Beyond Thunder

BEYOND THUNDER

October, 1976

            The air is cool and moist. I long for a whisp of air, the merest touch on my cheek to verify existence – but nothing. The walls are coated with a slick and satiny film, yet are dry as a bone like graphite powder to the touch. My feet sense every nubbin of the cave’s floor through the thin soles of Chinese slippers – my standard footwear for long wet hikes because the cotton soles grip the wet rocks, allow my calloused feet to curl and cling. Transparent basins of the most pristine liquid imaginable fill intermittent hollows on the floor. The pools of water lie perfectly still, as they have for centuries, leaving no clue to frame the threshold between air and water, making their presence known only as my feet splash when I thought I was about to step on dry pavement, creating unexpected ripples.

            The absence of light is smothering. Goddam headlamp batteries are dead and dumbass me didn’t bring any spares.

            I have been wandering deep into this cave for my whole life it seems, seeking uncharted rivers. This particular one inside the earth has beckoned since that breakfast café in Sausalito a couple years back when I was still a paramedic, before becoming what I was always meant to be for the rest of my life; a river boatman. I’d overheard an otherwise ordinary conversation between two women reading their Sunday New York Times at the table behind me, which altered my life forever…

“Say’s here that this huge waterfall pours out of some cave in the Grand Canyon… wow, look!”

That got my attention alright, so I turned and asked these complete strangers if I could see the article, embarrassing my girlfriend. (I did that a lot.) There’s this outrageous picture of Thunder Falls gushing out of a cave in a thousand foot cliff. I tapped the page and said softly to myself, “I’m going there.” Simple as that.

Now I’ve arrived, not exactly to Thunder, which I and half our trip climbed up into yesterday, but to another one miles further and way more out there. Someone on our trip off-handedly mentioned this other cave saying, “Its rumoured to be even more remote, more wild, but nobody ever makes it that far.”

So, naturally I had to go.

            I shake my head, dumbfounded at yet another self-inflicted predicament. The headlamp flickers back to life for a fleeting moment, dies once again. I must seize this nanosecond of eyeburst, commit it to memory, summon the cave’s contours with absolute precision from it. From my taut crouch I burn into my bones that one puny shred of guidance as everything is once again consumed in utter blackness.

And if I can’t nail down the way out using these tokens…?



            Who would have guessed I’d be in the Grand Canyon, kayaking the hallowed Colorado, on my very first season of river guiding? Teal had offered me her spot on the thirty-seven day private trip of Arta guides, choosing instead Africa for herself. The others; Jimbo, John, Stitch, Patch, Danny, Cathy, Micheal. Most of them already considered “old-timers”, having guided on California’s “Stanny” (Stanislaus) and “T” (Tuolumne) rivers for a couple years now. I’m the rookie in what is the leading edge of full-time professional river guides. A bunch of bronzed athletic young outdoorsmen and women who’ve left our California commune of tipis, tree houses, organic gardens and goats for this, our tribe’s holy grail.

            My contribution to the trip is a leaky, over-patched raft with bubbles spoiling the sunbaked rubber, along with a bent and rusty steel frame, a set of too-heavy oars, some corroded boxes and a scattering of battered bags. All borrowed from the disabled rafting group “ETC” that trained me this spring to become an unpaid volunteer guide. They get all their gear as throw-aways, donations from local commercial outfitters. Patch didn’t have her own raft so she’s rowing the ETC one. I’m paddling my fiberglass kayak, where the world is right and good.

            We haven’t worn much clothing since we shoved off at Lee’s ferry three weeks ago. Breech-cloths, flimsy blouses and bare bottoms, home-made leather sandals with used-tire soles sewed on with hand awls, floppy hats. It’s not like we’re nudists or anything. It’s simply relaxed and spontaneous. Everyone’s fit, nobody’s self-conscious, we simply belong.

