Fitton Cave: We batted .600

Dale Shearer, Houston Hardin, Shawn McKee, Roy Andrews, & Billy Crews

Trip Report by Billy Crews

It was in the early Spring of 2005 that a collection of us SCers began talking about hitting a real cave: Some of us had done the full, Bataan death march when Mack had us underground for ten hours during the 2004 Camp’s Gulf assault. And others had done a stint of TAG pit bouncing in Valhalla. The weather was becoming more agreeable, and with a plan to hit the Buffalo National River (BNR) in April, it was time for something epic.

Roy had been telling us about Fitton Cave and, after hearing some details, we all agreed it would definitely satisfy our needs: Fitton (aka Beauty Cave, originally named for its fantastic formations) is the longest known cave in the state of Arkansas. While the current survey has logged over seventeen miles of underground passage, the end of the trail is still yet to be found.

While in pre-trip mode, we each spent some time on the PC looking for clues to gaining access or help in navigating the cave. Through his other caving adventure, Shawn had made contact with Houston Hardin,a caver of the highest magnitude with an abundant number of resources. As it turns out, Houston (H.) would become a central member among the SC group. Meanwhile, Roy, did some homework via his Grotto membership and we eventually found out that although the cave was located on private property, access was granted through the BNR National Park Service. Due to its vastness, the park service required that you submit an application of which a “resume” of your teams experience was required. Obviously, they didn’t let just anybody in...

I don’t remember exactly how what happened the way it did, but somewhere around the first of April, I found myself on the phone with the BNR Park Ranger and head geologists, Chuck Bitting. He was inquiring into our application for visiting Fitton Cave and he “had a few questions”. He noted that we listed Camp’s Gulf as our last cave trip and commenced to questioning me on the details. It was more like an interrogation where he was leading me as a material witness: “So, y’all got to the back of the entrance tunnel - then what?”. I’d give the obvious right answer, where he’d follow up with “So that was the end of the trip; after the first big room?” I’d comment some more, and basically he let me lead him (over the phone) throughout Camp’s and all the way to the lower bore hole and ending at the sump. Chuck, being a ranger and geologist, was likely a well traveled TAGger himself and was looking for me to perhaps “step into a hole” as I described Camp’s. I guess I did the our little group proud; someway, somehow, I had BS’d (to a certain degree - heck, Camp’s was the only cave I ever bagged) our way into the longest known cave in the state of Arkansas.

With our planned weekend upon us, we made the trip north and were soon meandering the Boston mountains navigating our way to the trail head. On this particular trip we would use the old Erbie gravel road for getting into the area of Fitton Cave. As it turns out, this was right across the road from the ghost town of Dogpatch, USA that at one time was a hillbilly theme park: You know, Li’l Abner, Daisy Dukes, and other such cartoon characters that came from a much older American culture. I had actually visited the theme park as a child while on a family vacation and it pains me somewhat when I see parts of my childhood that have died slow, painful deaths as did Dogpatch. Roy navigated us for quite a few miles as we travelled the gravel road and just after passing the historic town of Erbie we finally found the trail head. As stated, Fitton is a vast system, so before entering, the NPS requires all caving groups to complete a “trip plan” which is then deposited into a lock box. And, upon exiting the cave, another report is required so that the NPS can confirm you have exited the cave and are not still underground. I don’t know how often the park services empties the contents of the lock box, but I was hoping it was more than once a week. With the initial paperwork completed we hit the trail.

While the caving portion of this trip would be the real deal, the hike in and out of Fitton is a jewel of a trip in itself. The hike into Fitton is approximately two and a quarter miles, so not counting the distance we would travel underground, we would get a nice hike of nearly four and one-half miles above ground. Loaded up with our gear we headed down the trail, and I do mean down: Although I was excited about getting in to Fitton, the first ‘quarter mile of the hike-in sucked. Going downhill from the beginning would mean an up hill finish... In no time we had made the beaver dam that currently blocks the Van Dyke spring with its confluence of Cecil Creek. For the rest of the hike we would more or less follow Cecil Creek upstream for nearly two mile and until a sizable wash enters the creek from the east. Our little band of five strung out with varying topics breaking out in discussion as we made our way down the trail.

At about halfway through the hike-in, we came across a rock wall that is reported to be one of the longest and oldest standing rock walls in the Ozarks. Located near the wall was a scattering of antique grade “junk” - evidence of the pioneers that had once lived along Cecil Creek and who had also constructed the wall. It was nearly forty-five minutes since we had hit the trail head and had finally arrived at the eastern wash. Turning out of Cecil Creek, we followed the smaller watershed upstream until we came across the “door”.

Lying in the dry creek bed was a flat, iron door; it looked old, and heavy, and was hinged on one side - but I couldn’t tell what it was attached to. It was just lying there in the creek bottom. It was about three feet by four feet and looked as though it would weigh a ton. Inscribed on the door, via a welding rod, were the words “Keep Out”. Below the warning was a date of “04-01-65” and it was initialed “JHS”. Damn, this door was older than me. Shawn told me to open it so we could get into the cave. What? I thought the cave was gated? I didn’t see a lock. I couldn't’ figure how a cave could “start” in a creek bottom... it would obviously be filled withe water, right? Following directions, however, I got down on my knees and gave it a tug. That was when I heard a few chuckles behind me. OK, dick move. The laughs were at my expense of still being somewhat of a caving and BNR newb. No, we had not reached the cave’s entrance. What we had found was the original door that was installed back in 1965 by then property owner, and famous Arkansas caver, Jim Schermerhorn. At some point after becoming the property managers, the NPS had removed the door and installed a “bat friendly” metal cage-type gate. I took the jest in stride and we continued up the watershed for about 100 yards where upon the trail went vertical. From the smaller creek’s bottom we scrambled up the left wall to a height of about fifty feet where we found a bench of rock. There, in the small landing area, sat the opening to Fitton Cave.

