A Walk Through Darkness

Last spring I went spelunking.

It happened at a women’s retreat near Mt. St. Helen’s where one of the free time activities was exploring the Ape Cave. Five miles long, it was proclaimed to be the longest uncollapsed section of a lava tube in the world. I had come prepared with flashlight and extra batteries but only Nikes for my feet. My trusty hiking boots were long gone in one move or another. I hoped the ground of the cave was smooth and dry.

There were eleven of us. Long-time friends who had watched each other’s children grow, marriages come and go, hair turn colors, jobs change. The chain of shared experiences had mellowed into a collective trust and easy comfort with each other. This early May morning in southwest Washington, an early mist hovered with chilly dampness, seeping through our pores as we tramped the woodchip trail through the sword fern, maidenhair and ancient cedar. We talked about previous experiences we’d had with caving—being spelunkers. Curious and amusing expression. It sounds to the ear like a drop of water plopping into an echoing bathtub. I looked up spelunker on the internet finding its origins in the Latin spelunca and Greek speleios, and more recently from the Middle English word, spelunk, meaning cave or grotto. I found it romantic and strange to think about people so long ago, with only torches to guide them, exploring the deep places of the earth.

"Does anyone know why its called Ape Cave?" I queried.

"You know, I don’t remember." said Jane glancing back at me. "Strange eh?"

Jane was our designated leader—due to experience, solid confidence in us and the fact that she had an official spelunking headlamp, well-worn hiking boots and a backpacker’s first aid kit. She must be good, we breathed in collective admiration as we studied her trail-worn gear.

Our footpath ended in a small silent clearing featuring the gaping mouth of a black hole. A vertical metal ladder on its lip beckoned us to enter its gloom. Nearby rose a brown wooden sign proclaiming this to be Ape Cave. The cave was named for its discoverers, a local group of adventurous boys who went by the moniker "The Ape Gang" conjuring a fleeting memory of the "Goonies" on a grand adventure—finding treacherous traps, bones, pirate ship and treasure in the twisting catacombs of a depraved and long-dead pirate. But in truth, the cave’s history was unremarkable other than its extraordinary creation out of fiery flowing lava crusting over itself while still flowing out from beneath.

The other women had moved on to read and mutter over the bold red letters on a large white-painted sign.

DANGER! Primitive Cave.

Ladders and rocks can be slippery.

Take 3 light sources and extra batteries.

Do NOT go in alone.

Take water, warm clothes, first aid kit.

Tell someone where you are going and when you expect to return.

Trail Difficulty: Easy to Difficult

As I took in these words, I felt my chest collapse in on itself. My breath had constricted to unnaturally shallow and silent huffs as if the cave had become a dangerous creature I didn’t dare let heed me. Was I insane? I was afraid of the dark. I was claustrophobic. I was subject to panic attacks. Yes! I was definitely insane.

The long ago voice of my older sister whispered, "I dare you chicken head!" I couldn’t turn back now. I had always dared, always climbed it, jumped it, tried it at least once—sometimes with stunning victory eliciting awe, sometimes in humble defeat with a broken bone or two. Like an unending cavernous emptiness at my core, I had an insatiable craving to see, feel, smell, taste, touch and hear—to experience it. The rare opportunity to be the daring Dirk Pitt of Clive Cussler pop novels lay beneath my feet.

- - - - -

As we descended from ladder to uneven floor of the cave, our world shifted from emerald old-growth forest to colorless ancient cave. Eleven flashlights clicked on, dancing crazily off rock walls and ceilings—endeavoring valiantly to make the darkness more familiar. We stood in a space twenty feet high with a similar width. Huge basalt boulders were tossed carelessly in piles as though a volcanic precipice had broken free and tumbled down the banks of an underground Tolkien mountain. I could almost hear his squat dwarves mining metal in the bottomless pits of Moria, burrowing deep in the gloom—awakening the demonic and flesh-hungry Baelrog.

Our fellowship found itself clumsily scuttling from rock to rock, crawling over bullying piles that nearly reached the stone ceiling, then squeezing though narrow gaps like cut paper dolls stretched end to end—bobbling, picking a way through, hand grabbing hand to secure our balance. Except for our clumsy clambering and occasional remarks, the silence was heavy. The air merely hinted at dampness giving off a faint scent of lifeless earth. There were occasional pools of muddy water. As I stepping over them, my mind was conjuring sunken graves, deserted gold mines, adventure books and nightmares of being clutched in the earth’s chilly and detached embrace. A few dripping stalactites. No bats or cave creatures. Nothing lived here.

We stopped to rest at a sandy clearing. I drank from my water bottle, ate a Power Bar and let my light shine around the enclosure. Except for a sandy floor, everywhere was lumpy rough basalt like beached gray whales plastered with barnacles.

Jane said, "It’s pretty safe here. How about if we turn off our lights off and just feel the cave?"

My heart tripped feeling the walls close in on me but a steel will swallowed the lump in my throat and regulated my breath. My urge to participate came from living this modern life, sentenced to an all invasive light pollution and now being given the extraordinary opportunity to experience true night. We all agreed, found even footing, pushed ourselves against the walls and made note of our surroundings. Then the lights extinguished—one by one by one—sinking us into utter blackness.

This was a darkness I had only seen once in a dream—a nightmare I’d had about being suspended in a complete sensory void with only my consciousness about me. I was trapped in terror as I comprehended my plight—a disconnected brain eternally suspended in nothingness. But this wasn’t a dream I reminded myself. Nor was it the remembered darkness of eyes-closed-tight in the dark basement closet playing hide and seek as a child. Then I had the reassurance of normal house sounds and muffled squeals of "I found you!" I’d never lasted long. I had to open the door and make a mad dash for the safe spot—running away from that confined darkness.

