A Magic Hole in the Ground

Where the journey becomes legend, and its travelers, legendary.

Photo from the author's archives.

I kept scratching at my ankles. They itched, tickled almost.

Ants? Spiders? What the hell is crawling on me? I thought. But it can’t be ants or spiders. I’m walking down the middle of an underground creek, three hours back in a cave.

It was 1988, and I ran a wilderness school for fun and extra cash during my last year of college. One early September Saturday, I had four seniors from McLean High School, my old alma mater in McLean, Virginia, with me in the western highlands of the Shenandoah Valley. 

After driving a few hours south on I-81, and more than a few backcountry dirt roads, we pulled into the parking lot of Marshall’s Cave, a magical hole in the ground. Pine trees and that wonderfully clean, wild scent they give off surrounded the parking lot where a wire and plank-board bridge hung across the Cow Pasture River.

One might believe that the Cow Pasture’s color would live up to its muddy-brown namesake, with questionable bovine qualities floating among the muskie and redbreast sunfish.

But this mountain river was no dirty stream. Instead, it flowed from the Western Highlands, picking up tributaries along the way and eventually emptying into the famous, colonial-era river known as the James.

It flowed deep and swift-moving under the bridge, and because of its mineral-rich basin, it cast a beautiful blue-green tint into the Virginia sky. One by one, the kids stepped onto the swinging bridge, all the while looking down at the river. It was my first opportunity to balance fun and obedience. I offered encouraging advice on how best to cross a swinging bridge, a wide stance walk, and an easy grip on the lines, all the while shaking that bridge behind them for all I was worth. I was stupid then, more stupid even than now.

One by one, these four swaying seniors made their way back down to terra firma, where a woods trail layered in pine needles and red, crunching maple leaves awaited. They giggled politely, like the bridge antics were a joyride, but I notice they dashed down the trail, leaving the crossing behind. Then, just a short, one-mile walk in, we arrived at our camping spot. This was over thirty years ago; I doubt you can claim that spot so effortlessly on a weekend now. It was perfectly flat and soft, with a rock-laden firepit, all within a stones-throw of the Cow Pasture. We spent the first hour setting up tents, gathering firewood, and hanging hammocks.

There were clouds in the sky, and though it was early fall, the sun had done its job. We were hot, and a large tree branch jutted over a deep pool in the river’s turn. And wouldn’t you know it, a perfect rope swing hung high and at the ready. I gave instructions for the proper scampering techniques of a leaning tree trunk, referred to as rope swing tress. I told them to follow me and do what I did, but I’m equally sure I was as interested in going first as I was in leading by example. I was barely four years their senior, with a similar thirst and excitement for adventure.

So one by one, and sometimes two by two, we shimmied, swung, flew, and splashed down. And repeat.

Eventually, it was time to turn our attention to the grander adventure at hand.

It lay within eyesight of the camp, away from the river and up a fifty-foot embankment of shale rock, loose dirt, and fallen trees. It was still early afternoon, but we were on the damp side, so the air felt cooler than it had. Finally, after scrambling up the hillside, we reached the cave. You could smell it. You could feel it. It smelled like the potpourri version of a teenager’s room, damp, foreboding, and wild. And you could feel the temperature drop at its mouth. Most caves hover around fifty-four degrees, a nice cooling change in the summer and warming change in the winter. On this day, the temperatures inside and out were closer together. But feeling any type of temperature change at the threshold of Earth’s basement gets your attention.

We posed for a “Before Picture” and one final gear check. We were all smiles, fresh from the river, with clean clothes. But we and our clothes would not stay that way. I went from person to person, making sure all was ready. Harness, rope, carabiners, figure eight, helmet, primary light source, second light source (and my hidden stash of emergency glow sticks), and a few small bags holding snacks and water for all. Then we headed into the mouth of the cave, where the opening was maybe four feet tall. Most of us had to duck. And we stayed in that position, walking for the first few minutes before we came to where I hoped no one would want to turn back. Lucky for me, I was with teenagers, with no foreseeable mortality. The small crevice, barely two feet tall by four feet wide, dove into the darkness. It was no big front door, but what lay on the other side was a wonder-world of chutes, caverns, and further below, a long, winding cave-floor creek. 