As reported, the cave’s opening was simply a hole in the hill side, not much bigger than the door lying in the creeks bottom. It was completely blocked by a locked, caged gate. With all five of us arriving on the bench, we commenced to changing into our cave gear and reshuffling our packs. Geared up and ready for the darkness, Roy pulled out a wad of paper and went to work on the combination lock that secured the gate in place. Just before we entered, Houston made a note of the time and said we were good. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that until he explained to me that “no self-respecting caver would ever go underground before noon”. Man, H. is hardcore... After we had all entered, Dale reached back out, brought the gate home and replaced the lock in the closed position. I don’t think any of us had ever been locked into a cave before and the feeling was quite ominous.

Now on the inside, we were all in position on top of a slippery break down. Houston warned us not to go right of the breakdown - on the right side was a dark, seemingly bottomless pit - yeah, right is not good... One by one, we slithered down the breakdown on our backsides bottoming out about fifty feet later. At this point Fitton boast quite a hall: Apparently the hill we had entered was, for the most part, hollow. This hall looked to measure 100 feet across and was reported to be several hundred yards long. I immediately found out why the cave was originally called Beauty Cave: Pretties were everywhere - the walls were decorated with flow stone and ribbons. Central to the bottom of the breakdown was a large column, easily fifteen feet from floor to ceiling. Other ‘tites and ‘mites littered the ceiling and floor and were easily visible in one sweep of the head light. Houston reached into his pack and produced two sets of “maps”: They were each literally word -for-word directions of how to navigate the cave and had come from his numerous resources available only to him. Fitton was a vast underground system with miles of trail. Our goal for this trip was to reach the Tenouri or “T” room. Reading from the first set of directions, Houston said “After entering, from the bottom of the breakdown, work your way to the right until you reach the “manhole”. OK, that sounds easy enough. Houston then read from the second set of directions, which came from another source: Here he read nearly two complete pages of step by step directions until somewhere around the bottom of page two, he found mention of the manhole. What the...? I don’t guess anyone would be surprised that the first set of directions got wadded up and never came out of the pack again.

As per the directions, we worked our way to the right side of the main hall and found a passage between the wall and a long horizontal slab of rock. At this point we split up as the next feature would be the “monorail”, being a lengthy crawl, and reported to be still a little further right. Somehow, Houston and I ended up together, while Roy, Shawn, and Dale were behind us and further right. After several minutes of moving around and investigating the features, I found myself standing ankle deep in wet muck. Standing in a small, circular pit, I found where a small trickle of water was coming from one side. Houston joined my side, then, crouching down in the muck, shined his light into the crevice from where the water was issuing. He got me to join him on his knees and told me to look in there: Oh, no... this can’t be right, Houston -people can’t go in places like this. The light showed us a wet crawl that was hardly any wider than our shoulders. The bottom was literally six inches of wet, mushy clay. The ceiling was no more than twenty-four inches high. The end of the crawl - well, there was no end - it just kept going. My heart sank. I don’t think this is the kind of trip I signed up for. But Houston said it somewhat resembled the directions, so we were going in. He was going to push the lead and report back and then I would call the rest of the guys to our location for following him. Right away, I decided I’d try to be last. He stood up, removed his pack and then fashioned it with a length of rope tied off around his ankle. There was not enough clearance in the crawl for your pack, even on your belly, so we were going to have to drag our packs behind us. He got back on all fours and right about when he stuck his head in the hole, Roy hollered: “I got it, I found the way.” Man, that was a close call. Houston and I had found one nasty, false lead. Both extremely relieved, we bounded out of the sumpy pit and followed voices until we hooked up with the rest of the gang.

They had indeed found the monorail; more to the right of my and Houston’s location the ceiling pinched down and the crawl began. One by one, we got on elbows and knees dragging our packs behind us. Unlike Houston’s false lead, this crawl, although not much higher, was wide and dry. I assumed the monorail had gotten its name from the traffic of elbows and knees that had caused a long, double trough with a central median being pushed up. Having all navigated the twenty-five yard crawl, we entered an area just high enough to stand in and continued the hike through the highly decorated area. Just a few minutes further on, we reached a small room with a huge column commanding the scenery. According to our favored set of directions we had reached the “missile silo”. The column, originating from a hole in the ceiling, was easily thirty inches thick and descended into a pit. Looking up or down the column, one couldn't see either end of the top or bottom. It has obviously been growing for thousands of years. After Roy recorded the missile silo, we pushed on in search of the manhole which would lead to the rest of the cave.

It was an hour and a half since we had locked ourselves in the cave when we finally reached the manhole and here ensued the discussion as to how we would access the rest of the cave. The drop was about twelve feet, but it had a large boulder on the bottom left side. Shawn tried to stem his way down but he couldn't seem to find any good purchase. He finally gave up after several attempts and joined us on the top side. It was about fifteen minutes into the debate that I felt my Exit Fever coming on. I learned that I hated idleness in the cave; when I’m moving I’m fine, but sitting around and debating the issue really makes me worry. This, of course, was about the same time that Dale noticed the cantaloupe on his leg: Dale had obviously been nursing an old knee injury, and for some reason, Fitton brought out the worst of it. He acknowledged that he could not go on and I didn’t take long in volunteering to walk him out. The buddy system is an important caving standard - nobody goes anywhere solo; it just isn’t worth the risk. It was decided, then - Dale and I would route for the exit and wait at the vehicle, while the trio of Shawn, Houston, and Roy would continue to push the cave. So, five cavers going in and two exiting early - as a group we were going to bat .600 (at best).

