Beyond Mammoth Cave Read online

  Jim Currens and I zealously poked around all the flanks of Toohey Ridge that summer and fall. We found passage fragments and cave openings, but we discovered very little the old-timers had not already found. Every hole we probed had signs of earlier efforts—cedar ladders, fragments of ropes, broken bottles. The old explorers seemed every bit as diligent as we were. One of our most notable efforts was in a dig in the south end of Renick Cave, a three-thousand-foot-long cave sandwiched between two large sinkholes. Around 1925, the old-timers had dug into a passage beneath a sandstone ledge in one of the sinkholes. Although not very extensive, the large passage was adorned with stalactites and stalagmites. But Renick Cave was too small and too remote to offer any promise as a commercial cave. Cave-onyx miners soon stripped the stone decorations for sale to tourists, and Renick Cave was forgotten.

  We explored Renick Cave. Renick’s large passage was a sample of what we knew could be found in Toohey Ridge: a thirty-foot-high and twenty-foot-wide borehole. The borehole ended, but we crawled into an obscure side passage and found a narrow rift blowing air. We climbed down the crack—optimistically named Hurricane Crack—on a cable ladder. Below, we followed a series of canyons nearly completely filled with fine, dry sand. It was good, going cave; yet everything we had explored had been tracked-up by some unknown explorer in the past. Finally, after several trips spent sorting through the confusing canyons, we lay on our bellies, scraping away sand in a low passage in an attempt to follow Renick Cave’s wind. At least something had been left.

  Breakthrough! We slithered through the dug-out passage into open space. Elated, we scampered through the continuing canyon; smooth, virgin sand stretched out before us. After seven hundred feet, the telltale sandstone boulders and dripping water told us Renick Cave might be finished. The walking canyon terminated in a floor-to-ceiling wall of broken sandstone rock, air blowing through the gaps. Damn! On the way out, we checked one small side passage and, to our delight, emerged into a tall canyon. Although the canyon was short and filled with sand at both ends, a wide crawlway led off to the west. After fifty feet, we stopped. The crawl continued ahead. We left it to survey later, savoring the thought of the hoped-for discovery until we could return.

  The following weekend, while on a trip to Organ Cave, West Virginia, our anxiousness got the better of us. On Sunday morning, after a long caving trip the previous day, Jim and I climbed into the car just after dawn and made the ten-hour drive back to Kentucky. We cleverly planned a longer route of travel in order to avoid Lexington so that any second thoughts as we passed close to our home base would be removed. At 10:00 P.M., we entered Renick Cave, weary after the long drive and the lateness of the hour. We returned to the dig and began surveying, making our way up into the crawlway we had left behind the previous weekend. One hundred feet beyond the previous week’s scuff marks, the sand fill rose within two inches of the ceiling. Shit!

  Defeated and drooping, we headed to the surface and started the drive back to Lexington, narrowly averting disaster. I woke up to blaring tractor-trailer horns to find Jim glassy-eyed, driving thirty miles an hour without lights on an interstate highway. Sleep driving. Unfortunately, I did not do much better when it was my turn to drive. Twice, I was shocked awake by the sound of flying gravel as the car headed off the highway toward the ditch.

  Renick Cave was finished.

  Over a period of many months, Jim and I had explored fifty or so vertical shafts—moss-lined holes from 30 to 160 feet deep on the sides of the ridges. These vertical shafts are the downspouts to the master cave for water that flows off the sandstone caprock down to the water table. There had to be thousands of these shafts, but only a few would be enterable by humans. Narrow drains in the bottoms of most of them would stop cavers from continuing. Nearly all of them blew cold air. We climbed down some without rope; in others, we used cable ladders or a rappel line to reach the bottoms. In all of them, the water gurgled into too-narrow drain slots or bedding-plane openings or just disappeared into the gravel floor. No way to follow the water here.

  At every turn, we were being defeated. At first, we thought our persistence, technology, and experience would beat the odds of finding the big cave. After all, were we not better than those old-timers with kerosene lanterns and homemade ladders? Perhaps not. We still had no doubt that the cave was there, but we started to become uncertain that we would find a way in. I would not admit that the odds against us were mounting. Given time, I was sure we would be successful. We continued to persist in our crusade.