I went first to show them it was possible and put myself in a better position to talk them through the scary few feet of pretending they were earthworms. Some of their lights went out during the great squeeze, and some even fell completely off their helmets. It was the first of many grand reveals when they donned their lamps again. The tiny slit in the rock had swallowed any view of the cave opening and every trace of daylight. We were officially underground. The next hour led us through alternating tunnel crawls and relieving vertical sections, finally leading us to the top of our first big rappel. The forward was about thirty feet further down, a straight drop off. I secured the rappel line around a few obvious stalagmites, and we reviewed connecting into the line with their carabiners and figure eights. All these kids had been on past climbing and rappelling trips with me to Old Rag Mountain near Sperryville and Mather Gorge along the Potomac River, so they knew their way around essential climbing gear and procedure. I made my way down, pushing off the edge and falling back into the darkness. Once I secured sound footing and a tie line to hold me to the slippery surface, I belayed the rest of them down.

With their jiggling headlamps and far-flung shadows, they looked like slow shooting stars, or maybe long-defunct satellites falling through the most obscure night sky.

Each landed their own way, as we all do in life, some smooth, some with thuds, but all triumphant. Minutes later, we made our way down an easy, tall corridor, eventually jutting out to a narrow cliff. We needed to be extra careful in traversing that spot. This spot made us focus on the inches and not the feet.

I knew the kids felt scared, but they were having fun. That’s the beauty of being a kid. Fear and fun are like Gemini Twins. I was having fun, too, but wondering if I had bitten off a hair more than I could chew. In the end, if you can’t bring home the same number of kids you left with, you might as well not come home. So my guide instincts turned paternal.

As far back and down as we had come, this cliff exposed another level, some fifteen feet below. As thick clods of mud and rock slid from underneath our boots, the sounds of deep kerplunks reverberated off the karst walls surrounding us. Those walls had narrowed into more of a mini canyon, where the water flowed deeper and colder. You could feel the chill on your arms and face, even high above. Another half an hour found us standing on a new ground floor, this time in a shallow but fast-moving creek bed. We walked for what seemed a good hour, nice, easy, refreshing. Moods often reflect the space you’re walking in. The kids sang 80s songs, some with made-up lyrics, but all with the voice of adolescent confidence.

It was a wonderful hour to be a young adventurer. One of those strung-together moments of happiness that you can’t get enough of.

I was out front, as usual, setting the pace and pointing out cave crickets and the occasional brown bat hanging from the ceiling like a tiny pinecone. And then it hit me.

Ants? Spiders? What the hell is crawling on me? I thought. But it can’t be ants or spiders. I’m walking down the middle of an underground creek, three hours back in a cave.

I began scratching at my ankles like I was chigger-bit, finally stopping to shine my light at my feet. There was nothing there other than some red streaks from my nails, so I kept walking. That same feeling began irritating my legs above the ankles, and I kept scratching. I noticed, too, that the other kids were making more splashing and sloshing sounds as they walked the creek. I stopped and shone my light again. Still nothing but the red streaks higher above my ankles. But then I noticed something. Scratches weren’t the only thing lapping high upon my leg. The water was higher, too. I shone my light in front of me, thinking the creek bed was dipping and deepening. It wasn’t the creek bed. The water was rising and fast. In the short couple of minutes of scanning the creek bed for answers, the water had risen to just below my knees. And even higher on two of the kids. Everything I failed to notice earlier in the day rushed headlong through my mind. Those gathering clouds that kept the piney woods cool had done more than gather. It was pouring outside, and that’s why the creek was rising.

We were deep underground and at least a couple of hours from the mouth. The water would overtake us if we didn’t get out of the next couple of rooms quickly.

