Cyber Kittens and Cowboys (17 page)

If she doesn’t find the answer at Chalk Cave,
then she steals more money from another innocent person. Right?
Wrong? She sighs, breathes, deeply. Pamela has to make an executive
decision after investigating cave site without or with answers.

If she finds the answer, she runs to Preston
for help. He might be mad at her, now but he’ll assist her.

If she doesn’t find the answer, she’ll turn
herself into FBI for arrest going to Preston before she goes to
Geneva. Preston’ll be highly upset and mad but she doesn’t have a
choice.

Taxi jolts, swiftly to local farm as she pays
the fare.

She meets her new fellow cavers. After
non-fanfare ceremony of her new acquired fake name of “Pat” and
real Grotto T-shirt, she hauls, heavily one sleeping bag, three
blankets & single picnic basket of tin cans to Yamaha Utility
ATV, quad 4-wheeler. She guns, slowly little vehicle while Julia
snaps pics and records Mother Nature sleeping. She halts as other
little trucks line like baby ducks waiting for Mama.

Pamela slings, heavily gear out and down onto
partially damp ground lacking sunshine in shade. She camps,
seriously the night enjoying lousy jokes, scary tales, and off-key
singing of natives. Finally, she studies, studiously map as Snail
Cave intersects Chalk Cave on Northwest shoot-off.

7:08 am. Saturday. Snail Cave.

Roger shouts, obnoxiously at the nosily
herds. “Back-up batteries? Over here? Extra biners over there?
Decension devises? Right here?” He checks, swiftly watch. “Moving
out in 10 minutes, finish up!”

Male tenor voices of Roger, explains, fully
to Pamela. “Called Mitchell Climbing System includes caving gear,
vertical gear, rotary hammer drill, batteries and back-up batteries
or short version…cavepack…or survival pack.”

“Thanks, I like cavepack better.” Pamela
comments, weakly as cavepack loads, heavily against her neck &
back muscles.

After hardy breakfast of canned beanie
weenies & three water bottles and clean up, she & cavers
gear up & blaze, slowly north over stomped grass & leafs,
broken tree limbs sticking legs & thorns scratching jean fabric
while hungry eaters pick & munch blueberries from bushes as
they hike poison ivy and stinging nettles.

Pamela is purposefully dragging & drawing
last. Last in cave, first to leave. I snigger, lightly.

Down reddish sandy dirt road with
higher-than-heaven slick boulders attached to mountain, Pamela
feels, slightly faint especially looking upwardly. She forgot to
bring oxygen mask for panic attack, mentally bruising her brain
cells.

30 minutes later.

Pamela eye burns wall of stone. Grayish-white
limestone stands…way to high at 30 feet over my skull. She pivots,
soldierly to Roger. He sets rigging gear around his waist then
climbs like nimble spider up the wall. He tosses, downwardly rope
dangling at my nose, snaking at toes. She attaches, swiftly around
waist assaulting with boots & gloves bouncing like
uncoordinated Tarzan & crashing like ocean waves into stone.
Helmets are outstanding idea for cavers.

Pamela stands uprightly on top of plainly
flat and clear plateau pouring sweat and salt into gloves, clothes,
rock & shield sunlight with gloved hand. Roger motions,
horizontally index finger due North.

Looking at topo, you see thousands…maybe not
thousands of vertically bluffs blocking our path toward Snail Cave.
West is gentler slope gliding down 20 feet into more green plants.
East is rocks, boulders, plants, trees and bushes.

Pamela huffs & puffs, strongly snaking
around sharp brambles and sticky plants along logging trail to
gully with horizontally stream of fresh water and aqua plants. She
tramps, nosily across water getting wet and descend, steeply hill
side of tall trees & short foliage as she reads, silently map.
All these trees, bushes and bluffs make impossible getting GPS
reading. She prays, silently going in right direction.

She angles left with trail as tiny speck of
light reveals cave entrance 300 feet blocked by another bluff. She
stops, suddenly & drop, quickly heavy cave pack, breathing
heavily.

“Death ledge!” Roger points, rudely at nasty
angle of sloping rocks into large, medium and smaller boulders
below the mountain by 20 feet.

“Pardon me.” Pamela comments, meekly,
stands….way far from slope.