While Roy and Shawn worked on rigging the manhole for their descent, and Houston studying his notes, Dale and I packed up for the hike-out. We noted the time, discussed exit times as per our call out and said our good-byes. I don’t think we had walked five minutes when we both stopped, looked at each other and realized that none of what we were looking at seemed familiar. Were we lost? No, we couldn’t be, but we both realized a well known caving lesson: Anytime you enter a new passage, always turn around and study the scenery so you will know what to look for on your way out. Although none of what we were seeing looked familiar, Dale and I knew we were headed in the right direction. We eventually came across some pretties that looked familiar, found the missile silo, and made the crawl out through the monorail.

We had finally reached an area where we could stand and intent on getting out, I went left and Dale split right. We both stopped and asked each other “Where the hell you going?” Of which we both replied “Out”. Each of us was confident the other was wrong. After a small debate, we agreed we would each go our own way (rule breakers...) for five minutes, then report back to the spot we were standing and confirm the way out. Dale went right, where upon I sat down and turned off my light. Dale came back about five minutes later noting that he did in fact go the wrong way. I went on point and in no time we had entered the entrance hall and had made our way back up the breakdown to the locked gate.

Dale and I took a BREAD break once on the outside then eventually made our way down the wash and back into Cecil Creek. Once again, we split heading in different directions with Dale being adamant that I was going in the wrong direction. Dale had noted that ever since we found the creek on the hike-in, we had been going up stream. I never even bothered to check. Still not convinced I ventured up the trail a few hundred yards and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was in Parts Unknown. I doubled back at a light jog and in no time found Dale waiting for me on the trail. “Billy, are you ready to quit screwing around and go back to the truck now?" he inquired. “Yep, I’m right behind you”. The buddy system; it definitely paid off for the both of us. Dale and I took our time on the hike-out, taking a break every ten minutes or so, so that his knee wouldn't bother him to bad. We finally made the Van Dyke spring and, after completing the up hill section of the trail, had soon found Roy’s truck. After drinking a few cold brews each, we got some shut-eye as we waited for our three underground companions.

Although Dale and I had an epic adventure cut short, the story does continue. All I can say at this point is that somebody (Shawn, Houston, or Roy) needs to tell the rest of the story. It would be nearly six after hours after we arrived at the truck before we would see these three intrepid explores again...

Valhalla Trip Post-Mortem: Gear/Technique Issues

ED. COMMENT: This e-mail string followed a trip to Valhalla pit in northeastern Alabama in early 2005. This discussion exposed lore, folklore, ignorance and superstition about rope, gear and techniques for the IRT, and that was just from your Editor.

From: "Matt"
Subject: RE: Pics of the Valhalla Trip
Wow, 4lbs/100ft. that is about half the weight of caving rope. For spectra (UHMWPE) and polyester, try not to get the sheath too hot. If you have a really screaming rappel, get the descender off the rope quickly.
I do wonder how the spectra will hold up to repeated flexing. As I recall it was better than aramids (like Kevlar) but worse than nylon or polyester. Flex fatigue is usually inversely proportional to modulus (stiffness). The high molecular orientation is great for tensile strength, good for modulus, and bad for flex fatigue. Although as Houston mentioned, half of 5000lbs is still a heck of a lot.

From: Shawn
Roy, my rope is: BlueWater Canyon Rope 9.2mm
"A more economical version of the Canyon Pro. 100% polyester sheath. 100% nylon core. The sheath strand design utilizes the same Z/S, S/Z cabled construction as the Canyon Pro. Excellent diameter to strength ratio. Flourescent Orange. Available in 200 and 600 ft. lengths. Tensile Strength: 5000 lbs, safe working load: 333 lbs, weight per 100 ft: 4.03 lbs"
Joe told us that your rope made of the recently declassified military grade Kevlar impregnated with silicon. You bought your rope from the guy, remember. I ordered my rope before the trip.
You think he was making that stuff up? What about the 10.5 megabit SLR just released waterproof canyon camera he was getting? Not that too.
I think your rope is the pro version of mine. 8mm.

From: Andy
The rope that I have is not Kelvar - Shawn's is though I believe. Mine is 100% Spectra 1000 core:
SPECTRA, DYNEEMA & HIGH MODULUS DYNEEMA Spectra is the trade name for a high performance polyethylene (HPPE) fiber manufactured by Allied Signal. Dyneema is manufactured by DSM (Netherlands) and is the same material. Originally introduced in 1985, there are two versions: Spectra 900 and Spectra 1000. The original Spectra 900 has a higher elongation and can not be sewn. The Spectra 1000 was introduced to overcome these drawbacks and is used today for paragliders. The two types of Spectra are the source for the myth "that all Spectra stretches".

From: Matt
I've rappelled 200ft on an eight, on caving rope. Sure it's less safe than a rack, but if you want to be really safe you can watch it on TV.
I think the spiral pattern the poor motion-sick caver behind you leaves on the sides of the pit is fascinating. I tried to do that to Reed once, but he got me back by knocking ice down on me for much of the drop.
Anyway, Dave and Houston are not the final authorities on what is cool. I've seen both of them do stuff that would make your hair curl.
As to the Kevlar rope, I have some experience with some of the high strength filaments - aramids and super-oriented UHMWPE (spectra, dyneema, and others). What I recall as of two or three years ago is that flex fatigue was far worse than nylon, heat resistance was worse as well. Also, the knot strength of a figure eight knot in nylon rope is 70-80%, while for the high strength filaments it was more like 50%. So, especially rappelling with an eight, I would be interested to know how quickly the Kevlar rope lost strength. They could have solved the problems, I haven't kept up with it since I have been out of the industry and almost out of caving and climbing.

From: Shawn
Kirk, you set a new record for bugging out and leaving gear in four states!
Correct that, not gear, disgusting muddy denim artifacts and other stuff. I do have the dirty laundry, on you along with about 15 pounds of gear. B. has already washed your stuff though, so you will be getting it back.
Question: did you have three croll ascenders? a new one and two black ones? are those Matt's? do you want me to deliver all this stuff to Dale along with his Bastard Agitation Cooler? my glove collection grew. any claims can be filed. two homeless biners are being held ransom for a straight swap - anonymous replies accepted.

