BLIND DESENT Read online

  Drama queen, Anna cursed herself, and turned abruptly to the pile of debris on the chief's blond wood conference table, the guts of her sidepack waiting to be inventoried.

  "How much do you know?" Timmy asked.

  "Pretend I don't know anything and you'll be pretty close," Anna said.

  His manner might have warmed a degree or two. Her admission of total ignorance took him off guard. "Okay," he said. "We'll start from the beginning." His thin voice took on a pedantic drone, and Anna felt a vague stab of pity for all the Stanford undergrads sitting through whatever classes fledgling rocket scientists were required to sit through.

  "Three sources of light," he intoned. "Light is more important than food or water. Your headlamp." He pointed with a long pale digit that looked well suited to a creature living deep underground. He waited. Apparently he wouldn't continue the lecture without classroom participation, so Anna nodded obediently.

  "With spare batteries and bulbs. A flashlight." He pointed to a neat blue Maglite, brand-new and jewel-toned. "And what's your third source?" The tinted lenses winked at Anna, and she wondered if she should raise her hand before speaking.

  "A candle?" she ventured, thinking of Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher.

  That was the wrong answer Timmy had been fishing for. "Anachronism," he said triumphantly. "A candle in Lechuguilla is akin to a firefly in a whale's gullet, charming but not illuminating."

  "We carried candles for years," Lisa volunteered. "When we switched out we noticed neither one of us had thought to bring matches." She laughed, a high whiffling sound. Her husband was not amused.

  "Third source: another flashlight. More batteries." He stowed the lot away in the bottom of the pack.

  Anna picked up a wide-mouthed plastic bottle from the pile. The top was a white screw-on cap with the letter "P" written on it with a Sharpie permanent marker. "What's this?"

  "Just what it says," Timmy replied. "You pack it in, you pack it out."

  "There's one urine dump near the permanent camp on the way out," Lisa added helpfully. "If you need to you can dump it there."

  "Don't use it," Timmy said. "Pack it out."

  From her brief exposure to caving literature, Anna half remembered discussions on how the salts and sugars of human wastewater could, over time, alter the cave environment significantly. A filtering system to remove these components from the waste so only pure water would be left behind was in the works but was yet to be realized.

  "Number two," Lisa said.

  Anna's mind snapped back to the lesson at hand. Evidently she had missed number one.

  "Feces," Timmy said succinctly. Anna had not missed number one. He held up a pile of zipper plastic bags. "In the bag. Zip it. Double bag. Zip it." Fleetingly Anna thought this would make a heck of a commercial for Gladlock green-seal bags. "Wrap it all in tinfoil. Pack it out."

  "Burrito bags," Lisa said, and Anna detected a hint of mischief in the guileless eyes.

  Caving, deep, serious caving, was beginning to take on the trappings of an expedition into outer space.

  Things moved quickly, and for that Anna was grateful. This was not a time she would welcome interludes for deep introspection. Shortly before four p.m. Oscar Iverson and a man he introduced as Holden Tillman picked her and her gear up at the resource management office. She was unceremoniously stuffed into the back of a covered pickup truck along with packs, ropes, helmets, and other assorted paraphernalia. She would have preferred the distraction of conversation to being left alone with her thoughts. That option denied, she stared resolutely out through the scratched Plexiglas over the tailgate.

  The ceiling of clouds had fractured. An ever-widening strip of blue pried open by the last rays of the sun shone on the western horizon. Rain and the season had leached the desert of color, leaving a palette of gray to be painted by the sunset. Drops of water clinging to the catclaw and sotol soaked up the light and refracted it in glittering facets of gold. The stones and black-fingered brush dripped with molten finery. Faint rainbows bent over the desert, where rain still fell through veils of light.

  Anna mocked herself for feeling like a woman in a tumbrel, jouncing through her last glorious moments toward the guillotine and the vast unknown. Still, she rather wished the day had closed without this final hurrah of heavenly fireworks. A sunless world would have been that much easier to leave behind.

