by one we climbed a thin, slippery metal ladder and poked our heads up into the actual cave. It was time to get to work surveying, though it became apparent that this was going to be a solid task.

The job of the cave club was to catalog the formations within the cave and assess their damage by humans trampling or touching them. The first few rooms we assessed were totally wrecked, and by the time we were done with them, our clothing was too.

All that remains of the last cave photographer...

Everything was coated in several inches of thick, sucking mud. If I stood in one spot to write down notes for too long, my boots threatened to become permanent fixtures. Movement was slow and awkward. My partner and I spent a solid five hours surveying speleothems in four main upper rooms. There were some interesting--and even some fantastic--formations, but overall it wasn't extensively decorated (at least, anymore).

I can't tell if they're giving me the peace sign or flipping me off.

Afternoon had slipped into evening, although I was in a cave trance and didn't think more than an hour or two had gone by. We had one final large hall to survey, and it was the most difficult. The path down was guarded by a narrow crawl lined with perfectly breakable stalactites. I slithered down on my back, desperately avoiding the stalactites hovering centimeters above my face. It was like playing a grueling game of Operation with your whole body.

Four of us finally emerged on the other side, guiding each other through with helpful shouts of "Keep your butt down!" The rest of the cave club party started back out of the cave. For us, just a quick survey to do then--

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--wait, let me start over--

Or maybe not.

It was some of the most intense cave decoration I've personally seen. My survey notes fizzled into "thousands of stalactites & helictites, size range. . . oh crap" or something similar. I tried to take pictures, but I knew even then that none of them could convey the awe of the towering speleothems and intricate curling helictites that I was seeing. My teenage companions were similarly stunned, although my partner steadfastly attempted to continue recording estimates of what she was seeing. The fearless club leader pressed on ahead to keep us moving, where surely we would have stood frozen for a long time.

There was more cave to see--one more room that would have had impeccable formations, and was supposedly even better than this hall. But our eyes were worn out by the beauty, and were still reeling from our notetaking attempt. We couldn't do it justice today, and anything we did would just impact the cave further. Our leader called it a day, and we began the reverse journey.

So we leaped into an old mining cart and--oh wait, that's Indiana Jones again...

The door sealed shut behind us, closing off the cave once again to the world. It exists in silence except for the drip of water, slowly growing its garden of wonders. 

People should see it again someday--but how they see it needs to be managed (which is where the Club comes in). In the meantime, we have the pictures, we left plenty of muddy footprints, and we killed some serious cave time.

--The Cave Troll

 

Get it.

I definitely should not even be taking the time to blog right now, but I suppose I will count it as "down time." It has been one of the nuttiest final exam weeks I have ever had, and I don't even have any sit-down, fill-in-the-blank finals.

However, I have real-life items that need accomplishing, which is better in some ways and worse in others. I am more motivated to complete projects that aren't just busywork, but failure means more than just a grade, too.

The potential-for-failure list included my senior thesis committee meeting on Monday. As I might have imagined, it involved sitting down with 4 established Phds who grilled me for 1.5 hours about my intended research. It was both terrifying beyond all reason, and fantastic to be sitting down discussing research and being taken seriously by such an admirable group of professionals.

Today, I lobbied as part of a student group (we call ourselves SLUG) for expanding garden space on campus. We pitched our food garden idea to the head of the university dining service--a very intelligent character who appears to pull no punches when it comes to his opinion. Our group evidently withstood his scrutiny, he declared his support for the project, aaaand. . . we still have lots of work to do, and at the very best outlook, a year before any ground is broken on such a garden.

But you know what? I find myself amazed that as a junior undergraduate at the University, I actually do have some power and voice. It is easy to get lost in this institution of ours, to feel like a cow being run through a feedlot until it's your turn to. . . well, join the workforce I guess (that metaphor didn't pan out.)

I think it would have been easy to keep my head down and quietly do my time here. But everywhere I look, I see students who are doing more than that (and much more than me). Attending the University of Montana has changed me considerably--why shouldn't I make a tiny mark on it?

Enough ponderings I suppose--back to slogging through! (The cow pies. Because. . . never mind).

-Batgirl

The sun will come out, tomooooorrroooooowwww!! Eh, whatever.

On a Good Day

Two weeks out from the finish of spring semester, I've been thinking about how fast college really goes. It seems like only a few months ago I was a timid freshman tiptoeing around campus, clutching my lanyard and school ID.

Two years ago, I wandered around the beautiful UM campus and realized that I wanted nothing more than to have friends to play Frisbee with on the lawn, or take silly trips on the weekends. I ached to have adventures, but they didn't mean much without people to share them.

Sunset over Fish Creek

Somehow in this time, I have managed to stumble into some truly wonderful, quirky people, whose company I do not deserve in the least. People who didn't mind braving rainy, cold, spring conditions to go camping with me, cracking jokes even when we couldn't get to our campsite because the road was snowed in.

We found a new site that was perfect anyway: along the banks of the gorgeous Fish Creek, among blooming trillium and the drumming ruffed grouse.

Use your imagination for the grouse.

Before dinner, eight of us hiked a nearby ridge to gain views of the valley. We stopped every few yards to ahhh over some new view, rock or flower. Our generation gets accused of not being in touch with the outdoors or nature, but none of us were there for any reason except that we wanted to be.

Absolute torture.

That evening, we cooked an enormous amount of food that even ten of us couldn't eat. I clumsily started a fire, and we hung out and played games in the firelight, staying miraculously dry from rain. I was foolishly happy the whole time. Hanging out with some good friends in the outdoors is pretty much all I have ever wanted from life.

Plus cool wildflowers!

I'm probably kind of simple, that way.

