It was the dregs of December. That time when days are short and rich
food and lavish drink become an ordeal rather than a treat. One cold
windy grey cabin feverish afternoon I wrestled on layers of stained
torn clothes and called - Guy Noir, subterranean investigator. Get
me outta here before I shoot the next chocolate santa. Within
minutes we were stomping thru the brush in the Hays Travis frontera,
crowbar and camera at the ready, hammer and survey trappings in pack.
The plan was to map and photog a nifty pit cave we had found and
explored in the fall, and to check the several unpromising leads.
While Guy sketched the entrance, I tossed loose rocks off to the
side. The more I tossed, the more loose ones there were. It kept me
warm. Then I slid feet first down a body shaped diagonal tube with a
serious vision obscuring bend in the middle, right about the time my
legs were dangling in freefall. Some kinetic body memory reminded my
flailing feet to connect with the widely separated left and right
perches. We both agreed it was easier this time. Though my rock
dispersal seemed to remind all the grit and pebbles in the slide
about gravity and they came on in too.
The first room was just big enough for two people to stand up in -
if one of them chose to be impaled by rock blades in the vicinity of
the dirt floor dig leads. Once again Guy licked his pencil to record
this beauty for posterity and I poked a head. First I poked it along
the floor, ruling out one hole that led to a 2-foot diameter cavity.
The next one looked more promising - a bit of highly restricted
bashing removed the conglomerate obstruction so we could slither into
a 7x9 foot dome. Just about as big as the original room. Scritch
scritch scritch went the sketcher, so next I poked my head into the
big lead - another body sized pit that appeared to go nowhere . . .
but in the interest of thoroughness, I lay on the ledge, eased my
body forward into the pit headfirst and watched my lamp plunk off my
helmet and onto the floor, several feet out of reach.
My light fell off, I'm leaning further into the pit, hold my ankles,
I hollered and started wriggling forward until most of my body was
upside down with a nice reassuring grip on my feet. Still couldnt
reach the light so I yelled for the crowbar which was passed over my
back til it reached my hand. With that I fished the light off the
floor and let out a shriek, which fortunately caused the restraining
grip to tighten reflexively rather than let go.
Giant Green Frogs are leaping at my face, I screamed. In disbelief
and relief because when something in a pit leaps at my face, frog is
not my first thought. Of course it was a bit awkward as I was still
dangling headfirst arms stuck out front, headlamp swinging from a
crowbar and stirring up the frogs who really had no other space to
jump except into that inhabited by my face.
Guy, who had no idea what was happening, really clamped down and
started reeling me backwards and upwards. I continued to gabble
about emerald green frogs and insisted that Guy take a peek. He
ducked his head into the pit and said No frogs, it doesnt go, with
undertones of Why on earth did you think it might, what did you think
you were doing. We continued 10 feet or so into the main room and
came up to the edge of the next pit, this one a comfortable
chimneyable or cable laddery ( take your pick) size: 15 feet deep.
By gum, the first descender was leapt at again, this time around the
ankles, by a pack of blotchy camo frogs, shades of tan and brown and
grey. The second descender once again saw no amphibians, they having
hopped back to where ever they hang when no cavers are about. We
dutifully measured taped and floated this room as well, squirmed our
way up and out into a leaden grey evening, sense of accomplishment
(and frogs) putting smiles in our hearts.
Even now, in the post new year slump, I get a nice frisson thinking
of my gangly green tree frogs, wishing them a prosperous colony.
Nancy
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