  After too short a ride, the pickup pulled off the rutted dirt road into a wilderness parking lot incongruously marked off with concrete curbs. Anna'd been too engrossed in morbid imaginings to recollect the twists and turns they'd made through the wrinkled landscape, but she guessed they were only three or four miles from the headquarters buildings. The discovery of Lechuguilla in the backyard had put Carlsbad Caverns National Park in the odd position of having doubled in size overnight. Oscar had likened the experience to "finding Yellowstone in your basement."

  Holden Tillman opened the tailgate, and the three of them divided up the gear. As they started the hike to the mouth of Lechuguilla, Oscar filled Anna in on the team briefing. Holden Tillman was officially titled Underground Rescue Coordinator. He was in charge of all activities subterranean. The NPS had borrowed him from the local Bureau of Land Management office because of his expertise in caves and cave rescues. Oscar assured Anna he was, in caving circles, known as the Holden Tillman.

  A quiet person with an aw-shucks drawl, Tillman seemed half embarrassed and half amused by Oscar's effusions. "Oscar's going to write my eulogy," he told Anna, a slow smile blooming beneath a brown brush of mustache. "He just wants to get some practicing in before I'm dead."

  Anna liked Holden right off. She hoped nothing happened to change that. Experience taught her, her first impression of people was dead wrong as often as not. This time she had a gut feeling it wasn't. Tillman was of an age with Iverson—in his forties—but there the resemblance ended. He was a small man, maybe five-foot-eight and a hundred thirty pounds with skin that looked shrunk to fit a wiry, muscled frame. Crow's-feet radiated from the corners of his eyes to curve down in unbroken lines along the sides of his face. His forehead, wide and slightly sloping, was cut by horizontal lines as sharp as old scars. The effect of this network of time was a wizened soul, blessed with wisdom and, possibly, "the sight." At least that was the fanciful image that floated up from an old fairy-tale illustration buried in Anna's memory.

  Despite narrow shoulders and small frame, Holden carried a prodigious amount of equipment. Though half a foot shorter than Oscar, arms and shoulders were corded with muscle where Iverson's were mapped in bone. Anna guessed his pack was seventy or eighty pounds but it didn't bow his back or take the spring from his step. As he walked ahead of her along the trail Anna heard sotto-voce, snatches of song. She laughed. Holden sang the digging song Snow White's Seven Dwarfs sang on their way down into the mine.

  Anna saw the cavern sparkling with a million lights and peopled with benevolent spirits. Despite herself she felt better than she had since Iverson had brought her the news of Frieda's head injury.

  Holden and Oscar, along with CACA's superintendent and the chief of resource management for the caverns, had organized a four person team that would follow the two men Anna was with. The second team would carry a stretcher for the evacuation, medical supplies Dr. McCarty had requested, and a Korean War-vintage field phone with spools of wire so Holden would have telephone communications with the surface during the carry-out. The logistics were staggering, and Anna was duly impressed that the details had been hammered out in such a short time. There were people for every aspect of the rescue: cavers who would do nothing but rig the drops for hauling Frieda up the long vertical and near-vertical ascents; cavers to schlep water, packs, garbage, batteries, and food.

  Anna listened to the plans being rehashed by Holden and Oscar as they walked single file along a ridge above a dry creek bed, and she began to wonder what would undo her first: her fear of enclosed spaces or her fear of crowds. The sheer absurdity freed her mind, and f
or a time she was able to shut out the human murmurings and enjoy the hike.

  They were on a plateau to the north of the gypsum plains that spread down into Texas. What vegetation managed to eke out a livelihood from the parched soil kept a low profile. Little had grown to greater than knee height, and there were barren spaces between plants. With the lifting of the clouds and the dazzling clarity of the rain-washed air, Anna could see to the edge of the world, or so it seemed, and the world was all high, clean desert, burnished with gold.

  Even knowing she walked over limestone honeycombed with passages, she couldn't imagine a less likely place to find the entrance to a world-class cave. She pictured the plateau cut into thin sections and placed between sheets of glass like the ant farms she'd seen as a child. Beneath her feet, creeping through those twisting tunnels, were human beings.

