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Lewis & Clark Caverns

Twice upon a time, I've gone hiking through the Lewis & Clark Caverns in northwestern Montana. The first time I carried a three-month old child in a snuggly in front of my belly - the second two years later.

Hours from nowhere in the blistering asphalt mirage into the Rocky Mountains. Winding switchbacks of unkempt rural highway, steadily more clogged with tourists. Up and up into the foothills and higher still until in one grand curve, the road opened up to a gullet shaped parking lot. To the right, a state maintained rest facility so very much like all state run toilets - icy vaults of wash basins and tin mirrors without a roll of tissue - or soap - to be found. To the left, a museum and a disjointed line of hopeful and happy backpack and stroller-laden families.

Minutes ticked off in the breath-stealing heat gave way to admittance to the wide vertical ascent to the caverns. A mile and a half into the arid terrain, a panoramic view of yellow-brown tumbleweed, seemingly leading only to the entrance to Hades.

And then again the dramatic turn 'round the bend gave thankful respite into hillside's yawning maw. At last, the destination, the caverns. Instructions for silence, "Don't touch, just look," at the millennia-old formations. Even the minute amounts of oil found on a fingertip arrest one hundred years of growth.

Ahead, a light: a hole in the ceiling of the cave; a bat-sized entrance to the underworld. It's luminescence a spotlight spiralling down a football field's length of chasm. "Come come. Don't dawdle. There is much for you to see today. To enter the caverns proper, you must follow quickly and light.� And the path narrowed into a fossilized cascading streambed worn smooth. "You must shimmy down the bed now. Make haste." Bumpy slick chute narrow as a child's tush. Slide, sucker, slide.

Onto the turn-of-the-century Army Corp of Engineer's carved footpath. A hall lies ahead. The feature, the formations. Drip drip, drip drip. Dinosaurs walked when these minerals last saw sunlight. And then, a story.

See this stalagmite? Look at it close. It holds the tale of two young people in love. You see how he leans, knee to the ground? He is proposing. Do you see the girl, standing before him with her arms lifted to him? Is there a more beautiful love?

A pause in the tour. Reflection. Awe. There they are, the lovers. How can this be? No hands have ever touched this rock and yet Michelangelo could not have carved a thing more clear and poignant.

Onward ho around the mount and again a pause for the myth.

You see the lovers, this time from behind. Time has passed, fifty years in fact. They are old now, feeble. Do you see the old man, hands on the handles of her wheelchair? She is weak, slumped, sick. He has brought her to the spot where once he pledged himself to her. Up on the plateau, eyes directed outward. Perhaps they are looking back at their life. Just looking outward, together.

Two hundred and forty degrees from their youth, three-quarter view of the couple. Only now the groom is standing alone. His wife has gone, no one says where but everyone knows regardless. His shoulders are slumped, for he is old. When have you ever seen two lives' progressions so intimately?

One last halting to digest the story and onward through the cavern chambers. This room has popcorn formations, that one is purple and green and rust red. Through and through until the end. A last surprise room with Arthurian castles built out of damp dripping calcium slipping so slowly down the wall.

Unceremoniously, at last but still too quickly you are dropped back out into the retina-scorching daylight. And you trek back down to your car.

10:30 am - 10.20.02
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