The Accidental Spelunker

Where I grew up, in a small town in north Texas, if you called someone a pugilist you were pretty well assured of turning him into one on the spot. If you called someone a thespian, you might just as well spit in his face. But if you called someone a spelunker – I cant really imagine a situation where someone would actually do that — the result might be a quizzical look as the possible meanings of the term were pondered. If you smiled when you said it, you would likely get a positive response, because it just sounded like a word of praise or endearment. If you chose to call someone a potholer (a non-technical term for a cave explorer), well you can probably imagine the outcome. As for me, no one has ever called me a spelunker, or a potholer, and my personal experience inside a cave is limited to one occasion, an accidental one at that.

When we invested in a vacation home in Angel Fire, New Mexico, our plan, if you could call it that, was to enjoy the area in the far northern part of the state for a year or two, sell the property and move on to our next adventure. At some point my wife, Beverly, and I realized we didn’t really want to get rid of the house and began taking a different approach to learning about the country around us and settling in for a longer term relationship. In this frame of mind we began looking more closely at the history of the area and were fascinated to learn there were several “ghost towns” throughout the state. Determined to check these out, we located a couple on the map not too far from our house and set out one day to visit the nearest such “ghost town” and get back home before dark.

As we drove out, I began to imagine what this town might look like. I envisioned a line of dilapidated store fronts strung along a wooden sidewalk, all in terrible states of disrepair and non-use. One of the store fronts would be a saloon with the swinging doors hanging broken and loose on their leather hinges. In front would be one or more hitching posts, maybe with the cross bar having fallen down at one end or the other. And there would be a wooden water trough, rotted out and broken, of course. At the end of the dirt street I could picture parts of an old windmill, probably without the blades. Boot Hill would be at the other end of town where some tombstones would still be visible. Tumbleweeds would be rolling up the street with maybe a dirt devil or two. I was probably also half-expecting some wailing sounds and lots of cobwebs. This was going to be fun.

So when we arrived, my disappointment was utter. Nothing I had imagined seeing was to be found. Not even the tumbleweeds. Instead, we found a short stretch of an adobe wall and, separately, a small pile of stones that might have been part of a water well at some time. I couldn’t be for certain that we had found the town at all, but later, consulting with some locals, I was assured that was all there was to see.

As consolation for our disappointment, we decided to make a hike out of the trip, having noticed a small stream that might make for an interesting turn or two through the mostly arid location. As we walked alongside the stream, I noticed a hole in the side of the rock cliff on the other side of the stream. We decided to investigate. We made a short climb up to the entrance and peeked inside, or at least tried to look in. Beverly was slightly ahead of me so I prodded her to crawl inside a bit as the opening was not big enough for us to squeeze in together. She opted not to go inside, so I nudged her aside and made some comment relating to her lack of adventure, crawled on all fours a few feet inside before my hands lost their purchase on some slick surface and I went sliding down into the hole at some speed due to the slippery coating on the rock surface. Somehow, my fall ended with me landing on my back, which I remembered thinking was quite lucky since I was wearing a backpack that provided some cushion for my landing.

After gathering myself somewhat and taking stock of my condition, which seemed to be just fine, I looked up toward the light of the entrance and reckoned I must have fallen about 12 feet or so, though a good part of my descent was a slide rather than a free fall. I yelled up to Beverly, “Wow, that was really stupid. But I’m fine, so I’m going to start working my way back up.” There was no response, so I yelled a bit louder. Still nothing. Then it hit me. She must have fallen in as well. So I started feeling around in the dark, which is when I noticed a small bottle of water of the type Beverly often carried with her in a fanny pack. Once satisfied that she had not fallen, too, I began to wonder if I had lost consciousness for a while. Maybe she had called down to me and, receiving no response, had slid the water bottle down to me and gone for help. I fumbled with my backpack, searching for the camping matches I hoped I had remembered to keep in there. I was able to retrieve the matches cylinder but was dismayed to see that it contained only five matches.

I lit one of the matches, knowing I would have about 15 seconds of light to survey my surroundings. The floor on which I stood was flat and relatively circular in shape, maybe 10 feet in diameter. The walls sloped upward and outward toward the entrance hole, creating a kind of teardrop-shaped enclosure. I immediately dismissed any notion of being able to climb up the slick rock walls. On one wall, I noticed a small hole that I guessed led to a narrow tunnel. When the match went out, I felt my way along the wall until I came to the hole, reaching inside to get a feel for the opening. It was barely big enough for me to get my head and shoulders inside and was completely dark. I used another match to search around, quickly deciding it was not a tunnel, finding the hole to be nothing more than a kind of shelf, maybe four feet deep and only about 2 feet high. Over to one side, there was an accumulation of what I took to be very small bones. Just as the match was going out, I reached over and grabbed one of the bones with the idea of having it checked out when I emerged from the cave.

While waiting for my fate to be determined by whatever Beverly could accomplish outside, I began searching my memory for fragments of information that might help explain the purpose, or the reason for existence, of this chamber I was in. I had already concluded it was man-made, for sure. I then remembered having learned somewhere that in certain Native American tribes, it was the custom or practice for expectant mothers to go into isolation to deliver their babies and then to nurse them through a short postpartum period before emerging to rejoin the tribe. No one, certainly not the father, or any male for that matter, was allowed to interrupt the isolation. I did not know if any of the tribes indigenous to this particular area of the western frontier ever practiced this kind of childbirth, but if there were any such, then the enclosure I now occupied would provide just such isolation. With leaves, grass and feathers, the floor could be made soft enough for delivery and the small hole in the wall could provide a kind of baby crib. 

Just as I was convincing myself of the plausibility, if not the factual likelihood, of my theory about the cave’s purpose, I saw a light beam come down from the hole’s entrance followed by the sound of Beverly’s voice calling down to me. It turned out Beverly had back-tracked up the stream to the ghost town. Of course, our vehicle parked there was useless, since I had the only key in my pocket, but she found a woman at the site who was sitting in a car looking at a map, no doubt wondering, as I had, if she had found the ghost town she was looking for. The woman gave Beverly a ride into the nearest town where they tracked down a deputy sheriff. The deputy said he had an emergency rope ladder in the back of his SUV and then drove Beverly back to the cave. With his 4-wheel drive vehicle, the deputy was able to drive right up near the opening to the cave.

Once I was able to satisfy everyone that I was completely fine, save for some serious dings to my vanity and dignity, the deputy drove us back to our car.  I then showed the bone to the deputy and asked if he could tell whether it was from a human. He couldn’t, but said he would have it looked at and if it turned out to be human, obviously a small one, probably a baby, then they would return to the cave and do some further investigating. He gave me a number to call in a few days to find out the results of the analysis.

It turned out the bone was not from a human but from a small animal, most likely a young mountain lion. I was relieved to learn that some small child had not died there alone, no matter how many years ago it might have been. The existence of human bones in the cave would have certainly validated my theory that I had discovered an old isolation birthing site. Even so, human bones or not, I remained convinced, and am still certain, that my theory about the cave’s purpose was the right one. Who is going to prove me wrong?