  "There it is." Oscar interrupted her musings. They'd walked down a slope and crossed the stone bottom of a wash to climb again. Ahead of them was more of the same: low hills dotted with desert shrubs and cactus. "See that green spot?" Iverson pointed to a cluster of stunted trees poking from a fold in the hills. "That's it."

  Anna took his word for it.

  Within a few minutes they'd reached the trees, and still she was none the wiser. Not until they climbed down four or five feet to where the oak trees had found soil to root could she see the entrance. Back in the rocks an opening maybe twenty feet wide, thirty long, and ringed by heavy overhanging brows of rock, showed darkly.

  Over the years Anna had made any number of rappels from ten to two hundred ten feet. After the first step, she'd thoroughly enjoyed the trip. Suspended like a cliff swallow over lakes in the Absaroka Beartooth, dangling above a sea of dusty live oaks in northern California. There was an above and a below. Here, she noted with an unpleasant tingle, there was neither. In the theatrical light of coming evening, the entrance to Lechuguilla looked like a portal, one lacking the standard three dimensions agreed upon by the real world.

  She'd read of holes described as yawning, gaping, hungry—words that suggested an orifice, an appetite. The sixty-foot drop leading into Lech didn't fit any of those adjectives. Rather than sentience, it suggested a departure from life. The last rays of the sun skimmed its surface, lighting the stone for fifteen feet or so. Below that, nothing. Night took all.

  "Hi ho," Holden said happily.

  Iverson began checking ropes secured to bolts near a tree that showed scarring from when it had been used as an anchor in previous descents. "The climbs are all rigged. We leave them that way along the main trade routes—established routes through the cave. We've found it does a lot less damage to the resource to leave the rigging in place than having every expedition rerig each time."

  "Me first, you last?" he said to Holden as he threaded the rope through his rappel rack.

  Holden nodded. Oscar leaned back and walked, spiderlike, from sight. The sun slid below the horizon, and Anna felt suddenly cold. "It's getting dark," she said, and hoped Tillman hadn't heard the faint whine beneath her words.

  "So?"

  "Off-rope," drifted up from the black hole.

  "Good point," Anna said, threaded the rope through her rack, pulled on her leather gloves, and unhooked the safety. "On-rope," she shouted down, and stepped back into the darkness.

  2

  As she rappelled down, Anna closed her mind to all but the task at hand. Peripherally she was aware of the change in temperature, of the quick coming of night as she fell from the last vestiges of the sun. Mostly she concentrated on the play of the rope through her gloved hands, the pressure of the web gear holding her up. Below, in an inkwell of stone, she could see Oscar Iverson's lonely light winking as he moved his head. Peter Pan's whimsical directions came to mind: first star to the right and straight on till morning.

  Having touched down, she freed herself and called "Off-rope" to let Holden know he was clear to descend. Moments later, sixty feet above, she saw his silhouette in the small triangle of gray that was all that remained of the world.

  Switching on her headlamp, she studied the bottom of the shaft, absorbing each detail in hopes of crowding out unnecessary thoughts. The area was small and everything she expected from a cave: irregular, colorless, and dirty. The air smelled of things long buried, of damp and basements, of rotting cardboard and stale bat guano. The floor was uneven, and there were signs of the guano mining that had taken place around 1914. Piles of loose dirt attested to more recent digs.

  This entry to Lechuguilla, originally called Old Misery Pit, had been known for years. Like many other caves in the area it was merely a deep hole melted into the limestone, valuable only as a source of fertilizer for the California citrus crops. But there had been tantalizing drifts of air coming from the rubble. The cave was "blowing." Following these ephemeral leads, cavers dug repeatedly in attempts to search out the bigger cavern promised by the passage of air. In 1986 they finally broke through to what was arguably one of the most important discoveries ever made by the caving community. They'd pushed into a system that not only promised to break records for length and depth but housed an unusual number of stunning decorations and cave formations.

  Her knowledge of Lechuguilla's history exhausted, Anna turned her headlamp on Oscar, looking for distraction from that quarter.

