by GroundquestMSA » Dec 6, 2016 12:55 am
I know a man who worked in the woods of my county for all of his working life. When he was young he cut tie-wood by hand and hauled it off the steepest slopes on his back to a wagon and mule. After the war in Korea, he got married and lived at the foot of the hill. Everyone left who was around then says that when he was thirty years old he was the strongest man they knew. He kept cutting logs, and he worked sometimes at the sawmill or in tobacco during busy seasons. Ignoring the legal seasons, he hunted his food when he needed it. Though he was a good marksman, he killed sitting rabbits and squirrels with a shotgun instead of a rifle. On foot one evening, on the way home, he saw a fawn caught up in a fence. He killed it with the axe he carried and took it home for the table. Remembering such good fortune, he told me about the fawn with a delighted chuckle. He set trot-lines, picked up turtles from roads and ditches, took whatever groundhogs the farmers shot. He had a son who grew to be nineteen years old before being hanged to death by his drunken friends.
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I have claimed in the past that organizations such as the NSS need not, and should not, exist. An article appearing in the fall 2016 issue of Western Caver is, unintentionally, supportive of this conclusion. The column, written by Jo Schaper, deals with the tired old topic of categorizing cave “explorers”. Are you a speleologist, spelunker, or caver? Interestingly, Schaper failed to reveal any meaningful difference between the three groups. Acknowledging that there are few formally trained cave scientists, she defines a speleologist as one who enters a cave to gather data. I understand data to mean apparently or demonstrably factual information; what we all use as a basis for learning and calculating. The term data is typically used by scientists, and assumedly “speleologists”, though it seems that they would be as well served to say “information,” or some more specific descriptive word, like the rest of us do. Seeing the gaudy term “data” for what it is leads us to the suggestion that no one has an honorable right to enter a cave as anything less than a speleologist. To travel through a cave and to emerge without having learned anything is an unacceptable transaction, given the undeniable fragility of “cave resources”.
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Angry, he stopped working for the farmers or for the mill. He went into the woods every day, alone, digging ginseng, yellow-root, bloodroot, may-apples, blue and black cohosh. Ignoring the legal seasons, he dug all year, digging in the cold of winter from memory. He never took too much, and in three decades never ran out. He lived and healed in the woods.
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Schaper’s description of a spelunker is largely gear-based. A spelunker, supposedly, uses tennis-shoes, cotton clothes, and handheld lights. Spelunkers climb, reportedly, hand-over-hand on manila rope. These are clearly portrayed as negative practices. What Schaper and a massive population of self-important cavers fail to acknowledge is that these are actually problematic only when accompanied by ignorance.
Meanwhile, a caver is a non-scientist cave explorer with “proper” equipment. What Schaper and a massive population of well-equipped cavers fail to realize is that good gear is poor protection from ignorance. Ignorance, of the caver, spelunker, or speleologist, is the real threat to the cave and its visitors. Is the NSS combating damaging ignorance? Only in the most superficial sense.
By the definitions in Schaper’s article, I am, sometimes alternately but usually simultaneously, a speleologist, spelunker, and caver. This vaguery illustrates the foolishness of the caver’s culture, by which we are taught to be repulsed by the word “spelunker”.
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This man is living still. He is short, wide, thick. His arms and legs are short and thick. His hair is grey and coarse, and he is bald in the middle of his head. Though he is too sick to be outside often, his skin is dark. His eyes are brown. His nose is long and wide, but defined, not a monstrosity of time. His hands have the softness of old age, the weakness of old age, but the unalienable strength of hands that have worked. His hands know still how to do work that his body is too weak to carry them to. He can look from the window of my car and discern, almost without eyes, a hickory among oaks on a distant slope.
He is my friend.
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An example of this foolishness is found in this direct quote from Schaper:
"In the States, one wishing to be taken seriously avoids the word [spelunker] in self-reference, corrects others who accuse him or her of being a spelunker, and proudly displays the bumper sticker, “Cavers Rescue Spelunkers.""
This sentence is ridiculous on many levels, but most pertinent to criticism of the NSS is the notion that cavers should wish to be taken seriously. There is nothing glamorous about caving. It is not an accomplishment or a talent or a service to society. It is a hobby. Cavers are due no more respect than any other hobbyists. The NSS, no matter how noble its origins and despite the “Speleological” in its name, is nothing more than a hobby-club whose primary purpose is self-perpetuation. The NSS is dangerous because, by enfranchising disrespectful, careless, and ignorant individuals, it offers a guise of legitimacy to entirely unqualified and illegitimate cave traffic. Recreational caving organizations make easily and quickly available what should be understood, earned, and used slowly, carefully, and respectfully. Under their watch, caving resembles nothing more than sport-hunting.
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One day a few years ago, before he stopped driving, I went to see him. Coincidentally, we both pulled into his driveway at the same time. When he got out of the car there were tears on his face. He wiped them from his chin but not from his cheeks. I asked him – Are you all right? This man, who I have been trying to tell about, who has seen many deaths, who has killed and butchered, killed and butchered, killed and butchered -who told me the story of the fawn in the wire- wiped his chin again. He said – I ran over an kilt a little ol squirrel.
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Last week in my county were dozens of trucks straddling ditches, trailers hauling ATVs, gas stations full of men in camouflage. When they haul the deer to get tagged they try and drape the head over the side of the truck. All around were the sounds of the harvest, blasts from that hill, that fence row, the place where that trail leads through an ironwood grove to the pond. Walking during the day, I saw that some moron had marked the trail to his stand with reflective thumbtacks. And I saw too in the woods and ditches the headless corpses, and I saw the big trucks scattered in the taxidermist’s yard. Now I look up when I am walking and see that while the hulls the squirrels have dropped are already sinking into eternity, a hickory is still holding to some of its yellow leaves.
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Caves cannot bear the load of overuse by thrill-seekers. This, overwhelmingly, is what cavers are. The NSS, by encouraging condescension toward non club members, tells cavers that they are something more, that they are legitimate. The NSS then, appears to me to be responsible for a significant percentage of damaging cave traffic, and must surely be the US entity most harmful to caves.
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I have a cork-board at home, and it is covered in papers. Sketches and maps of caves, scribbles of writing like this one that I am ashamed to share and afraid to forget. Photos of caves and people and of mushrooms and trees. Phone numbers and schedules and reminders. In one corner is a torn-off edge of paper with his room number at the hospital. It is stuck on top of other things on my cork-board with a reflective thumbtack. I have a whole bunch of them in a cup.