            I crave the most frantic whitewater, densely thumping waves. I have this deep need to feel my heart beating. Desire it so badly I’ve been deliberately paddling directly into the biggest hydraulic features the Colorado has to offer, mostly having the shit kicked out of me. Loving every minute of it. I lust to plunge deep, touch more than her surface, get to know every nook and cranny of my new lover. She demands ferocity, something I can give her. Later I’ll get around to familiarity, intimacy, exploration. For now I’m content with tumbling and tussling, impatient and greedy.



            This singular day’s early morning drifts through my mind as I crawl along ever so slowly, muslin skirt tucked into my woven cotton belt, bloodied bare knees feeling the way; I was squatting on my heels on the raft in the purple dawn having a silent breakfast of oatmeal, bare-bones hiking gear scattered before me on the plywood deck, nearby Tapeats rapid talking in tongues in the muted early light. I’ve never felt so complete, so blessed, hadn’t even considered it a possibility. Then I got here.

As I took off, I heard a whispered farewell whilst stepping over a couple spooning in their sleeping bags right in the middle of the sandy trail amongst the coyote willows.

            “Where are you going so early?” Cathy whispers and blinks, concern in her voice.

            “The cave. The other one. Beyond Thunder. I’ll see you guys back at camp.”

            “Be careful!”, she scolds.

            She knows I won’t be.

            My daypack swings effortlessly, soon forgotten. Up the steep switchbacks, washing down the dried mushroom taste in my mouth, trying not to gag.

            Mile after sinuous mile of waist deep creek wading, leaning against the swift current, surrendering to the eddies. I’ve leant against currents all my life, know it well.

            Overhanging gardens drip with Maidenhair Fern, Scarlet Monkey Flower, Stone Crop clinging upside down on the moist limestone sprayed by the river’s dance. Glittering water showers off their leaves, dimpling the runnels below. No trail, no footprints. Tiny footholds along the cliffs in the narrow parts of the gorge offer passage around the deepest pools, the steepest falls. Occasionally I find myself alarmingly high, realizing too late the precipice. But I’m climbing well, traversing my own personal untamed landscape, each time following the frog chirps and dragonflies back down to the refuge of flowing water. The hot sun now baking my body, caressing me, laughing at my folly, loving me anyway.

            Someday perhaps I will learn. For now, just accept.

            After some time I pause at a major fork in the Canyon. Water rushes and roars from the slot canyon on the left – a twisted notch of marbled sandstone belching foam and froth, a deluge leaping over and through unkempt piles of massive, jagged boulders and trees. There is power here, and it beckons. Putrid, algae-choked yellow slime is trickling in from the main canyon. So left it is.

            Walls converge, leaving me shivering in the shade, thoroughly drenched. I wade deeper, clamber along knife-edged corners above bone-shattering drops. Layers of purple, green, tan, brown, burgundy, coarse grains of sand frozen by unfathomable time and pressure. Hardened, ancient beaches that once fronted primal seas, only recently re-sculpted by the very source that I hunt.

            The slot canyon yields into a curved bowl of deep emerald, shot with crimson Indian Paintbrush, blue Penstemon, yellow Columbine, white Evening Primrose. A perfumed Monet. Water frames everything – tumbling, pouring, cascading in tiny rivulets and gushing channels straight out of Mother Earth. Vegetation shaking, rattling, vibrating, swaying to a concert of water. Black-capped phoebes flit from branches, grab insects on the fly and return to their perches. Cottonwoods, Redbuds, Willows; protective, watching over it all. It’s too much. My blood feels like it’ll burst out of my body, itself vibrating and swaying in tempo with the rest. I climb, following something too deep to name, moving because I must. I must find the source. I must enter the womb. I will certainly die if I don’t.

            I might even if I do…



            A puff of wind billows my skirt, rustles a gnarled Juniper branch against my leg. My cheek is pressed to warm, impassive stone – petrified seashells –­ hands cling to a thin seam.

Something seems to be missing.

            The sound of water. That’s it. I seem to have left it behind somewhere. I warily turn, leaning into the pulsing, radiating heart of vertical wall, wisely keeping two fingers in that crack.