From: Andy
What are you talking about? I would do it again. Dale got so freaked out about it so I questioned Houston and Dave and both of them told me that it was cool. Besides, this was no standard figure 8. It was a Piranha which has multiple friction points built into it. What did you guys think about the picks I took ON repel?

From: Dale
Joke, what joke?!? He was actually using a figure 8. Probably because I told him not to. Since that's the only guaranteed way to get Roy to do something.

From: William K
I thought the figure 8 joke was pretty funny...

From: Dale
Sent: Thursday, April 07, 2005 7:22 AM
Subject: RE: Pics of the Valhalla Trip
Says HH: I have the joneses to go again...already.
Says I: Neversink!
Great photos, Roy. By the way, I think I'd remove the reference to using a figure 8 on Valhalla Pit.

Zion 2004: Second Thoughts

We've been on Angels Landing and if you don't want your name on a rock plaque up there don't go peering over the edges without a rope. It would appear he was just a kid and I'll bet he or one of his buddies did something stupid. Let's not do anything stupid.

But with regard to Behunin Canyon... What is Shawn thinking? Rapels of up to 160 feet? Will we be ready by the time we do that last day hike? I hope so. One note here... the guy was hiking by himself. Stupid in my book. We all need to depend on each other to be safe and make it our unscathed (did I spell that right?)

Laters, Will

Zion 2004: Gung-Ho Viewpoint

I’m ready for the long rappels. You can die from a 50 ft fall just as easy as a 160 feet. The same amount of vigilance needs to be practiced. Personally, I more worried about the effects age has had on my 41 year old frame this year, mostly caused by leading a fairly sedimentary life behind a steering wheel and computer screen. For some reason all joints ache more, muscles take longer to heal etc. etc. Being the oldest out of the group has it’s – disadvantages. I will not be making high jumps down or stupid leaps. A good steady pace is in order for me. Did you see the Zion news page I posted on the web?

Roy

Environmental Politics II

Mack, that's a very thoughtful reply and I agree this is a political tennis match and sure as hell shouldn't be. As a federal park, Yellowstone belongs to the nation at large--not only the local citizens who just so happen to benefit from the tourism industry it drives. Local input should be solicited and accepted as you say, but ultimately as a Nat'l Park (the first one too--well over 100 years of Federal management) it should have the stewardship it deserves (contrary to those 'Wise Use' nut jobs all over the west, our Nat'l Parks ARE to be preserved--we're not talking about a nat'l forest or BLM land) and protected from petty politics. Just because there has been 'historical' use of snowmobiles in the park doesn't mean its not a bad idea--remember my stories of Yosemite's FireFalls and feeding the bears at the valley dump? Two incredibly bad ideas, but still took some good science and a well-reasoned argument to convince everyone.
that's my main problem with congress and this administration--how they're able to ignore the latest and best science (public opinion as well--check any gallup poll on the environment as an issue topic) and still deny it is beyond me... today's number of 'concerned scientists' groups against the dubya-led administration is longer than it even was for Satan himself, James Watt!!
kirk

Environmental Politics I

Kirk, this issue, I'm afraid, is a canary in a coal mine for our national park service. It reflects the undercurrent of the current administration and it's subconscious support of all things business.
Let face it, snowbike were wide open during Reagan-bush, cut back then banned during
Clinton, brought back and now all at record numbers during W. Bush. This undoubtedly
points to many other shifts in policy and practice that will change our national wild spaces.
And, in my opinion, it sucks.
Now, the untold story, based on a conversation I had two years ago with a double tour ranger at Yellowstone: the real driving force behind the snowmobile movement is the park contractors who benefit from winter guests at the parks lodges and concessions. The numbers of winter visitor drops drastically when no snowmobiles are allowed, mainly for reasons of transportation. Even though there are snow cats that bring people in to the park in the winter, many rooms are vacant. With the snowmobile crowd comes stops at the hotels and beds filled. So, Xterra, who has the Yellowstone contact right now, would hate to loose that 'guest service' that snowmobiles provide. And they quietly support the poor independent snowmobile operators outside the park in their effort to save their 'only means of income', probably by lobbying at the highest levels.
By the way, all those poor operators also have other incomes like fishing guides, wildlife tours, and a whole host of other tourist trappings outside the park.
That being noted, I believe there is enough land for combined usage and the State of Nevada proves it. We don't need snowmobiles in Yellowstone Park, there are millions of acres of public land in Wyoming and Idaho with arguably better resources (for snowmobiling) than the park. The only problem is, there are not millions of paying customers waiting to sign up for a ride outside the Park. So, what the real issue is, of course, is not the use of the park, but the access to the visitor market. Just follow the money. And as usual with any American debate we are forced to endure the sound bite sharp ends of 'loss of only livelihood' vs 'disturbing the gentle
nature of our National Park'. Neither is faithful.
I believe in local input for land policy, but it must be uncontaminated local opinion and not be influenced by outside business interests. Honestly, I would support whatever decision the local park ranger made for the use of the park as long as it was not biased by politics.
Shawn

Camp's Gulf Caverns - Newbies going underground.

Dale Shearer, Tim Boccaleri, Billy Crews, Roy Andrews & Shawn McKee

Trip Report by Billy Crews

My wife, Kay, turned around and replied: "You're going where to do what?!?" OK, that's going to be a "no", I thought. After giving her all the known-to-the-moment details, I finally got a yard pass for my initial Southern Canyoneers (SC) adventure. This long weekend, dead of the winter trip would be an exploration of the Camp's Gulf Caverns, a wild cave system located due north of Chattanooga, Tennessee. On this trip I would be joining my long time friend Shawn McKee and other SC members Dale Shearer, Andy "Roy" Andrews and Tim Boccaleri.

