Rock Bottom

What compels a human to pursue dangerous adventures – to pursue the unknown and risk mutilation and disability and to die tragic, horrific deaths – all in search of an adrenaline high? Alcohol, surely, would have been the safer option and the man who wedged himself between limestone would agree. He’d go back and tell his past self to forget adventure and hop down to the bar to break open a cold one with the boys instead of getting stuck between, well, a rock and a hard place. Christopher was no ordinary caver nor had this been his first accident on a research expedition, but even two decades of expertise wouldn’t prevent freak accidents.

Boulders crushed his legs. Located half a mile off Kentucky I-75, the caving community had been awash in excitement when a hunter stumbled upon an undocumented cave system spanning a hundred miles in any direction. Scientists brought their proposals to the would-be explorers. Offering huge sums of money and recognition for their efforts in prestigious academic journals, a monumental discovery might rocket a lucky explorer’s career to celebrity status and into history’s hall of fame. And so, Christopher, a spelunker whose discoveries awarded him many accolades in the past, assembled a team; the diverse members brought 200 collective years of expertise and practical experience. They had been destined to succeed. Then, the passage caved in.

It was cold. Humid. Water trickled down the stalactite above, precious liquid landing on his forehead and wetting his lips. The runoff would be critical as the only source to sate himself and he stretched his neck to catch every tiny droplet in his mouth. His PVC backpack held food, meant to set up a camp as deep as possible, and it would last him a while. Christopher shimmied back and forth, an attempt at freeing his trapped legs, and convulsed. A live wire had been hooked up straight to the nerves and he swore he felt the shock in his eyes and on his tongue and in his neck and he screamed, echoes bouncing down the dark throat of the tunnel. No one answered; there was only him and his greedy lungs taking in stale air as he stared at the formations on the ceiling.

“Phillip?” Christopher said. No response. He sobbed. The lamp still worked and he was dressed in thick, insulating layers but eventually the water would seep in and the blackness would encroach. Unless he moved, all sensation had left his leg. It would get infected and sepsis would set in and even if his team managed to rescue him and the limb lived, a blood clot might form and travel to his heart, lungs and brain. He would die instantly. No thoughts, just lights out.

Oh God. He was going to die. Not a quick death, either; it would be slow and agonizing over the course of weeks in absolute darkness, withered with fever and dehydration, barely sustained by the moisture from the ceiling, begging for the end. No. No, no, no, no! Christopher would never go caving again. He’d make a career change to a pious man of the cloth.

“Phillip!”

This time, an answer.

“Christopher? Christopher, we’re here, we got you bud, it’s going to be okay! Is there still food? What about water? Please tell me you still have water!”

“Yes.” His voice was cracked and hoarse and Phillip sounded pained and a cacophony of pickaxes and drills erupted on the other side of the wall. Saved. He was saved. “Please don’t leave me.”

“We won’t.”

“You did.”

“I promised we’d come back.”

“You did.” Christopher admitted. “I don’t want to return, not here and not to caving.”

“What? Look, I know this is bad but you aren’t gonna die dude. We’ve gotten through this tons of times before and we’ll do it again.”

“Almost didn’t. Still might not.”

Crack. There was the boom of collapsing rubble and the bounce of metal tools on stone. Frenzy erupted among the workers, shouts of fear and surprise and Phillip’s voice rang clearest of all: “Wait, wait, wait! Stop!” The tunnel went silent. “The ceiling!”

“Phillip? Phillip, what’s going on?” Muttering resumed from beyond. There was the sound of clasps being attached to rope. Things were nailed into the passage walls. Grunts and heaving filled the air. Limestone boulders clattered. Each thump was a countdown; each rock removed brought Christopher closer to salvation.

“Let’s try to see to his injuries first.” Shuffling, hushed conversation. More rocks being removed from the pile. “Jesus Christ!”

“Son, can ya hear me? The name’s Richard. We’re here to help ya, but we need you to cooperate with us for a moment. We need to ask you some questions to see how you’re doing. Are you able to do that for me?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright. Tell me about yourself, where’d you grow up?”

“Missouri.”

“The Cave state?”

“Yea. Used to go exploring with my Pa on summer break.”

