Blind Descent

The story that stuck in A

During the trip this man was unable to carry canoes or gear on the many rough portages. But he chose not to be a burden to the others. He discovered an untapped talent. Clad in protective clothes, he crawled and inched and slithered, dragging his legs over fallen logs, across rocky beaches, and through weed-choked ravines.

By the end of his sojourn in the wilderness, his fear of burning to death in his own home was gone. "I can crawl out," he said. "I never thought of it. Shoot, I could crawl the six miles to the fire station if I had to." He'd regained some of his lost mobility.

The guy would have made a heck of a caver.

They'd been traveling ninety minutes, had gone less than three quarters of a mile, and had ventured into the earth four hundred feet, when they came to the North Rift.

The rift was a great crack ru

"Jesus," A

"Left goes up to the North Rift," Iverson said. "Right is the main route to the rest of the cave. We go right."

The word "impassable" came to mind. Above, stone vanished into the gloom. Blocks the size of rooms jutted from the walls. Where she and Iverson sat, it was about thirty feet wide, the far side smooth, vertical, offering nothing in the way of an inducement to cross.

"Right?" A

"Right."

"How?"

Iverson smiled. "There." He painted a curved surface of rock above her with his light. The wall of the rift bulged slightly and bent around in a southwesterly direction. On closer examination, A

Below, the rift fell away in a rugged canyon. Light served only to beckon forth the shadows and veil secrets. It struck her as odd that all of it-this tremendous gorge, the seeps and falls and spires-could continue to exist in the total absence of light and life. Like the philosophical tree falling in the theoretical forest, with no one to hear, not so much as a gnat or a dung beetle to take note, did it really exist? Apparently it did. "How deep?" she asked.

"Here? Maybe one hundred twenty-five feet or so. It varies, of course. Nobody's ever really done much exploring down there."

As far as A

"Definitely a No Falling Zone," Iverson said mildly.

A

Holden Tillman eased up beside them and swung his legs over the edge. A

"So," Holden said, uncapping his water bottle and pausing for a long pull. A

"Freak-Out Traverse," Holden said, and waved toward the roped cliff face with his water bottle.

"Gee, why do you think they call it that?" A

Holden didn't seem to notice the sarcasm. "Interesting story," he said. "See below the rope there? That great, big, old, solid-looking poke-outance, just exactly the right size to wrap your arms around and hang on to for dear life?"

He traced the rock outcrop he described with a golden finger of lamplight. It was the obvious place to make the traverse. A

"We got here. Me and a caver named Ron. I, being the gentleman that I am, insisted Ron have the first crack at it. 'Oh, no,' he said. 'After you, my dear Holden.' 'I wouldn't dream of it. After you,' says me. So he goes first. Ron gets to that big, old, friendly rock and spreadeagles himself across it like a love-struck starfish. And that sucker starts to move. The thing is on ball bearings. Hence 'Freak Out Traverse.' I let Ron name it. I'm just naturally generous that way."

Even in the wandering half-light, A

"Everybody rested and rejuvenated?" Iverson asked.

A sheer curtain of panic, like heat rising from the desert, quivered behind A

Rest stops were going to be bad news.

"Ready," she said, and was the first to get to her feet. Movement was good, work even better. She felt herself almost looking forward to Freak-Out. That should take up every shred of her thought processes for a few minutes.

After Freak-Out the going got somewhat easier. Though a good deal of effort went into climbing on, around, and under the blocks, little of it was heart-in-mouth stuff.

Shoving her hands in cracks, her face in the dirt, reaching into darkness, squeezing through the narrow ways, A

Partway down the North Rift, half an hour's travel and not quite a hundred yards as the crow flies-should a crow choose such a batlike endeavor-Iverson stopped again, perched this time on a narrow ledge, his lamp extinguished. Lest he startle A

A