I left work that Thursday a little early to raid the local Walmart of all its "spelunking gear": A cheap headlight, batteries, extra batteries, Dickies, $50.00 worth of chemical glow sticks, snacks and extra batteries. I added my new purchases to my cache of gear at home (boots, gloves, hard hat and duct tape). Kissing the family bye, I hit the road, heading north to Brandon, MS. I arrived at Shawn’s house near midnight, found the couch and managed three hours of rest as Shawn woke me promptly at 3: AM. With the rest of the house waking up, I met the crew already there and we shook hands all around. Since I had drove up from SoLA and Tim had come up from Biloxi, MS, we two could have used some more shut-eye but we were just as anxious as the two locals, (Shawn and Dale) to get started. I would meet Roy for the first time later that day as he was en route, solo, from L'il Rock, AR. As Shawn got the coffee going, the rest of us headed outside in the pitch black morning and started transferring the gear from various vehicles into the infamous “McKee White Party Van”. As organized as could be, we finally started trekking towards Tennessee at about 4: AM.

As this was my "induction" trip into the SC gang, I felt like I was being baptized. Along with a lot of southern, good old boy ribbing of each other, you're likely to come across some inner competition amongst the group from time to time. Case in point: The coveted Gear-Head Award – Given to the individual with the neatest, most technologically advanced, gadget that one couldn't possibly do without, (or really even need) in the middle of no where. Just about all the way to Tennessee, Shawn and I shared pilot/co-pilot duties as Dale and Tim argued over whose handheld GPS unit more accurately identified our exact position, heading, altitude, speed... Hell, all I knew, and needed to know, was that we were headed due east on the interstate. The “award” was a tie, needless to say. We made a late morning pit stop in Birmingham, AL where we met up with Reed Hilton, another SC member and experienced caver. After a late breakfast, Reed led us through the woods and into and through the cave on a table napkin. (I’m sure my wife would be so glad at how well we planned and prepared for this trip...). Shawn and Reed discussed our trip, time-wise, as Reed was our “Call Out”. -Your “Call Out” is the individual you telephone upon safely exiting the cave. If the call out isn't made by the prearranged time, he is your 911 team leader and link to the outside world.

Late Friday afternoon finally saw us arriving at our Base Camp: The Resort at Fall Creek Falls State Park. Not long after we arrive Roy showed up in the parking lot. The gang was all here... meeting called to order. After checking in and finding our rooms we made our way to the resort’s main dining hall which featured a buffet style dinner. With the entire team in attendance, seated, and with a full plate of food, we laid out our strategy for Saturday’s assault on the cave. With our plans made and our stomachs full, we walked off the evening’s meal in the clear, cold night along a path that follows the shoreline of the park’s lake. Here is where I started to feel excitement as Shawn educated us about what we would find the next morning.

Saturday morning came delivering with it a fine mist which later became a steady drizzle in the cool winter air. “Perfect caving weather…” Shawn commented as we loaded into Roy’s truck and headed out. Since this was my first cave trip, I could only go along with Shawn’s weather assessment. We idled over to the lobby of the resort where Shawn amazed us with the truths laid down the night before by his previous trip to this particular cave: Since the cave entrance was on land recently placed in the state park, it was public land. Due to the fact that Camp's Gulf Caverns was wild, enormous, unmapped and unmanned, it was the park’s policy to be totally ignorant of any such cave on their property. We gathered at the front desk as Shawn inquired about directions: “...well I thought this was the correct road to get to the cave in Camp's Gulf.” To which the bee-hive hair-do’ed park employee replied: “Cave, what cave? I don’t know what you’re referring to sir, there are no caves in this area that I’m aware of.” Wow! This cave turned out to be so big I thought the state of Tennessee was hollow, and she wasn't about to acknowledge a hole that big in her own back yard! I guess this is what certain government employees refer to as “plausible denial ability”… I suppose that includes certain park services also.

Thirty minutes later, and the third time we passed the unmarked entrance trail, Shawn found the spot. Since he was the only one of our group to have previously made this trip, he was our assumed group leader. Roy veered off the road and onto a trail that was almost as smooth as a bad moon-buggy trip. Exiting the truck we all began climbing into our coveralls, testing lighting equipment, checking each other for ample gear, food, and water. As our team of five made its way through the damp, cold woods, I couldn't help but think, again, of Shawn’s comment regarding the “perfect caving weather”. After a ten minute hike through the woods, the obvious trail became reduced to nothing more than a cow-path ending on top of a ridge. As I topped out on the ridge I suddenly understood why the local geography was named such. “Gulf” is hillbilly for canyon or gorge; the path at my feet descended fifty feet or so rapidly down a multitude of slick trails and all ending at the cave opening. The opening itself was directly at the bottom of a near shear bluff which ascended well over a hundred feet. We all slip-footed down the trails and gathered at the cave entrance which was quite adequate enough to handle a school bus or two.

It was 9:AM and after shedding our cold weather layers and storing them in some crevices we lighted up and made our way to the back of the entrance tunnel. This entrance to Camps Gulf Caverns is a classic tunnel going under the mountain and ending, after a hundred yards or so, at a breakdown. Nearing the the back of the tunnel, I noticed three changes in the physical world: First was the smell - it was an aroma of rich, dark, virgin soil. I think this must be what it smells like when you're buried. It wasn't a bad smell, just a permanent "earth" smell. Next, I noticed we had passed the “twilight” zone - which is what I've been told is part of what defines a cave - permanent darkness. Finally, we had passed a thermocline. I was familiar with thermoclines from my SCUBA days. Just like descending the depths of the ocean on a dive, you go from one temperature and in the next step the temperature changes twenty degrees. Passing through the thermocline is like the cave saying “welcome, come on in.”. In the summer, the temp drops, but being this was a winter trip, the cave was warmer than the outside air. Here, the effects of the outside world were now over-ruled by the caves own internals. Taking the lead,Shawn attacked the breakdown hoping to find the correct way into the first cavern, or the “Registry Room”. I remember Reed commenting on how tricky it would be to get through this part as some cavers get lost here or never even make it through, and, how he’d be shocked if we ever got past the end of the entrance tunnel. Shawn slithered through a squeeze and disappeared as we waited. Twenty minutes later we heard Shawn coming down... “I got it [the trail], were in.” Success!

