Cave La Faux

I’m not sure it would qualify as a cave if held to standards established by experts in the field of spelunking, but at the moment I was grateful for its presence, nonetheless. The enclosure, barely large enough to stand in at its entrance and narrower and shorter as it progressed into the side of the mountain, offered visual horizons only barely recognizable once the earth subverted the sun’s intrusive powers of illumination. But, it didn’t stink and I didn’t immediately witness the presence of any bears, snakes, bats or scorpions, so my gratitude abounded. The storm raged outside, with near-horizontal torrents of rain attacking the countryside, attempting to remove yet another layer of earth from the already-pocked and weathered limestone and sandstone base laid down during the Permian cataclysms.

Muted thunderclaps echoed somewhere in the background, an eerie presence underscoring my plight. As I watched from the safety nature provided, I wondered if this would be the storm that finally weakened the cave’s structure enough to close its adit and bring about my final communion with the elements. Then, I grinned a little at my foolishness and acknowledged my arrogance—this cave had outlasted countless storms of just this sort during the last twenty million years or thereabouts and this would be the one to destroy it precisely because of my presence. Yea, right…what a moron. The odds against my eminent demise were far shorter for snakebite, bear mauling, or even amoebic dysentery, but I worried about a cave-in. Just like me, I’m not proud to admit. The intoxicating power of hyperbole never wanders far from my recognition.

How many men had shared this enclosure with me or, for that matter, how many bears? I thought about looking for petrified stool samples that may have been left, but I got a little sidetracked, temporarily, trying to remember the scientific name for bear-droppings. What was it I’d heard them called on National Geographic Presents? Dung? Poop? Spoor, maybe? There I was on the precipice of the unknown, perhaps only inches short of a scientific discovery that could net me widespread renown and riches I’d never known, and I’m worrying about an adequate euphemism for shit. How very typical… probably fitting given my history.

I wasn’t exactly lost, the Anasazi trail was well marked and I held high hopes of finding it again if the damn rain would ever let up. Plus, I understood that if I just kept heading east, sooner or later I’d run into Mesa Verde and the safety of communion with fellow humans.

Then I saw them. On the upper surface of the dimly lit rock wall, I recognized stick-figure humans and beasts resembling bison, framed by ceremonial depictions of characters I didn’t recognize; religious offerings, perhaps, drawn by some lost Paleolithic hunter?

I stood as well as I could, hunched over slightly so as not to bump my head, and reached out to touch them, the first modern man to touch previously undiscovered art treasures of a lost civilization. I took my knife from my pocket and opened the blade. They wouldn’t miss one little piece.

“Hey, you!” the voice called to me, “Get your ass out of that exhibit!”

Honestly, I don’t understand their harsh consternation. If they didn’t want us to fantasize a little, perhaps the museum staff should erect glass barriers to prevent the public from enjoying the experience to its fullest. Sheesh… another ten bucks shot to hell. Somebody's getting a letter, this time...

Bob Church©1/27/07