            There’s quite a bit of air two hundred feet up the Redwall. I’m on a thin ledge, apparently a peregrine’s aerie covered with white excrement. I contemplate my latest folly, the essential mooring of earth quite gone. A vacant, beguiling cobalt sky beckons like a siren. Hundreds of feet below, that green bowl. Swallows dive past, their whizz reminding me of earlier days of rock and rope in the Sierra. Joyous, carefree swallows.

            Don’t fucking move.

            I peer over the lip. A fine vertical crack system leads up to my perch. No idea how the hell I got way up here. Not a whole lot of choices in any event.

            My back plastered against the smooth limestone, arms at my side, head bent at an angle upward, mouth tight, I place my palms flat against the wall and slowly caress its smooth surface, trying to slow things down, spooked but good. The immensity consumes me: all that sacred, seductive vastness sucks my breath away.

            I groan – reeling – shut my eyes, head resting back on the cliff. Steady, now.

            Step by step, handhold by handhold, I descend. Soon the lovely dancing roar returns – the mist, the green fecundity, the moving water – life’s compass. Leaping back to the moist ground, I traverse left, bouncing off boulders, skipping along loose scree, laughing like a madman, alive.

            Just made it. The nearness of death, now that’s what we need to keep us awake, eh?

            I pause, have a drink, survey my rocky approach chasm just below. The cave will have to wait. Long past time to head back.

            But…

            Something peculiar and vast tugs at me from behind. Insistent, worth paying attention to. I’ve ignored much in life. Sooner or later I’m going to have to start listening. Once again, I find myself turning.

            Directly behind me is a tunnel big enough to drive a locomotive through. A cool breeze drifts out of the cave’s mouth, touches my cheek.



            Left? Could be right I suppose. I remove the headlamp, fumbling it open with clumsy fingers in the pitch blackness, and drop the nearly useless batteries. Shit. Control yourself goddammit.

            On my knees, I locate them with fingertips, scrape each end with my pocket knife, hoping to extract a few more precious seconds of juice, then replace them, all by feel. Flashes of iridescence like plankton on a disturbed night sea flicker on the insides of my closed eyelids. I flick the headlight switch and for all my trouble earn a dull glow which illuminates my womblike world for a split second, then poof, gone again.

            Okay. Breathe. I squeeze my eyes tight, chin on chest… Focus my man, focus.

            Left it is.

            I keep one hand high and in front as I slowly crawl. Doesn’t matter, I keep hitting my head on stalactites anyway. Every so often I slap the headlamp, it  flickers, then utter blackness again. My blind friends have tried to teach me how to summon details that are revealed to them but which we so-called sighted people typically miss… things made known by hints from other senses…

It’s all up to you, buddy. Nobody knows where you went, what you sought, would recognize it any more than you did. Dead end. Wrong way. Lost. No prospects.

            The water here has leaked out of the bottom of some shimmering north rim lake miles away and thousands of feet above. There a deer drinks nervously, a hawk dives for a trout, a squirrel tosses an empty seed husk off her branch into the shallows, all unconcerned with the sanctity of these everyday gestures, holier still for their innocence. Those ripples journey, seeping through cracks running through unimaginable masses of earth and rock. Through thousands of feet of limestone, mudstone, sandstone and shale, three dimensional and pressing. Like myself seeking and finally arriving at the rumoured river in a cave called Tapeats.

            I munch on my last granola bar, sitting on my pack. Cold has crept into my bones. Gotta keep moving. I turn my sightless face left, then right, vacant holes where eyes should be. Knock the headlamp against my palm, another quick flicker. This time I choose a crawlspace to my right. Good as any.

            Stupid to not have taken a spare flashlight. I hate doing dumb rookie shit like that but manage to like clockwork. Always trying to be purposeful – checking for my rain jacket, first aid kit, knife, water, food, yet invariably missing the one essential thing. Story of my life.