We followed Shawn up the collapsed breakdown and through a few squeezes. A couple of the squeezes were quite vertical in nature and actually required us to remove our backpacks for clearance. The going was definitely tight as we switch-backed our way up. Bringing up the rear, I marked every blind turn with a glow stick. I had remembered Reed saying how some cavers that attempted Camps Gulf would sometimes go past the exit tunnel when descending the break down and actually wind up underneath the first room or entrance tunnel - we would not get lost coming out. After gaining nearly fifty feet in elevation, we finally topped the inside of the breakdown. Shawn pointed out a dirty rope, left by previous cavers, which would help us make the final entry into the first big room. Tim, Dale and Roy made the twelve foot climb and I followed. I don’t think I could have done it without the rope. After thirty minutes of hard work, we were finally back on our feet - but not by much. My heart sank a little as I watched the guys inch to their right along a ten inch wide ledge. This maneuver required your face to be pressed against the wall with your arms and feet stretched out. At our back was another wall, but it was six to ten feet away across a seemingly bottomless pit. Are we having fun yet? At least I survived and maintained my status as a caver: The terminology was later explained to me - Caver: One who caves. Spelunker - one who has gone spelunk. Spelunk - the sound you make from falling from a height of fifty feet or greater. LOL, OK, I get it...

The ledge eventually worked up hill and widened granting us a grand view of pitch black emptiness: The Registry Room. Our lights bounced around (as well as our voices) showing us exactly what Shawn had described: Each large room will resemble an empty dome except for the huge pile of junk cars littering the floor and peaking in the center. In reality the “floor” was actually the “ceiling” which had collapsed eons ago and the “junk cars” were boulders of varying shapes and sizes. I tried my best to not think of the relationship between the ceiling and the floor or how the shape of one would fit into or over the other. –It just wasn't mentally healthy to wonder when the “new” floor might be getting installed. The Registry Room, aka Exposition Hall, is aptly named due to the “sign in” register located in the far right corner of the round room. This room is the smallest of the three measuring 456' long by 429' wide with a 107' ceiling. We boulder hopped to the back, right side and located the PVC pipe containing the register and all “signed in”. It wasn't hard to locate, because directly above it, mounted on the wall, was a sign giving warning as to the penalties for removing artifacts, fossils, minerals.... Well, here we were, miles from civilization, under a mountain in total darkness and the government had found us - bummer. It was here where we took our first real break when I took notice of the details regarding the cave’s climate.

Like most, if not all, TAG (Tenn.-Ala.-Ga. area) caves, Camp's Gulf maintains a constant temperature of approximately sixty deg. at 100% relative humidity. Mobility in this cave was tough, so although the air seemed cool, you sweat-ed your ass off getting around. The fact that you could become soaking wet in a cool environment is what makes one element of caving so dangerous: Wet coupled with cold could, in the right conditions of injury or immobility, lead to hypothermia or worse. The air itself seemed heavy and became even more so, say, when you knocked the dust off your clothing only to watch it suspend indefinitely in front of your face. At least in this portion of the cave, the air was dead still. Or, in caving parlance – “the cave didn't “breathe” right here”. The same went for our own breathing as the co2 clung to the air in front of you. The huge, talus floor, although made of SUV sized solid rocks, was coated in a thin film of wet silt and dust thus evidencing periodic flooding. Sometimes the rocks were damp, sometimes slippery and at other times sticky. -Nasty stuff.

After the standard ten minute break, Shawn rallied us on towards the second room. Like all good SC members know, you must follow certain rules to insure safety: The 50/10 rule (50 minutes of humping it and then a 10 minute break) and the BREAD rule (Breath, Rest, Eat And Drink) are "death march" standards. As we reorganized , Shawn bouldered ahead so as to film us crossing the Registry “floor”. If you have the opportunity to do so, please view this short film: A Dark Passage. This short footage is a good example of how "well" we “see” in the inky darkness. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0w5NWQAGso When we finally caught up with Shawn on the far side of the room he commented “Whose light is that over there?” We all turned back around and spotted the small beacon from over a football field away. “Damn” Roy stated, “Its mine.” During the break, Roy had emptied his pack and using a backup flashlight had set up his mobile stereo system: A new IPOD mp3 player connected to two mini stereo speakers. (An attempt at securing the Gear Head Award?) Caving is fun, but it can be work and the mind tires as easy as the body. Since Shawn had rested by filming us, he volunteered to retrieve the light for Roy. Here's more footage, set to the tunes of Led Zepplin: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnCxdijWzwY

Reunited and exiting the Registry Room, we continued deeper into the cave, surrounded by boulders, empty space, a few jabs of light dancing wildly around, and the sounds of Led Zepplin coming from every possible angle that sound could travel to and from. Shawn stayed on point and I, as sweeper, secured a glow stick in such a way that it would be easily visible from the opposite direction - on the way out. This procedure would become my habit as we entered and exited each chamber and at every highpoint we mounted. Shawn, pushing the lead, found the trunk passage connecting the first two chambers. About middle way of this passage I noticed the ceiling starting to get lower when all of a sudden - POK! I ran right into the lowering roof. OK, the hard-hat looked goofy, but it just saved my life; well at least a few minutes of it. I took off my head gear and inspected the new gouge; yep, I’d be sleeping good by now if it weren’t for the protection. The ceiling became so low that we eventually had to crawl a short distance before it opened up towards a short climb, which allowed access to the second chamber; the Rotunda. This second room, and second largest, measures in with a length of 458' and width of 381'. The “short” ceiling is a mere 66' high. Jamming to Roy’s output of Zepplin, our team of five crossed the Rotunda with me marking the usual spots with glow sticks.