There and back, and there again

This past weekend, I had a unique opportunity to revisit one of my very first caves, as I previously wrote about. This time, I was with real professionals. I was curious how this cave experience would match up. I remembered Ophir as being an exhausting, incredibly difficult trip--and last time we were able to drive within 3/4 mile of the cave entrance!

This, except almost completely buried in snow.

So here's the thing. I was glad for the opportunity to go on this trip, and it was fun. But it was also humbling. Sometimes I get so caught up in my pursuit of adventures that I forget the true goal is the camaraderie that goes with it.

Part of this is my desire to prove that I am not weak and that I don't need help. Like the stereotypical short man (sorry guys), I am compensating for something. I feel like I have to be able to do everything easily and without asking for help, or else I'm failing. What I don't realize is that my refusal of any help or kindness that is offered to me just comes off, well, assholey.

The truth is that I am 20 years old and new--so very new. I have this idea in my head that I should be experienced and wise by now, but what the heck? As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm pretty new to all this stuff. I didn't start backpacking or even seriously hiking until college. I've only been at this stuff for about two years, but I already think that I ought to know best.

This caribou calf has more worldly experience than me.

Ophir--my second wild cave and first technical, vertical cave--was less than a year ago. It was a very different experience this time, but I still have an incredible amount to learn. If I close myself off to learning new things I will be missing out.

So, I promise to open my ears to the people around me. But what is even harder is admitting my ignorance. I know more now than I did a few years ago, but that sure as heck is not saying much.

I'm all ears!

Every new adventure I take, I am scared, to a certain degree. This trip to Ophir with real cavers scared me so much, I nearly wished that I would get sick and have a reason to stay home. I'm not brave. I'm often motivated by pure cowardice.

While I'm at it, I might as well confess that I yelped when a bat flew toward my face. Big bad biologist that I am.

I am young, dumb, and I am going to try to do better.

Kirk out.

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...)

The Underground

Crawling through cramped, slimy  passageways is far from the usual idea of a sexy outdoor weekend. It is not so glamorous as rock climbing or skiing, and most certainly is not as popular as hiking. There are no caving movies equivalent to ski porn to be found (and if there are, I don't want to know about them.)

Note: this is not cave porn.

Caving is a dirty, dark, and gritty activity. It requires that you have an ability to laugh at yourself, get covered in poop, and enjoy lots and lots of innuendos about virgin cave. You should be willing to hike long distances with a heavy pack just to lower into a dark hole and see what you can find.

You can find plenty of dead things, for instance.

Caving seems to draw in people who are somewhat on the strange side. This might be because the average person would look at that mysterious dark slot pictured above and understandably say "Hell, no."

As a (sort of) chaperone for a caving club, I not only purposely seek out these dark crevices, but rig up a group of teens to go in as well.

Like any other high school kids, they are goofy, giggly, and terrible at following directions. 

Seen here: actually following directions.

The more I get to know them, the more amazed I am by their ability to laugh and be silly. They all have a story with a little heartbreak. Some have lost one parent, or both. Some were abandoned by their parents. Each of them has more than enough reason to be broken individuals, but by looking at them you wouldn't have any idea.They are smart and funny and can quote every line from Star Wars (which gives me hope for the future).

So what kind of people are drawn into caving?

We aren't polished individuals, and certainly won't be posing for any outdoor magazines anytime soon.

You won't be strolling around a cave in designer outdoor clothes, sporting a lovely tan and a light sprinkle of perspiration. You will be hands and knees in the mud, and face first in the guano.

 You will unite with your fellow muddy cavers in fast friendship. Driving away from the cave, one of the girls sat up and said "Hey, Dreads" (for that is my very original nickname),"I like you a lot."

And deep down in my cold heart. . . I like them too.

If you tell people you've been caving over the weekend, you will get looks of slight confusion. A lot of them don't know that caving is a thing, or don't understand why anyone would want to do it.

I look at these kids and sort of wonder myself. What brought them here to a cave club, instead of basketball or cheerleading? It is far from the usual teenager's weekend commitment.

The caver's Slip n Slide

The answer, I suspect, might be mutual strangeness.

A caver desires to see something that few other humans have laid eyes on. To climb around in nature's most fantastic jungle gyms and become completely lost in an alien world. To climb out afterward and be absolutely stunned by ordinary colors and sounds we take for granted above ground.

Also: the desire to learn to levitate

 We are silly goof offs like anyone else, but we're a little weirder than most.

Just the way I like it.

Extra ordinary

Epic adventures are fantastic, of course, but most of what makes up our lives lies in between. They are the spices of life, adding that necessary flair, but meaningless without the cake they are sprinkled on.

Cake is picking up your phone to call your friend and invite them on a walk, only to find that they are calling you at that exact moment for the same reason. Cake is hiking up a short trail on a warm spring evening and enjoying the beauty of the sunset over the distant mountains, just enjoying one another's easy company.

It is squeezing one free hour into a day of studying to run around in a park and kick a soccerball back and forth rather badly. Meeting up every week with people you love just to share dinner together. Sometimes, it is sitting through the same dull lecture every day with someone and occasionally rolling your eyes at each other.

Making a new meal you've never made before, wearing an outfit that makes you feel fancy. Dropping all your worries for a few minutes to help someone out.

Running across a new flower!

These things might not seem like adventure. My life hardly feels very exciting when I spend a whole week cloistered in the library writing page after page of essays. And individually they might not be worth writing home about, but life is made up of a billion tiny little parts that make it so. One small event--sharing a joke with a stranger, getting to pet a new dog--can unexpectedly make you soar.

Life, of course, is an adventure. . . what was yours today?

Nothin, just sniffin around. . .