  One cave in particular tortured our patience beyond endurance. Wildcat Hollow Cave frustrated us with an interminable crawlway two feet high by four feet wide. It was a classic death trap. The entrance was at the very bottom of a long valley. During rainstorms, every drop of rainwater drained into it. Frequently, the gully leading to the mouth of the cave turned into a frothing torrent of foam and crashing water. In the cave, we squeezed through windows of car doors and over twisted pieces of abandoned farm implements, rusted tin cans, and discarded bedsprings that had washed in during the frequent floods. We could not survey this cave because the metal junk deflected our magnetic compass.

  I was determined that a long crawlway would not defeat us. I returned with Joe Saunders a few weeks later, but we were stopped by a new pool of water before we had even reached the limit of exploration. Finally, I made a solo attempt at pushing the cave. The pool was now dry. Being alone, I moved quickly into unknown cave that trended on a sinuous path toward the heart of Toohey Ridge. Crawling over jagged rock made movement difficult, and after a few hours, I finally succumbed to exhaustion. I had crawled perhaps a thousand feet since leaving the surface. Ahead, the low tunnel rounded a corner and continued out of sight, the cold breeze continuing to blow. I sighed, laying my head on the cool floor.

  As I lay there resting, the years of frustration at not finding the Toohey Ridge Cave System swept over me like a giant wave. Where was it? Damn that teasing breeze! I was so sure that Wildcat Hollow Cave would lead us to big cave, but it was almost as if the cave was playing with us—an infinite crawlway unrolling before us. I was at the end of my endurance, the end of my will. I wiggled my way back to the surface, emerging just a few hours before a violent thunderstorm dumped two inches of rain on Toohey Ridge, filling Wildcat Hollow Cave with water. When I returned later, I found its entrance sealed from mud by the rains, an ironic symbol of our success on Toohey Ridge. The valley bottom showed no indication that a cave had ever been there.

  Would we ever find the big cave? Standing in the sinkhole on the flat floor that now covered the entrance to Wildcat Hollow Cave, I could not help but feel that this was a harbinger of how things would go in our future search for big cave in Toohey Ridge: lots of work and only mud to show for it. But the wind . . .

  Wind, the lifeblood of a caver’s enthusiasm, is one of the seductive indicators of going cave. Throughout the caves of the Mammoth Cave area, air moves through the passages like blood flowing through veins of a body. The lack or presence of wind is not a sure-bet indicator, but with other clues, wind can guide explorers to the discovery of new cave. Probably more than any other clue, wind has driven cavers to push into otherwise unthinkable passages and holes in search of big cave.

  Airflow in the caves of the Mammoth Cave area is triggered by the chimney effect of warm air rising and cold air sinking and, to a lesser degree, by changes in regional air pressure. In principle, warm air moves from lower to upper openings on cold days and cool air moves from upper to lower openings on hot days. During times of extreme temperature or pressure changes, wind speeds through the cave can exceed thirty miles an hour. The number of entrances and the extent of the cave complicates the airflow.

  Many of the caves we found on Toohey Ridge had this magical airflow, a further sign that there was a big cave somewhere.

  Through it all, we kept returning to the sandstone rubble of Jakes Cave, where the wind howled through the breakdown obstruction. This still seemed our best chance
of success.

  Jim and I reclined wearily on the damp floor, waiting for the last of the rocks to roll from the chute. Better safe than sorry. Soon, the avalanche of rocks diminished to pebbles. Time to move again.

  I returned to the rubble face where I poked and prodded with the steel bar. This time, the round sandstone rocks shifted easily with each jab. I quickly pulled back as a few of them tumbled from the chute.

  More pokes, more rocks that rolled out like melons from a spilling cart. One large rock struck my shoulder.

  “Ouch!”

  I waited again for the pile to settle.

  I eased back to the base of the chute and cautiously stuck the bar back up toward the face. I stretched but could not feel the base of the pile.

  “Damn!”

  “What’s wrong?” Jim asked.

  “So you are there?” I was annoyed he had not said anything when the rock crashed into my shoulder.

