The first time that I went underground did not turn out so well. I was a middle schooler on the way home from an overnight outing with my Boy Scout troop. A teenage nephew of the Scoutmaster was our driver. It was going to be a fun-filled day with a trip to Yankee Stadium. A pubescent boy’s dream. Wake up in the cool morning in a lean-to. Breakfast over an open fire beside a rippling mountain brook. A hike, with a backpack and a bedroll, down the mountain to the car that would transport us from the “wilds” of northwest Connecticut to a waiting bus for the excursion into the big city.
Our young driver knew of my plan for the rest of the day, and, gauging the time, asked if our small group wanted to stop and explore Tory’s Cave, a marble cave not far from the road we were taking home. Wow, I thought, is it possible to have a better day than this?
The cave was rumored to have been a hideout during the Revolutionary War for those that sided with England. It supposedly went under the Housatonic River and came to the surface on the opposite bank. If I understood hydrology then as I do now I would have realized the impossibility of that scenario but to my young brain, it seemed plausible.
When we arrived at the trailhead for the cave, we parked the car and scrambled up a hill with our flashlights and canteens to do some exploring. This being a New England spring morning, entering the cave entailed crawling over moss and dirt to squeeze into a gap between boulders. We were no sooner into the first chamber, flashlights on, looking for the next crawl space into the “great room,” when our young driver let out a seldom heard curse. His car keys had fallen from his shirt pocket and into the jumble of rocks we were crawling over. A search could not locate the keys, much less recover them. The stones were too massive to move.
The keys, I’m certain, came to rest in the same place that they are today. On that day we still had to get back to the car, get it started, and get home. This being a couple of decades before “On Star” and cell phones, it quickly became apparent that I was going to be a no-show for the game.
While the car’s owner tried to figure out how to hot-wire the ignition, I was sent to walk to the nearest house to find a landline to call to let people know what had happened and where we were. By the time I’d returned, the disabled Studebaker had been successfully started. We were soon on our way, too late to make the game, and doubly disappointed that we never made it to the other side of the river.
Going underground now, as a responsible adult, is quite different from that truncated adventure from so long ago. When I find an opening that is horizontal, as opposed to a vertical hole, the first box to check is to see if there is water. Many mines in our area were abandoned when the water table rose faster than the water could be pumped out. The next box to check is the quality of the rock at the entrance. Is this a good, hard-rock mine? No slabs or widow makers waiting to be dislodged at my ever-so-gentle passing? If those two conditions are met, the next thing I check for are critters. This involves simple observation. Animal tracks? Animal scat? I usually throw in a few rocks ahead of me and listen.
When it finally feels as if it is safe to advance, I take that first step and begin inching my way in. Of course, it feels transgressive. Sometimes there is an old barbed wire fence and a sign with a skull and crossbones with the advice to ‘Stay Out And Stay Alive.’ But ahead lies adventure and besides, I’ve left the keys to whatever I am driving outside of where I am going.
Live and learn.
Editor’s note: The PRT advises that nobody enter abandoned mines or caves without the proper training or equipment. Abandoned mines and caves have many hazards that can severely injure or kill you.