  "Over there," he said, indicating a darker slit in the floor. "You can hear the cave breathe."

  Anna didn't tell him the last thing she needed was to hear the damn thing breathing.

  In a tangle of beams from three headlamps, Holden disengaged from the rope. The entire descent had taken so little time, neither Anna nor Oscar had bothered to take off their packs.

  "Onward and downward," Oscar said, and walking to an unpromising looking hole dug into the bottom of the shaft, picked up a nylon rope Anna'd not noticed before and wove it deftly through the metal ladder of his rack. "A nuisance drop—maybe ten feet. On-rope." And he was gone. "Off-rope" floated up seconds later.

  The hole was hand-dug and dirt-walled. To Anna it looked as unstable as the caves the children used to dig in the sand pit behind the local airport in the neighborhood where she grew up; caves the airport operator was always dynamiting for fear some hapless little gene would get itself culled from the pool before its time.

  Anna went second. The bottom of this drop was more rank and evil than the first. From a landing barely long enough to lay a coffin down, a ragged hole cut through to another chamber. Beyond this uninviting aperture, Anna could see a spill of light from Iverson's lamp. Then that was snuffed, and she felt terribly alone.

  A blinding eye winked over the lip above. "You off-rope?" Holden asked.

  "I guess." Anna couldn't move. A creeping numbness was flowing in from her fingertips. As it passed through her insides she felt her bowels loosen and bile rise in her throat. "I don't think I can do this," she said.

  Holden landed beside her as lightly as a feather and flipped open the rack to free the rope. "Were you talking to me?"

  "No." Anna didn't trust herself to elaborate.

  Holden dropped to his knees and skittered out of sight through the crevice. "We having fun yet?" she heard him say.

  Mechanically, she got on hands and knees and followed. From the look of the tiny room she entered, things were going to get worse before they got better. Hacked from native soil, the space was too low to stand upright in. The far side was higher but partially blocked by a slide of dirt and rock. Nowhere could she see anything that even obliquely promised the wonders she'd heard spoken of in connection with Lechuguilla. Oscar and Holden crouched with their backs to her, their helmet lights pointed toward the floor, where they groveled before some god hidden from the eyes of unbelievers.

  Light swung in a dizzying arc and struck her in the face. "Ta da," she heard Holden say.

  "Down the rabbit hole," said Iverson.

  Vision cleared, and Anna saw the altar at which the men worshipped. Sunk into the floor was a heavy metal manhole cover with a T-shaped handl
e welded to its center.

  "Cover your eyes," Iverson said, but Anna couldn't. She was transfixed. Grasping the handle he pulled the hinged trapdoor open, swinging it on a counterweight. Corrugated metal drainpipe set vertically in the ground was exposed. A ladder welded to one side led down. Wind gusted from below, blowing dirt into Anna's eyes.

  "It blows. Hoo-ee, does it blow," Holden said. "By the air coming out of here it's been estimated Lechuguilla might go three hundred miles or more."

  "From where?" Anna asked, and was embarrassed when the words came out in a wail.

  "Air pressure," Iverson said. "When it gets low outside, the cave exhales; high outside, it inhales. Pressure equalization is all it is. You last, me first?" he said to Holden. The other man nodded, and Anna wondered if they consistently put her in the middle so she couldn't escape. Iverson slid easily into the pipe and pulled the trapdoor closed behind him. The sudden stillness was a boon for Anna's nerves.

  "How long is that?" She pointed to the culvert.

  "Twenty feet maybe. It was installed to stabilize the entrance. You can see the soil up here shifts when we get rain."

  "Clear," reverberated through the metal conduit. Holden laughed. "Oscar goes down in record time. The pipe's so small he can't use the steps. He's too long from hip to knee. Coming out is what really gets to him." He pulled open the trapdoor, releasing an angry blast of warm, wet air, warmer than the air above ground. Lechuguilla maintained a temperature of about sixty-eight degrees with close to a hundred percent humidity year round. In this case it was a blessing. In a colder cave Frieda would have been at risk from hypothermia in addition to her other ills.