Great story, yet again, Sleaze!
Enjoyed it immensely and I can't help but wonder if you've read a lot of
Hunter S. Thompson, as I have.
Keep postin'!
Mark
From: bmorgan...@aol.com [mailto:bmorgan...@aol.com]
Sent: Wednesday, November 14, 2007 2:11 PM
To: texascavers@texascavers.com
Subject: [Texascavers] Houston borehole
Once upon a time I made the mistake of visiting Houston. I think it
might have been 1989. I wrote a story about it called A business trip
to Texas. Here is an excerpt:
Houston is a microcosm of all our urban sins, a Los Angeles about to
happen saved from critical mass only by the oil slump. I sat in my
motel room in despair until I remembered Wild Bill Rupley, an old caving
friend that I met in Belize. A comprehensive tour of all the punk rock
clubs and sleazy bars in town brought my spirits back. The next evening
we were at a loss until I mentioned the great gray green greasy Buffalo
Bayou which flows through the oldest and most decrepit part of downtown
Houston.
Wildlife is where you find it, so we outfitted ourselves with headlamps
and canoe and set out to explore Houston the hard way. The idea was to
explore the maze of sewage tunnels beneath the city, and to shine the
eyes of trolls, rats, bag ladies, and other wildlife. Beneath the
bridges. The bayou was up due to recent flooding so we had a fine fast
ride through the suburbs. Our first discovery was big borehole, a
vine-draped tunnel entrance at least ten feet in diameter leading back
into the bowls of tho city. Not having taken the proper equipment
(rubber galoshes) we were finally stopped by a deep pool of poop that
flooded the passage. We could hear a waterfall beyond, the passage
beckoned, but prudence dictated that this was a dry weather cave.
The beer supply was running low, but we managed to re-provision at an
all night 7-11, then continued on down the bayou. Beneath the bridges
the ruins of ancient civilizations could be seen everywhere, but the
inhabitants had fled to join the Anasazi. Only one vagrant was seen,
but he submerged into the debris upon our approach and escaped before we
could photograph him to determine the species.
Once we reached the tidal portion of the bayou, the wildlife changed.
Regular black rats were replaced by numerous semi aquatic wharf rats.
Were those the cute little fur bearing nutrias that I had envisioned
raising as a child? Mommy, will you buy me a swamp so I can make big
money raising nutrias?
We wondered about predators, supposing that the rats were at the top of
the food chain, when whuump sploosh one of them disappeared beneath the
greasy surface. Shortly thereafter the mystery was solved when we ran
headlong into an alligator gar that attempted to turn the canoe over and
eat us. It was at least seven feet long. Bill, who was in the bow, was
visably shaken. Now that Piranhas, Alligators, rats, and Mambas have
all had their moment of glory on the silver screen, I would recommend
Gars for the next scifihorrorflick extravaganza. Just when you thought
it was safe to canoe down the bayou ...
By the time we reached the last and greatest arched bridge our minds had
become as murky as the turbid waters of the bayou. I chanced to knock
the paddle against the side of the canoe and thereby discovered that we
were in a gigantic echo chamber, the frequency of which depended on
where we were relative to the apex of the arch of the bridge. The
senseless hoots and gibbers that followed were compounded by the weird
acoustical aberrations of the echo chamber. The police left us alone,
supposing that we were only an errant band of gibbering gibbons,
siamangs out for a fling.
Sleazeweazel
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