Walking Passage

This story reminded me of why I enjoy climbing and hiking in particular. It mirrors so much of life - the process, the agony of the climb, the exhiliration and satisfaction of being on the summit, the difficult descent, and the sense of achievement. It is not just physical strength - it is as mental endurance. And no matter how large a group one wanders with, there will always be moments when one confronts himself when scaling a mountain. It is in that confrontation that we discover ourselves ...

Walking Passage By Mary Emerick

John and I crawl on our bellies, the lights on our headlamps glancing off the walls of the cave. The only sounds are the scraping of our tennis shoes as we push ourselves forward. Our knees ache from the sharp rocks lining the cave floor. We're shivering in our cheap coveralls. There is a good chance we're lost, and we couldn't be happier.

We have been exploring this unnamed cave for hours, far past the twilight zone - that place where surface light lingers, then ends. We have chimneyed up steep sloping walls, jockeyed around deep pits, and wriggled in and out of dead ends. The packs we carry with us hold the jumars and rope we will need for the ascent back to the entrance.

Ahead of me, John stops and manages, with a grunt, to sit upright.

"Two leads," he says.

Automatically we look behind us, the way we have come. Going out looks very different from going in, and it is easy to wander for hours, missing landmarks that seemed obvious heading in. John and I trade excited glances. The air seems charged with possibility.

"I'll check that one," he says. Under his hard hat, he is grinning fiercely, and the thrill of adventure is gleaming in his eye. His face is black with dirt and his blond beard more unruly than usual. He looks like a wild man.

With effort, he squeezes through an impossibly small passage. In order to fit, he must take off his hardhat and backpack and push them in front of him. Muffled curses trail in his wake.

Alone, I take off my work gloves, worn to protect the delicate formations from the oils on my hands. I drink some water and turn off my headlamp to conserve batteries. The darkness is total. The weight of tons of rock presses against my back. I feel as if the Earth is holding me in its arms.

John yells from below. "Hey, come down!"

I hesitate. "Is there something good down there? Does it go?"

"Walking passage!" he shouts.

I am electrified. When we dreamed, it was of walking passage - large tunnels, mysteriously carved by water and time, where we can walk, not crawl. In time, those passages might open to huge rooms, bigger than cathedrals.

John's lead is one of the tightest yet. In places, I have to move an arm, a leg, then twist my body in contorted positions to move forward, but hope of walking passage pushes me onward.

Finally, I spot John curled into an awkward position under a low-hanging ceiling. Ahead of him is more twisting, body-crunching passage.

I peer into the darkness, then at John. He is trying to contain himself, but bursts into loud guffaws. His laughter echoes through the tunnel. I have to smile. He has pulled this trick before, and I have fallen for it again.

"I knew you'd come down if I said it was walking passage," he smiled. "Now, let's check out this lead."

We never did find large rooms that day, or even any walking passage. At midnight, John and I emerged from the cave, hungry, thirsty and bruised. We slung ropes over our shoulders and headed for the car under a bright ceiling of stars.

Many years have gone by since I last saw or spoke with John, although I hear he has married and still visits the caves in the gray cliffs. There have been other caves, other darkness that seemed so total, passages that seemed so difficult that I wanted to stay behind where it was safe, in my own little circle of light.

When that happens I stop and remember that day deep underground. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the damp rock against my back and my sore knees as I crawled. I can hear the sound of water dripping and the encouragement of a friend. I know then that I can make it through even if I have to crawl.