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Filming
Southern Arizona’s pristine caverns
by
John Waller
Our
150 feet of static climbing rope slithered
vigorously into the black chasm and then ominously
snapped taught. Word had it that this pit
in the mountain ranges of southern Arizona
was 100 feet deep, but suddenly we found ourselves
confronted by a rappel into a hole with no
bottom.
The
nearest tree around which we could anchor
our rope was 40 feet from the lip. After adding
in a few feet for a bowlin knot, there was
not much rope to spare.
I
peered cautiously into the yawning opening
but could not see the bottom. My caving partner
Scott Sievertsen scooted on his belly on the
opposite side and poked his head over the
edge. A clear line of sight eluded him as
well. Had our rope reached the bottom?
Bryce
Mercer, a science teacher out of Seattle,
picked up a small rock and tossed it into
the blackness. Long silence, followed by the
return “crack,” and each successive crack
fading away until only the sound of the steady
low hush of damp cave air was left.
From
any vantage around the lip of the drop, it
was impossible to see the bottom. The only
way to see would be to rappel 10‑15
feet down on that rope until a clear line
of sight could be achieved.
Should
the rope end be seen to coil around on the
rocky ground, it would be a smooth descent
down to the bottom. But should the rope end
be seen to dangle precipitously above continued
empty blackness, the person on rappel would
then have to perform a change over, switching
between their rappel device and their ascending
system, all while maintaining contact on the
rope and dangling in free space over an approximate
90‑foot drop.
We
elected Scott to go first, based purely on
his previous experience of having performed
such a changeover. Not an episode he was eager
to repeat and yet, with some trepidation,
Scott hooked up his Petzel Stop Rappel device
to the rope and awaited our green light.
Harness
double‑backed, carabineers locked, “Frogger”
ascending system ready to go, and cameras
rolling, Scott backed up to the ledge, leaned
back, and committed himself to the rappel.
He
dropped in quickly while the three of us gathered
around the edge, anxious to hear the verdict.
In the dusky grey light between daylight and
infinite blackness, we could see him twist
on his halogen headlamp and peer toward the
bottom.
That
the rope reached the bottom came in exclamation
from below.
Caves
are mysterious places. As you read these words,
a single drop of water bulges precariously
from the slender tip of a soda straw. Calcite
formations bend, contour, and drape in breathtaking
displays. Narrow passages inhale and exhale
with lonely breathes of air as the cave adjusts
to surface pressure. And so it has been for
thousands of years.
The
drops of water, the evolving formations and
the movement of air give subtle life and movement
to a world that seems unchanging, and which
slumbers in complete darkness.
There
is so much unknown about caves–my inspiration
for documenting the experience of caving through
video and photography. What I realized in
the process is that capturing this experience
would be extremely challenging.
For
the past three years, I have been making an
annual pilgrimage to the Southwest with Scott.
It has been my ambition to produce a comprehensive
documentary on caving, and the conservation
ethics inherent in any kind of cave exploration.
To produce a high quality film on the topic
that captures the true essence of the experience
of caving, all of the gear must be packed
along with us into these remote locations.
This
means cameras, lenses, batteries, lights, microphones
and tripods all must be packed in such a manner
that it is protected from mud, rocks, dust and
tumbles, and consolidated to minimize weight
and size. Wherever we go, be it rappelling into
a vertical pit or squeezing through a body‑sized
passage, the gear goes as well.
Our
recent expedition took us to Southern Arizona
to explore some of the most pristine caves the
state had to offer. Scott, Bryce, Amber–the
fourth member or our party–and I packed a rented
Jeep Commander and headed into the Catalinas,
the Huachucas and the Chiracahuas. Within these
rugged ranges are bands and pockets of white‑grey
limestone in which our caves had been hollowed.
For every cave we knew about, there must exist
dozens unknown to us, with scores more completely
undiscovered.
Most limestone caves like the ones in Arizona
were formed hundreds of millions of years ago.
The process began when a shallow sea covered
what is now a basin and range geography. When
the shellfish that lived in that sea died, their
bodies sank to the sea floor, where they accumulated
in layers and eventually their exoskeletons
hardened into the rock we know as limestone.
Millions
of years of shifting continents, rising mountain
ranges and draining seas resulted in the Arizona
landscape we know today. The ancient underground
beds of soluble limestone remain underground,
continually hollowed out and dissolved by rushing
underground rivers or percolating groundwater.