At this moment, darkness was inescapable and impenetrable though my eyes strained to gain some sense of light. The monster of dream panic stirred somewhere deep within me, sucking at the membrane between the conscious and sub-conscious, pulling at me with a hunger to trap me again. Humanity, warmth and civilization ceased to exist.

I pulled away from the unconscious monster and pressed against the wall, taking slow breaths and squeezing my extinguished light for reality, steadiness and comfort. I stared at the nothingness and talked to my inner voice to keep it busy, imagining being down here in the earth alone without a lamp—the impossibility of finding the way out again if that did occur. There would be no way to know what rock to climb, or know if a jump meant dropping to even ground six feet below or pitching into a jagged twelve foot crevice. There would be no way to know what direction to go and I starkly understood why long-dead remains and skeletons were discovered in caves, the dusty remnants of poor buggers who’d lost their light. Without eyes, this was the impossible maze of the Minotaur.

I occasionally noticed the presence of my companions, but other than the sporadic sniffle or shoe scruff, we stood silent—together but each alone. I strained to hear any sound but could not even sense a slight stir of air current against the sensitive cilia in my ear. The rocks and cool damp sand emitted no odor or taste to my flared nostrils. I could only touch the rough cold walls of Ape Cave with my fingers, feel it pressed against my back. To better feel this remarkable sensual void, I stepped away from the wall. Except for the chilly air against my face—nothingness. Time hung in suspension. I belonged to the earth, the ancient netherworld. I stood absolutely alone in the bleak bowels of a planet. Calm slipped over me, a sensation of being held gently by the benevolent earth mother that gave me life. She was always there in silent benevolence—under me, around me, nurturing and providing for me.

- - - - -

A cough and sniffle wrenched me from my timeless ponderings. I came back to now. hungry ears seeking out the direction of the sound. Who was it? I was disoriented but thankful that reality and humanity were a flashlight and sniffle away. This was not the eternity of a nightmare, just a momentary meditation.

"I’m ready to turn our lights back on."

I couldn’t tell whose quavering voice it was but a collective sigh of relief came with eleven "I’m ready" voices. Lights flashed on bathing us in welcoming puddles of light. We sought each other’s faces then quickly looked away, still affected by the absolute isolation we had just experienced. We were momentary strangers. Disoriented, no one said a word, could find the words to describe what had just happened. Our lights had wrenched us back to reality from a different dimension. But as our eyes adjusted to the light I recognized my longtime friends and could see the impact of our shared experience on their faces. I’m sure that same look of uncomfortable wonder was on my own face. Like the lifelong bond known by space-walking astronauts even when they experienced the void at separate times, I now belonged to a select and secret group of women who had encountered an extraordinary solitude at the same time.

An hour later, the mystic experience of the lightless clearing began to pale against a growing and collective urge to get out. Heads and flashlights were down, concentrating on footsteps. The cave felt closed in and endless.

We picked up our pace, but paid for it when one of our party slipped and struck her kneecap—hard—on the rough edge of a bulky boulder. We halted, collectively holding our breath as we each balanced on individual rock towers watching her grunt in pain and assess the damage. She could bend her knee—that was a good sign. Jane made her way over with the first aid kit and helped wrap the knee tightly in an ace bandage. When our comrade said she was fine to go on, we didn’t argue with her. We wanted her to be okay so that we could keep going. I imagined the consequences if she had been too injured to continue. Some of us staying behind in the cold and dark while some of us went ahead for help. Earlier, the forest ranger’s station at the trailhead had been empty. How would we get a crippled person out of here without a rescue team? If I was not already in fear held at bay, the thought of dealing with a serious injury now firmly stamped the danger of caving into my mind.

By necessity we proceeded more slowly, anxiously keeping an eye on our friend gingerly moving her bound leg. I loved this woman and worried she might be doing further damage to her knee by walking on it, not icing it. But I also caught the glimmer of a baser reality in myself. One not so nice. One not so humane and civilized but more fundamental. It was the instinct descended from primeval ancestors that protected my own survival. What would I be willing to do to ensure my existence? I didn’t like the insinuated answer roiling somewhere in my gut. The primitive instincts and fears passed through me as if I were someone else. Would an astronaut cut someone’s line to save himself? To what degree are we committed to the safety of our fellow humans? Where’s the line between self-survival and death in camaraderie? As an affluent, American woman who never went to war or space, I rarely dealt with the fundamental philosophical question of self-sacrifice for another. The hinted truth made me feel uncomfortable, immoral, doomed to hell for my own self-interest.

I felt detached as Jane stopped the line.

"We must be getting close. Turn off your lights everyone," she called back. "Let’s see if we can see any light."

We shut down the lights. Total blackness. But wait! A dim gloom slowly emerged in front of us as our eyes adjusted. It was a welcoming warm and promising light. My thoughts returned with relief to the reality of a close-knit group as our greedy eyes grabbed at the thin essence of gray that gave some shape to the cave. We continued on with fresh vitality.

The light grew and beckoned us until; at last, we reached a rusty, slippery ladder climbing up to the surface. I carefully climbed the steps toward blue Washington skies, emerging into a wonderland of greens, grays, yellows, pinks, blues—the rainbowed hues of a familiar earth.

We didn’t have much to say on the hike back, our thoughts were turned inwards as we reflected on the experience we’d just shared. It had been a shared experience but we had also been alone down there, dealing with new sensations that brought back old memories and made us realize our fragility compared the ancient earth. That night I went to bed early in the rustic lodge and dreamed of brilliant blue skies and furrowed hills filled with sunshine and rows upon rows of shoulder-high ripened corn. Light and life were teeming about me, encompassing me. It was a message of love and assurance from the heart of Mother Earth.