“Called death ledge!” Roger talks, laughs,
hardy.

“Don’t scare Bambi, Roger.” Female alto
voices, warmingly as Roger shifts to front of cavers.

Roger points, rudely in distance. “Cave
entrance’s about 15 feet wide and about 6 feet high. This is one of
many ‘eye’ entrances. This is why we cave to find the unfound.
Paul, here…” Roger slaps Paul’s shoulders. “…saids to cave low and
dirty for 15 minutes in muddy and slippery spots then drop of 25
foot pit. To play it safe, do no vertical caving. Look for paths to
water, bends around bluffs on same contour for other ‘eyes’ and
some of the ledges have collapsed making it a risky traverse. Every
one ready!”

Cavers chant, loudly. “Ready!”

“Last word, the better climbers help the weak
ones. Any comments, complains?” Roger nods, once. “Drop and crawl,
be careful.”

Pamela falls, slowly to fours, two hands and
two knees, immediately wishing she had more padding on knees and
more muscle in biceps for hauling 20 pounds of dead weight dragging
heavy cave pack.

She sweeps, heavily sand dust in face
entering cool cave twisting knees, painfully right then left of
obvious stone passage straight into hillside. Pit appears, deeply
25 feet into darkness surrounded by floor of broken boulders.

She stands tall & follows walking ledge
to another pit, deeply 20 feet into darkness. She stares,
studiously & ponders, thoughtfully why folks do this
dangerously fun.

Roger points, rudely “Bats.” Clump of
brownish-black small things hangs, upside-downly from ceiling about
3 feet wide in three layers thick of bats hanging from other bats.
“Don’t frighten the little fellows.”

Floor of passage is 20 feet wide, about 10
feet ahead, looming pits, directionally on east, west and
northeast. Cavers debate, softly rigging points of bridge, steamed
heat from pits and who enters each pit for inspection.

Waterfall is opposite of bat wall. Hot and
humid steam bombards faces, sweaty hands in gloves and sweaty toes
in boots.

She stands, soldierly & view, studiously
entire pic. High curved ceiling, deep curved walls, passage broad
walk heads north passed by excellent 20/15 eye sight. She watches,
impatiently.

Helena rigs webbing to her pack tied with
water knot and extra overhand knots. “Risky climb-down?”

“Naw, we do fine. I brought my grigri and
dynamic rope for belays.” Roger holds, vertically rope and
equipment in air.

“Good thinking, Roger.” Helena compliments,
goody & she rigs rest of her rope to Roger’s rope pad. They
stand, scary on edge of ledge then descend to lower level Helena
first. Pamela stands, solidly in her perch.

Helena echoes, loudly. “Small stream six
inches deep.”

Cavers separate into three groups scratching
and clawing rig webbing and ropes for new adventure of pit
sites.

Pamela pulls, silently map & studies,
hardy near her escape point.

“Pat.” Male tenor voices, softly.

Pause.

“Pat.” Male voice whispers, softly &
shakes, roughly her arm. She eye burns him.

“Yeah, Pat. What?” Pamela whines, baby-tonish
forgetting her cover ID.

Male tenor asks, smiles. “Ya going with us,
or Roger’s group?”

Pamela points, rudely down passage. “I can go
straight, right? I mean North. There’s something…over there,
right?” She reads tiny map.

Male talks, points, rudely North. “Awesome
keyhole, go experience it. Holler if you get lost or scared.”

“Yeah, holler. I will.” Pamela nods, once
& drifts, swiftly North stowing map while lifting heavy pack to
back muscles, painfully.

She follows, slowly narrow canyon passage
downstream of cave. On left, water stream drops to lower level as
keyhole appears blocking eyeballs. She pitches, forcefully cave
pack to stone then slides, playfully through keyhole into second
long, narrow ledge. Passage opens to more broken boulders as she
stumbles, clumsy upon gap in bridge.

Pamela back pedals, quickly & studies
terrain. Two different leads, one right to reddish walls reflecting
specks of gold, green and silver from steaming minerals or one left
slopes, dangerous downward then drops, deadly into darkness.

“Clearly, lefty’s the road not traveled.”
Pamela comments, nasty thinking of the famous literature poem from
middle school.