“We have to go right now,” I announced. The kids knew something was wrong too and gave no fight. “I think it’s storming outside. We’re down pretty deep, and this water is rising fast,” I told them. By the time we reached the fifteen-foot cliff, the water was at my chest. We made our way up the cliff as the water chased us out. The kids were cold. Hell, I was cold, and we weren’t moving out with the grace we had moved in. The footing became more treacherous by the moment as copious amounts of water drained from our bodies and clothes onto the slick and getting slicker limestone. We no longer had to feel the water tickling our skin to know it was there. It rose faster than we could move. I knew we had a floor and a half or so to go before leaving the creek behind. The kids felt the urgency and just enough fear to stay close, quiet, and focused. We had come to that transfer point where the cliff was the most precarious, just before it rounded into a higher dry floor. I brought up the rear for the first time on the trip, making sure I could see every kid. I had two boys and two girls with me, and they were all formidable, exceptional spirits, especially Nikki. She was the smallest by stature and maybe the most vulnerable, but she would never let you see that.

One by one, the kids rounded the dangerous curve into a much safer room. But Nikki, just in front of me, lost her footing and fell sideways back through the dark crevice, splashing into the water like she had come off the high dive in a city pool. I jumped into the darkness after her, plunging in over my head. We were both so lucky that the water was naturally deep there, even more so because of the flooding. Any other spot, and we would have surely broken an arm, leg, or head. Nikki, scared but swimming, allowed me to grab ahold of her. After figuring out that she was not broken or bleeding, just freezing to death, Pedro and Marcus let down a piece of webbing, strong enough to hoist a body out. I tied it around Nikki’s waist, and they pulled with everything they had, lifting her out of the water and quickly around the dangerous corner to safer ground. They threw me the webbing a few minutes later and helped me get back up on the wall. Soon we all huddled together on flat dry ground. The kids were magnanimous.

There’s nothing like a near-death moment to bring out the life in someone.

They laughed, cracked jokes, and thanked each other for being there. It was one of life’s special moments, one I can still feel over three decades later.

We had beaten the floodwaters. I didn’t think we had any other water sources for the rest of the trip out, but the thunderstorm had already proven itself a wildcard, and I was not interested in coming up short again. We gathered ourselves and spoke quickly but purposefully about the last hour we had in front of us. I worried the whole way out about some secret ceiling tunnel just waiting to open like a giant faucet in the sky, drowning us before we could get out. We moved quickly back to the rappel site, this time using ascenders and leg power to head back up the last steep cliff where the rope still hung at the ready. Up top, I cleaned up the anchor points, and we made our way in what seemed like minutes to that tiny crack in the Earth that led back into the light. The mouth of the cave came into view quickly. And before we knew it, we stood in the sunshine. We couldn’t believe it. You could tell it had rained because the ground lay wet as trees dripped with moisture and an even more pungent smell of pine than before. It was a beautiful evening with the gloaming light painting the cave opening in soft pastels and a watercolor streak down the middle of the Cow Pasture River.

Photo from the author's archives.

We scampered down the shale embankment, and, just like that, we were back in camp. The first order of business was to take the “After Shot.” We looked dirtier and worn out but exalted in a way that only wilderness brings. The lesson at that moment was one I had taught those kids on a handful of adventure trips before. And it’s one that any wilderness trekker would confirm.

There is nothing like dry clothes, especially dry socks, to renew the bumps and bruises of the body and those of the mind and soul.

Of course, the camaraderie of a good, warm campfire makes one all the better for the trouble.

We spent the evening hours cooking hotdogs and marshmallows, retelling the story of the water chasing us out of that cave. Shared outdoor experiences also level the playing field. Everyone is a student. Everyone is a teacher. The group becomes imperiled together in the worst of moments and made heroes in every moment after that. The journeys become legend, and its travelers legendary. And even more so, in the wilderness way, we are made family.

The following day, we got breakfast in and an hour of rope swinging. I don’t know why we all felt like getting cold and wet again, but I suppose that’s what a new day dawning does. Finally, we changed into our traveling clothes and made the one-mile trek back through the woods trail layered in pine needles and red, crunching maple leaves, and back onto the swinging bridge. This time, the kids crossed first, and when I got to the middle of the bridge, they shook it for all they were worth.

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I would love to hear what you thought about this essay and if it brought any personal memories or stories to mind. Please feel free to leave a comment. I’ll answer all of them. I would love to strike up a conversation about this piece and your thoughts. Please consider sharing this newsletter with a friend. Thank you. - Mark