On the far side of the Rotunda we found the passage leading into the third room. We ascended into Echo Hall, as the third chamber is known, via a sharp, steep and wet incline of talus. Making for the top of the “floor” in Echo Hall was pure work. It was a crawl that seemed to go nearly straight up. Roy turned down the volume so we could communicate each hand and foot hold to the ones below. Communicating, even at short distances, seemed nearly impossible. The sound reverberates off every rock face and collects back in your ear as a complete jumble. We found that we could only speak, when separated by distance, by using one syllable words very slowly: Go - No - Yes... An occasional call of “Rock!” would go out so as to advise the team members underneath that something loose was on its way down. It was during this ascent that I notice some strange looking rocks. They actually appeared to be fossilized reams of standard size paper. After studying the ancient looking slates, I gambled: With a stone the size of my fist, I struck the layered rock on one of its “long” edges. It actually separated! Twice more I struck on the largest pieces until I had managed about four “sheets” of rock. Turning them over, one revealed a perfectly fossilized flower in the dead center. I could only say it resembled a Daisy, but its only a guess. What a great prize I had found; hidden in the forest floor on top of a hill for millenia and then to be forced through the ceiling of the cavern and once again become the floor. If it weren’t for that damned sign in the Registry! I think it was Tim or Dale who woke me up: “Hey - you joining us up here?” They had made the top and I soon caught up. We must have scaled seventy-five feet just to reach the floor of this great room: Echo Hall, the largest of the three, spans 763 feet long and 369 feet wide. The ceiling is 164 feet from the top peak of the floor. What a grand hall this was! With over seven acres of emptiness, it is larger than the inside of the NOLA Super dome. Taking a break on top, we "played" with the echo before moving on.

Our next goal, should we get this far, (as Reed pointed out), would be the “mouth”. “It will be located in the “left” corner (of a round room)” Reed had reported to us. “You’ll know it when you see it-looking down, it has one big tooth, or fang, right in the middle.” It was in search of the “Mouth” that we found a most spectacular formation. We found it by ear as it was directly under a waterfall coming from the ceiling overhead. Although the sound came from every where, due to the echo, it was more defined down and to the left from the central pile. The eight foot tall formation resembled a statue that belonged in the middle of a fountain, say on an alien planet. As I did my BREAD bit, the rest of the guys covered every inch of the large “pretty” - they must have taken no less than one hundred pictures and from every different angle.

It was near here that we located some other formations, which we labeled the “brains” due to their appearance. They, too, were born from water falling from above. We even performed a few light experiments that Shawn mentioned he had heard about: In complete darkness we illuminated the “brains” from close range using the cameras’ flash equipment. The “brains”, being of amber color and slightly opaque, “retained” a small amount of light and continued to glow for a few seconds. Neat stuff.

We pushed on, down and to the left, as we made our approach to the mouth. Standing on the talus pile, we looked down and with our headlamps illuminated the opening. Reed was right on - nearly straight below us, thirty feet away, was a near circular grotto with one large stalactite hanging from the center. We found another rope, probably left behind by the same previous cavers, and made our way, one by one, into the subterranean chamber.

Going feet first, we descended the rope bottoming out in a near perfect tunnel. Except for the floor, which was covered in years of silt with a single “elephant trail” foot path, one could have taken the family for a Sunday drive down this very long bore hole. The tunnel averaged about forty feet wide and had a ceiling of twelve feet, off and on; every few hundred yards we would come to a section of tunnel where the ceiling had collapsed thereby “installing” a new floor and exposing a new “ceiling”. This feature, along with the occasional dirty ‘tite and ‘mite, gave further evidence of periodic flooding. As Roy kept the music coming, we marched single file, back towards the direction we came from - just a 100 feet or so lower in the earth. In other words, I was under the impression we were walking back towards the direction of the entrance tunnel, but we were now underneath all three chambers. And then a single thought crept into my mind: Every step in that direction is another step farther from the way we came - the way out. I pushed the thought away, but it wouldn’t stay gone... How long had we been down here? How far have we humped? What time was it? I had always thought I had a pretty fair internal clock. Now, completely submerged in the lower earth’s pitch black, my clock was no longer ticking.

A half hour later, we came to the first “Funnel of Doom” where we set up a small base camp of lanterns and music. We did some BREAD and shifted gears to Pink Floyd. Wrapping up the 10 from the last 50 we approached the funnel. The hole before us was nearly perfectly round and thirty feet across. The floor around it tapered slowly to the center then fell drastically, twenty feet straight down to a pool. (The permanent water table?) Since the funnel favored the right side of the bore hole the only way around was the left. It was here that we found tracks (six inch deep boot prints) leading to the far side. The tracks were centered three feet from the left wall and two feet from the funnel's edge. OK, I told myself, be careful; step only where others before you have been. I eased passed the funnel and just as I gained safe ground it happened: Tim, bringing up the rear, slipped. Falling forward, he landed on his chest in the slick mud. “Aww shit” he yelled, followed by “HELP!” He had begun to slip back.. He threw out his left hand and clawed at the wet earth, no good, he slipped more. This time he tried with his right - no good, back he went. Shawn and Roy, pushing for the end had separated from us slightly. I immediately laid down, facing Tim, and stretched for his hand with all I had. Dale had jumped at my feet to help hold me. No good, Tim was too far - we were going to lose him. With all he had, Tim again threw his left arm out and finally got some purchase on the slick mud. With Dale holding me by the ankles, I inched forward on my belly and we grabbed hands. Tim wiggled up to me and Dale and finally found good ground. He stood up and grinned: “I’m okay.” That Tim is one cool cucumber. We caught up to Shawn and Roy at the second Funnel of Doom and it was here that I succumbed to a near total mental collapse.