“He trained ya good then.” Christopher laughed and coughed when it irritated the sand in his throat. Richard continued in his Southern drawl. “You’re doing good. You’ll be fine. Try to stay positive, kid. Birthday?”

“October 31st, 1990.”

“And ya got a birthday on Halloween? Man, I’m kind of jealous.” There was a tug on his lower body and he tensed. Pain seared from the wound on his leg and he heard Richard talking with the others. “No concussion s’far as I can tell. It’s just exhaustion. It’s the gash on his leg I’m concerned about. Looks nasty as hell.”

All of the voices dropped to a whisper and Christopher focused on his breathing. In. Hold for four. Out. Repeat. Everyone knew it was bad. The kind of bad that plastered your face all over the morning news with your worst photo ripped off of Facebook while the entire country glued their eyes to the screen to witness the telling and re-telling of his own personal horror story. Rule number one of accidents like this: stay calm. The rescuers were just doing their job, but Christopher knew. He was doomed. They might not even be able to recover his body.

“Christopher,” Phillip said, “We got your leg free and did some emergency aid, but I think you’re going to lose it. Good news, the tools we brought were enough to reinforce the ceiling. You’ll be free soon. Just stay calm.”

“Not like I can go anywhere,” Christopher said. “Tell me about your puppy?”

“Yea. Anything you want man.”

Rocks were carted in a line, dozens of search and rescue and paramedics and volunteers playing rubble hot potato until they were able to dump without blocking the passage. Phillip’s voice soothed Christopher into a trance and the sounds of the limestone being carved away weighed heavy on his eyes. Days of passing out and waking up in an endless dream; the stark terror of not knowing if each hour, each minute, would be the last. Entire waking cycles devoted to praying to every god in existence until, at last, they responded and the flashlight poking through the break in the rock was the answer.

The work went faster, easier, and soon the faces of Phillip and his rescuers greeted him and cheers erupted and hands clapped. Applause became a reverberating shockwave in the narrow passage and killed his eardrums, but he didn’t care. He was saved. Phillip, brave and kind, held his hand and Richard took the other as they strapped all kinds of braces and harnesses to his limbs and wrapped him in a thermal blanket. “The rest of the team is waiting in the open room. Just a little longer and you’ll be in a hospital bed topside.”

They passed him up the boulder line. His team met him on the other side, all smiling faces and applause and cautious hugs. Christopher wasn’t going to die. His head swam. It was safe and warm. And as his friends and colleagues crowded around his lift, it was a relief. They wouldn’t let anything happen to him and Christopher let the wave of exhaustion pull him under.

The TV droned. Grit filled his eyes and blurred his vision. HIs mouth felt heavy and sat strange behind his teeth. Bright colors of balloon animals and flowers and chocolates crowded the bed. His miraculous tale of courage and hope played on CNN. News anchors bantered and joked. Beside him, his partner’s head rested on the pile of warmed blankets gone cold and his lower body was elevated with his left leg suspended in a cast-hammock.

There was a letter in Alex’s hand. He pried it from their grip. Alex stirred, smacking their lips, but didn’t wake. A note from Richard. Christopher unfolded the paper. It read:

Sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke up. Press has been trying to get into your room for days so I had them deliver this letter to you instead.

There’s something I gotta say or I won’t be able to sleep. It’s your choice and I’d understand if you never touched a cave again, but I think the community would suffer without you. 

That map you were making? It was critical in the rescue operation and I realized – I’ve seen your handwriting before, on other maps, and I’ve seen your name on popular resources, and those long credit pages at the back of books. I don’t think you realize how many lives you’ve impacted or saved just by mapping these caves and learning all the dangers. 

Please don’t give up. Keep teaching others. Use that talent of yours and good luck on recovery!

Richard

Christopher ran a hand through his partner’s hair, admiring them and contemplating Richard’s words and put the letter back in the envelope. Let the note rest on the blanket. He hadn’t realized how much people relied on his work and meticulous detail. Maybe the risk was worth it.  He wiggled his toes – all five of them. One accident wouldn’t conquer him. One prosthetic wouldn’t stop him. Yes. Christopher would map the entire damn cave.