Pamela follows, safely right as clear walking
passage bends into right turn. She stops, suddenly & glances,
suspiciously behind me. I’m heading on northeast pace. She body
twists, slowly with 20 pounds of weight and re-trace steps to
intersection of bridge & deadly gap.

She kneels, slowly & studies map noting
planned detour. She eye burns gap. “This is it. Okay, just jump
across the hole, easy.”

She strolls, quickly to right wing of cave
& plants cavepack against wall hoping new friends believe she’s
wandering around for fun and adventure or stupidly just lost. Any
excuse will do.

She jogs, rapidly back to intersect point.
She huffs & puffs, heavily & bents knees, then flies like
an eagle across gap.

She lands, deftly on broken boulders &
falls, painfully on knee coverings. She examines, thoroughly
terrain. No earthquakes. No lightning. No rain. Clear!

She stands, slowly & measures, quietly
air waves. Good! She drops on fours and crawl over flatter broken
boulders toward the darkness.

After crawling and dragging heavy hiking
boots & shaky legs, she plops, hard on second stony tier of
lower cave. North & South walls are solid limestone rock. She
stands, shaky & tiptoes to lip of canyon & stares,
studiously.

No streambed of water, no briars cutting legs
and no foliage of green spiky plants or bushes or logging
trail.

Pamela shakes, sideways black skull with
doubt but only option is retreat back to bridge then break into
another cheap motel room for sleep and new plan or survive to
Preston.

At this moment, Preston is looking better and
better with each tick-tock of the clock.

She drops on fours & crawl, downwardly
into dim light onto path of medium and small boulders until finally
splashing water with glove. She stands, slowly then glances behind
at overhanging canopy of green blocking the lip of canyon with
fading sunlight.

She rotates neck muscles, circles terrain.
Red clay is everywhere on ceiling, floor and walls, not limestone
rock. She clicks off then on headlamp on helmet. Clearly, red clay
is everywhere.

She stands, motionlessly in water, small
muddy red puddles of still water, not streams of sparkling
wetness.

Electricity sizzles, brilliantly.
Sinkhole.

Sinkhole is deep or shallow hole in dirt when
rock below the land composed of limestone carbonate rock that
dissolve by ground water. As rock dissolves, caves form when land
suddenly collapses inside itself. Birmingham is built under caverns
and caves where sinkholes formed by Black Warrior River traveling
northeast to southwest in the city.

She stumbles, accidentally over trash
consisting of paper and plastic cups, junk food wrappers, food fast
lids. Last night, cavers had talked about clean up work, site
survey work and graffiti removal workshop keeping cave site
beautiful. They need to come here.

She stops, suddenly & eye burns
equipment, glance, quickly around terrain then back at equipment.
Haul system with ropes, ladders and pulleys. That’s not cave gear,
either. She measures, estimatedly wide of 150 feet and 20 deep
sinkhole in the middle of Birmingham with small puddles of standing
water. No drainage, waterfalls or passages.

“Dig, girlfriend.” Familiar female alto
clarinet echoes, loudly. Pamela neck snaps to gun & Geneva.

“Looking for something, Geneva?” Pamela
teases, foolishly.

Geneva announces, unemotionally. “Preston’s
dead along with Stockton, Arthur and Larry. You’re fault, of course
if only you surrendered yourself…when you had the chance,
darling.”

Pamela debates, logically. “I didn’t do any
thing wrong or illegal…like you…Geneva.”

Geneva purrs, objectively. “Hacked CIA site,
ran away, hiding out wearing hideous disguises. I really like the
clown suit best.”

“You tracked me?” Pamela frowns, ugly.

Geneva blasts, coldly. “Since your high heels
skidded down 11th Avenue…”

“You’re lying, Geneva. Preston isn’t dumb
like you.” Pamela insists, strongly.

Geneva barks, loudly. “Clean your ears,
darling. Preston’s dead along with Ashley…”

Pamela talks, meekly. “You killed
Ashley.”

“…all them in cold blood…it was really easy.
Pulling the trigger then…Bang! All dead! All gone!” Geneva sighs
& breathes, deeply. She points, rudely gun at Pamela. “That was
my plan killing Ashley then Thurston then BOA came along…”