Shawn and Roy, pushing for the end, decided to continue to find the “lake” that was reported to be near the end of the line. The “lake” was a sump and probably of the same water table that the funnels were formed by. After much debate over which side was the correct side to cross the second funnel, our two pioneers continued on , Roy to the left and Shawn to the right. (It was later reported that Roy took the true “go” as Shawn had perhaps blazed a new trail.) They each made the crossing, turned the bend and were gone. And my mind said “You should go, too... the other way.” I gotta’ quit thinking like this, I’m just tired... “Now, you have to get out of here now.” I don’t feel good either, I thought. Then my brain screamed: “RIGHT NOW! YOU HAVE TO LEAVE RIGHT F*****G NOW!” Mustering every ounce of calmness in my body, I turned to Dale and told him: “I have a problem” “What?” he inquired. I told him, and Tim, that I had to leave, right now. They both blinked and looked at each other. I know they had heard me say something and I know my lips had moved. But for the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, I could hear nothing. Dale, sensing some trouble, finally asked if I was okay whereupon I sheepishly explained that I was having an anxiety attack. A real bad one, too. Dale saved my life: “No problem man, lets turn around here, the three of us, and go back to Base Camp Funnel and wait for Shawn and Roy to return.” As soon as I took that first step back, towards the direction out of the cave, I instantly felt better. Amazing. I later found out that the anxiety/panic attack I had suffered from is also know in caving terms as “Exit Fever”. Go figure. About forty-five minutes later, Roy and Shawn reported back to us that they had reached the end.

With Shawn and Roy rejoining us, we reorganized our gear and routed for the exit. Being good sports, the rest of the guys let me take point, for a while, and I set a pretty good pace as I still wanted out - Exit Fever? Can we have a hell yeah...? Heading up, down, over and under, glow sticks beckoned from hundreds of yards away; each chemical light seemed to quicken my step - to hell with that 50/10 crap, I want out. We decided to take a good long rest when we finally re-entered the Registry. What had taken us six hours to do going in had taken us only two coming out. Near total exhaustion and keeping quiet, we all laid back and rested. Every now and then I would flash my light across the chamber and catch a glimpse of the reflector on the large boulder which hid the exit through the breakdown behind it. The bike reflector was put up by cavers years ago as an exit marker for those on the way out. We were tired, filthy, sore, and hungry, but that reflector beamed confidence, so we also felt good.

And that was when the rock fell: You didn’t know what the cracking noise was at first, but when it found the floor, you knew – part of the ceiling had just came loose. Of course, Camp's Gulf had been loosing it’s ceiling for eons. The floor which we had hiked for hours was nothing but the ceiling at one time. Nobody said a word as the thunder echoed throughout the entire center of the earth. Nobody made as much as a cursory glance at another caver. Although I think we were all under the impression the rock had fallen in one of the other rooms, it was still an ominous event. I think it was Dale who commented: “it sounded as small as a Nissan.” But that wasn’t made mention of until we were out of the cave under the moon and stars. “Cave-ins” are taboo subjects while underground…

No - nobody said a word, but we all got up and began repacking our gear for the final hump out of ‘Camp's. It was like when you realize you suddenly overstayed your welcome. We stretched and massaged our filthy bodies and commenced to hike out and that was when we realized we had lost Roy.

We had all ran out of drinking water on the way out, so Roy had taken it upon himself to find some more. Earlier that day, when we first entered the Registry (or was it years ago?) we could hear water trickling from somewhere on the bottom of the room. It was this creek that Roy was in search of. He disappeared around a few boulders and just didn’t come back and nobody had noticed. We called for him, which was of no use. Sound echoed from every possible direction; it was no good, we would have to go look for him. The four of us began the descent to the un-investigated lower portion of the Registry. We couldn’t maintain voice contact, but I think we could all see the other’s lights bouncing around. But it was only four shafts of light; where the hell was Roy? Within about ten minutes, we had all found the creek flowing through the bottom of the room and there sat Roy. He had made a water run, sat down and just took a break... no big deal. As we neared his position, he switched his head lamp on and gave us a “What’s up?”

The water was cold and delicious. Although Roy had filtered it, I would wonder for weeks after the trip if this was the day I would be stuck in the bathroom...LOL. Rejuvenated and together again we ascended the rock pile and homed in on the bike reflector marking the exit. Descending the breakdown, we were all in high spirits, cutting up and joking all the way. We de-geared and cleaned off what we could in the entrance tunnel and walked outside into the cold night. It was 7:PM. We had caved for ten hours, and got in well under the prearranged call out time of midnight. When we made it back to Roy’s truck I produced a small flask of Crown Royal. Yes, I had held back on the guys in the cave when we ran out of water, but this was for celebrating - on the outside. We each took turns knocking back the flask, stoking a warm fire in our bellies. On the way back to our resort base camp, and as soon as the cell signal allowed, Shawn put in the call to Reed that all was well. Actually he put the call into Reed’s babysitter as he and the wife were having a night out: “Look, I know you don’t know me, but be sure and tell Reed that we made it out of the cave. You got that? We made it out of the cave and we're alright.”

Sunday morning came and with it a light snow. The Tennessee hills were dusted in a brilliant white blanket that was still coming down. A small snowball fight ensued as we packed the vehicles for the ride home. As we descended the Cumberland Plateau, making our way towards Chattanooga, I took notice of the weather outside: It was fiercely cold and snowing. Yep, it was perfect caving weather.