Not Much of a Cave

Essay

As I turn west on Highway 154 from Highway 9, I push the button to roll down the window half way. The air climbs in through the opening and traces my face over and over in seconds. I roll the window down the rest of the way and let the wind fill my aging car. Before I moved to Little Rock, I would never have known that there were roads like this in Arkansas. Not that the slowly separating coalition of rock and tar beneath the deteriorating tread of my rolling Goodyears is anything to inspire, but its place as pavement is most appreciated in the scheme of my current endeavor: this road leads to Petit Jean Mountain and Petit Jean State Park. The first time I heard that name, I thought it sounded awkward. I still do. That may have something to do with my instinctual aversion to misspoken French. If you’ve never heard a native Arkansan say a French name as if it were not French at all, then perhaps “Petit Jean” does not sound as awkward. Then again, as the road begins to climb upward, the awkward name of the approaching state park becomes instantly insignificant, no matter how badly the natives butcher it.

The rocks on either side of the road begin to grow rapidly, as if the mountain’s chest is rising as it inhales. Before it can exhale, I turn left on to the dirt road that leads to the Bear Cave Trail. With the window down, I can hear the tires grip at the loose rock and soil of the simple surface. I wonder how many of the stones on the ground used to have a much grander view. There is room for at least ten cars to park in the dirt lot, but mine is the only occupant this morning. It’s less than fifty yards to the entrance of the cave and I’m there in less than five minutes with my backpack on. It’s not that I don’t want to enjoy the fresh atmosphere of the mountain path, it’s just that the reason I’m here is inside the cave. The entrance is only about five feet high and three feet wide, but the cave is double that. It’s almost as if someone has cut a hole into a rock room after realizing that they built it without a door. Even though a ten by six room is enough to move around in, it’s not very big for what most would consider a cave. However, the grandeur of Bear Cave is not its role as a traditional cave, nor is its splendor tied to the shade it offers, or the resonance of the sound of my shoes on the rock. The prize of Bear Cave is found through the opening in the roof of this domicile of dirt and stone, into the sunlight that falls in.

I move to the back wall of the small cave, where it narrows, and rest my bare hands on the cool, dust-covered surface. I feel the temperature of the rock. I feel its demeanor – its calm and constant pace. I allow my eyes to travel up the lines and the grain and I see the slight footholds that have been carved just above my reach, towards the opening. They are in the shape of small steps, but not so pronounced that you can even see them from more than a couple of feet away. It’s almost like the cave is merely offering you a way climb out of it, rather than announcing that it is an option. I am reminded of how odd man-made signs in nature are. As if the majesty of creation really needs a declarative billboard. Instead, Bear Cave is left to make a quiet suggestion. I am not new to the cave and I know the power of its suggestion, so I follow it. I remove my backpack, and put on backwards, so that it hangs in front of me. Then, putting my back against the narrow space, I lift up my feet to push against the opposite surface. I struggle to push myself within reach of the carved footholds, but I make it. The rock is even smoother here, closer to the opening, and even cooler to the touch. It’s not an unwelcoming coldness; it’s more like holding hands with an old girlfriend just to keep her hands warm. The memories of the last time I touched this surface return and I grin with the anticipation of another climb. There are only about a dozen footholds to the top of the cave, but I take my time moving up them. The opening widens with each climb as it eventually leads to the rolling surface. I grip the smooth surfaces tight, so as not to lose my hold. Then, finally, as sunlight covers my body and every surface around me, I am at the top. I stand on and drop my backpack on the rock.

Though the cave was slight and understated, its roof is the size of a football field, and its edges cascade down with billowing rocks. I walk to the edge, as close as I can on such a smooth and flowing surface, and I look down to where the entrance of the cave should be. Indeed, I see the path to it and the opening itself. It seems even smaller, as I am now at least twenty-five feet above it. I move back from the edge and look out. From this view, it is now apparent that the entrance to Bear Cave is nearly at the top of this portion of the mountain. To say the view is breath-taking would be a trite and over-used understatement. The mountain rolls down hundreds of feet, covered in a complicated patchwork of trees and underbrush, all the way to the very road I drove in on. The shadows of the clouds move across the landscape, darkening and caressing the tops of the trees where they pass. The wind pushes them gently, and then it acknowledges me. I feel its coolness cover me as if I have been submerged in crisp spring water. I do not hold my breath, however; I inhale, and I fill my lungs until the air spills back out, and I close my eyes for just a moment. Opening them again, I am quite keenly aware of the vastness of the undeniable miracle I see: the earth itself stretches before me, disappearing at the horizon in a soft sigh of the most natural colors. The view reminds me that I am mortal, and promises me that I can dream of being more.

I spend half the day on top of that rock, eating the sandwiches from my backpack and drawing in my sketchbook. I decide that this must be the sort of setting that inspires people to leave the comforts and conveniences of urban life behind and move into grander surroundings. Sitting on the rock, realizing I will soon have to begin my descent, I notice that some previous explorer has marked their adventure with ink. “Elsa loved JD,” it says. I let out a quiet laugh as I realize the specific wording: Elsa loved JD. I wonder if it was deliberate. Was it an intentional display of subtle profoundness and simple poetry, or an ironic error by the hand of a distracted author? With another glance at my watch, I decide it’s time to descend. Maybe I can find Elsa and ask her what became of her relationship with JD.