            Harder and harder to get the merest glow from bonking the light, must time it just so. I gulp down the claustrophobia, crab-walk around a stalagmite. Did I just do a complete circle? Am I backtracking yet again, back into the tomblike depths? If there were any loose stones I could maybe leave a breadcrumb trail, but everything is washed clean. I break a knob off the wall, leave it where I’ll bark my knee should I come back this way, carry on.

            Getting hard to put down the panic. It rises to the surface like a ponderous, fading bull elephant seal coming up for one more gasp of air. I slap the flashlight, coaxing a final blip of light, trapped in a billion tons of earth. Go with it, forget your fears.

I imagine a faint glow somewhere in the distance… tantalizing, alluring, beguiling...

            Wait, no… It’s not my imagination… the glow lingers, blossoms as I crawl towards it on all fours like a baby. Giggling echoes evolve into torrents of reverberating laughter as the glow grows into undeniable light. I burst out of the cave entrance like a newborn from the birth canal, fancying myself emerging clean and pure into the brilliant sunshine of a brand-new world.

            But it’s not sunshine which has saved me – rather the glorious full moon hanging high over a far cliff, illuminating inscrutable ramparts with silver and mercury. It fills me and I cut loose, bounding downhill, fast and reckless. Can do nothing but. Deliriously down the creek, a lunatic leaping from rock to rock, tread sure as a leopard, moonlight and shadow and heartbeat forging the landscape into a vibrating kaleidoscope of liquid crystal.

            “Awwwoooooooooo” “Awwwoooooooooooooooooo…” as I gallop and plunge, only dimly aware of the miles, going now with the current. The sky begins to turn pink, Thunder river dances in from the right and adds to the din. A dead tree trunk blocks the trail, thick and dark and sticking straight up. I skid to a halt, lean forward, hands on thighs, panting hard.

            The tree says “Jesus! What on earth are you doing? You scared the hell out of us!”

            “Hunh?”

            Cathy says “Oh my God. We thought there was a pack of coyotes tearing right into us. What the hell are you doing?”

            Not a tree trunk after all. Stich and Cathy stand back to back in their sleeping bags like circled buffalo, staring at me with round, glazed eyes.

            Apparently they like sleeping on trails.

            “We were about to send out a search party. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you nuts?”

            “Its taken a long time, but I think I’m home now.”

Epilogue;

I returned through the following years over the course of forty seven years and one hundred sixty blessed private and commercial river trips and hikes. Easily over five thousand days “Below The Rim”. If I got a rare layover day at Tapeats river camp I’d head upstream again. Each time exploring the cave further whilst eliminating yet one more wrong tunnel, one more unconnected chamber, each time bringing several spare flashlights. Squeezing, stemming, seeking. Finally I was allowed entry to the main passage carrying the river inside the earth. I swam its depths and walked its banks to the 50-cal ammo can register at the far end of the cave. Shivering violently upon exiting, I’d bake in the sun in that miraculous bowl of springs, contemplating obsession, passion, devotion, folly. On my final visit, (back when they allowed camping at the mouth), we even took a Tahiti (inflatable canoe), though like Tom Sawyer I inveigled the others to carry it. On our way back out of the cave, floating ever faster in our overloaded ducky, I noticed the exit tunnel on our left as we zipped past it and headed towards an echoed roar of what sounded suspiciously like a waterfall dropping into a bottomless pit. I leapt off the back into waist deep current, planted my feet and grabbed the stern D-ring, holding my comrades fast. Once out and warming in the brilliant sunshine, Eric said to me quietly from behind “Don’t look at your heel” and “take a deep breath”. Of course I had to look. My heelbone was fully exposed through a rather large split. We hauled out the duct tape, hiked back to camp and stitched it up that evening, cheap whiskey for an anaesthetic. By then just a hint of a trail had begun to appear going Beyond Thunder, diminishing the primal thrill for me. My thirst had been slaked however, and I never returned except as one more glorious memory in the ageing brainpan, joining so many others like precious jewels on a string. So very lucky.