  “Humph.”

  “I can’t reach any more rocks.” I scooted farther up the slope to assess the problem. I swung my light upward.

  Suddenly, open space!

  “We may have something!” I cried.

  I knocked away the last remaining boulders that blocked the route up into the void.

  “Careful, watch for loose rocks.” Jim was always more wary than me.

  I was eager. The excitement of potential discovery overshadowed my caution. I eased into the hole. Above me was blackness. Small rocks fell from somewhere above as I squeezed up, feet scraping and pushing at the sloping floor for purchase. Once through, I looked around, searching for the expected big passage. As my eyes adjusted to the openness, panic shot through me as my carbide lamp’s beam revealed the shadowy objects above. The ceiling was thousands of pounds of black sandstone rocks held up by imagination alone. Small rocks bounced off my helmet. Visions of Floyd Collins trapped and dying in nearby Sand Cave in 1925 raced through my head. Trapped or crushed—which is worse? I quickly slithered back to safety where Jim waited.

  “What did you find?”

  “Looks pretty good, actually. It’s a big canyon or something, about three feet wide and twenty feet high. I can’t see very far. There’s shattered rock everywhere.”

  Watching Jim, I continued, “But I’m not going. Give it a shot, if you want.”

  He wiggled passed me and jammed his torso up into the chute. Silence. Moments later, he slid back out of the hole.

  Jim was no fool. “No way. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Open cave, and no one wanted to check it. After tens of hours of digging, we had finished our last digging trip. It was just too dangerous, even for me. We gathered up the tools and headed toward the surface.

  As we left the cave for the last time, we heard behind us a low rumble as the pile resettled once again.

  Would we ever get a break?

  All our efforts on Toohey Ridge led nowhere. In the shadow of the longest cave, we could not find a going cave. We had only worthless mud and scary stories of sandstone boulders. The disjointed half mile of new passage we had found beneath Toohey Ridge was not a cave system. Who was kidding whom? Where was the Toohey Ridge Cave System?

  The vastness of Mammoth Cave lay across the valley from Toohey Ridge, and at Mammoth Cave was the Cave Research Foundation. I had grown up envious, yet respectful, of the CRF. The organization had what I wanted (and now searched for)—the longest cave on earth. Yes, its members were arrogant, but they still had it. Once I turned eighteen, I participated in a number of expeditions with the group, quenching at least some of my thirst for big cave. Even when I was not caving with them, I visited to find out what was happening. I also wanted to brag about our exploits in Toohey Ridge. I sought approval; I wanted their endorsement.

  One summer evening while visiting the CRF Flint Ridge Field Station in Mammoth Cave National Park, I met Steve Wells. At the time, I was still seventeen, ineligible to cave with the CRF. He was one of the participants on the 1972 exploration team that connected the Flint Ridge Cave System with Mammoth Cave. His friendly smile put me at ease. Steve was a graduate student working on his master’s thesis on the hydrogeology of the Central Kentucky Karst. Both qualifications impressed me—an expert in cave connecting and an expert in cave science! Steve’s wisdom would be valuable, and his acceptance of me, everything!

  I chatted with Steve for awhile but quickly got to the point, not mincing my words. “Steve, what do you think of the potential for big cave in Toohey Ridge?” I was confident he would share my confidence.

  Steve looked at this eager teenager thoughtfully. “I don’t think any cave of significant length will be found outside of Mammoth Cave National Park,” he said. “The plateau is way too fragmented—the cave will be all chopped up. Besides, Mammoth Cave is probably unique—just an anomaly.”

  He smiled again and turned away to the others. End of conversation. More arrogance! He was one who should be open-minded, but he was like the others. Was it ignorance?

  I was seething. These damn CRF cavers had it all. They monopolized the longest cave. Now they were claiming no other cave could ever come close to being a Mammoth Cave! Didn’t they see that the rest of the Mammoth Cave Plateau was there for the taking? Blindness! Of course they were wrong!

  After that evening, I never saw Steve Wells again.