This water slowly dissolves the rock, first
creating small cavities and over time, enlarging
those spaces into caverns.
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Caverns
come in all shapes and sizes. Some are giant borehole
passages in which the darkness swallows up your
light before it ever reaches the ceiling. Other
passages are chillingly small. A space less than
eight inches wide can fit a slender human body and
it is through these squeezes that one must wriggle
and squirm, with the weight of hundreds of feet
of solid rock looming above you.
Caves
are extremely fragile ecosystems easily abused by
human visitors. There is a noticeable difference
between caves that are well‑known and visited
frequently, and caves with locations not well advertised.
Caves
that see a lot of human visitors suffer vandalism,
garbage, graffiti and weep with broken formations
that took thousands of years to form. So cavers
and resource managers are notoriously protective
of the locations of cave entrances.
Entrances
may be buried, covered with rocks and sticks that
blend perfectly with the landscape. Some cave entrances
are gated and require a key and permit from a local
federal agency or caving organization. Some of the
most pristine caves are the ones that are the hardest
to enter–like the one we were peering into as Scott
descended into the void. Yet these are the caves
that often yield the greatest rewards.
Scott
had seen the bottom, and his exclamation of awe
was brought forth partly because of the huge drop
he was hovering over, and partly because he saw
only the last two feet of our rope brushing across
the dusty floor.
Within
minutes we could hear Scott shout from below, “Off
rope!” The rest of us were cleared for descent.
I would be the next to drop down, so I could set
up a camera and film Amber and Bryce. I wrapped
the rope around the friction bars of my Petzel Stop,
triple‑checked my gear as Bryce looked on,
and then backed up toward the edge.
Knowing
that the rope actually reached the bottom made it
only slightly easier. The brain grants little solace
in those moments when it knows you are putting yourself
in a precarious situation. Leaning back over a
100‑foot pit, attached only to an 11‑millimeter
rope tied to a tree 40 feet away in the middle of
the Arizona desert is one of those moments.
But
concentrating on each step, slowly inching out,
over, and below the edge into a free drop builds
confidence. I looked down to see what I was in for.
An exclamation of awe leapt from my throat.
A
100‑foot vertical free rappel is serious business.
The massive size and depth of the shaft plunging
straight down into the Earth’s crust was dizzying.
As is often the case when confronted with a spectacular
vista, our significance in the world seems to dwindle.
I felt a deep sense of humility as I dangled downward
through the murky netherworld between light and
dark, into what could easily be described as the
internal organs of the Earth.
Once
past the entrance light, darkness is the one constant
of cave passages. With the lights off, you can wave
your hand directly in front of your face and see
nothing. Although the brain attempts to fill in
the gaps with an image of what your hand might look
like waving immediately in front of your eyes, there
is no real vision, only the most complete and absolute
type of blackness there is. The reality of the surface
world slips away and your new reality becomes the
comparatively minute circle of light your headlight
casts.
These
are the conditions a filmmaker and photographer
must overcome to document the exploration of wilderness
caves. Light becomes a precious resource. For photography,
a series of flash units triggered in different locations
splash light across the cavern, illuminating nooks
and crannies that become the focus of the picture.
Bursts of light pop in the darkness like fireworks.
The camera, mounted on a tripod, captures the scene
as it unfolds on a single frame through an extended
shutter setting. The end result is a surreal landscape
of formations painted with brilliant colors and
contrasting shadows.
For
videography, a continuous source of light is necessary
to capture the backdrop. I use 100‑watt lights
charged by a 14.7 volt battery. The battery weighs
eight pounds and needs recharging after 35 minutes
of powering a light. Needless to say, after having
lugged 20 pounds of camera gear and batteries miles
to a cave entrance, down a 100‑foot pit, then
through a maze of crawls and squeezes inside a cave,
conservation of light is not taken lightly.
But
when a cavern is illuminated with a continuous barrage
of 100‑watt photons, there can be no substitute.
A world so completely different from our experience
on the Earth’s surface bursts to life. And the camera
rolls.
The
caving documentary, Treading Lightly, is currently
under production by Uncage the Soul Productions.
For a sample of additional photography taken in
conjunction with this project and for updates on
a scheduled release, please visit
www.uncage
thesoul.com.
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