  In the fall of 1975, I concluded that I needed a life change. The months of disappointment and frustration had taken their toll. I was dismayed that my energy and Jim Currens’s determination had not been enough to guarantee our success. My confidence that we would ultimately prevail was wavering. Overall, caving was looking like a dead end. I decided education would now take a new priority, and I would begin again to explore my other passions—rock climbing and mountaineering.

  In December 1975, I packed everything in my yellow Datsun and drove to Colorado to enroll in the Colorado School of Mines. I yearned to challenge myself intellectually at what was one of the top mineralogical engineering schools in the country. In my spare time, I would seek out and climb the granite and sandstone cliffs in the mountains west of Boulder.

  School was everything I thought it would be. I was working hard and loving it. But I also missed the caves. Jim’s last comment when I left kept gnawing at me: “Don’t worry about it. You gave us a good start. I can take care of things from now on.” His attempt to console had had the opposite effect. He had taken so smoothly for himself what I had left behind. Was he happy to see me go? I could not leave my dreams so easily.

  In late January 1976, I caught pneumonia, which laid me up long enough that I had to drop out of school for the semester. There would be no way I could catch up. After returning to my parents’ home in Maryland and working at odd jobs for a short while, I called James F. Quinlan, geologist at Mammoth Cave National Park, to ask if he could give me a job. Quinlan’s caving program would not start for several months, but he conducted year-round hydrological research. Surely he could use some help, and I needed to be near the caves again.

  Indeed, Quinlan did need a field assistant. So in early March, I spent my days monitoring the water level in wells in the sinkhole plain south of Mammoth Cave National Park or changing dye traps in the dozens of springs along the Green River. The work was fun, but unfortunately, I could not find a place to live. For the first few weeks, Don Coons provided floor space in his living room—too crowded, considering another of Quinlan’s field assistants lived on his couch.

  During off hours, I continued to walk the hillsides of Toohey Ridge, poke into holes I found, and talk to landowners. One day I found an unoccupied shack that looked ideal for a cavers’ fieldhouse. Because it was isolated, unruly cavers could not disturb neighbors. More importantly, it was dilapidated, so no one wanted to live in it. The back room ceiling was falling in, and a chimney had toppled. The local people knew me quite well by this time, so I had no trouble getting permission to use the shack.

  Jim Currens was impressed with my resourcefulness, and we immediately
made improvements. We bought a wood stove for heat, threading a long length of stovepipe up through the broken-down chimney. We built bunk beds for the main room, and in the small central room we set up a small kitchen to heat cans of food. We installed a hand pump on the shallow well in the back and a pit toilet in the front yard. We laughed as we dragged the crummy outhouse with a moon and star carved in the front door and placed it over the hole. We spent many evenings on the front porch drinking beer or just talking. It was home. By the end of March, I moved from Don Coons’s house to the new Toohey Ridge fieldhouse.

  The house was a cozy firetrap. A running joke was that in winter, you had to “water the wall.” Often, cavers had awakened, eyes burning, from the smoke. Across the room, they would see through the smoke that the wall behind the wood stove was aglow, ready to burst into flames. One of them would jump out of bed and race over to waiting buckets of water and empty them against the smoking wall. To avoid this situation, we assigned a “watch” where someone was in charge of throwing water on the wall to keep it cool. His job was to water the wall. We were lucky we were not incinerated.

  A fieldhouse was fine, but we needed a cave to go with it. My determination returned.

  In the spring of 1976, Jim Currens and I redefined our objectives. Toohey Ridge was too stubborn to reveal its secrets. We needed new territory in which to work. More ridges surrounded Toohey Ridge; some were just a few hundred feet across the valleys from Toohey Ridge. Surely an entrance to the system we sought did not have to be on Toohey Ridge, since such a system probably encompassed quite a large area. We marched out, fanning into the valleys, continuing the now broadened search, finding new holes to check and caves to push.

  My annoyance with the Cave Research Foundation’s air of superiority continued, but my respect for them and their success remained. I wanted to hedge my bets so I could work in the longest cave one way or another. With my pride swallowed, I tried my best to conform with the CRF’s program. I wanted to belong. I waved stories of my experience as a project caver as a patriot waves his flag. “Here I am, honed and ready to take command at Mammoth Cave.” I was a self-proclaimed protégé.