Van's detailed directions led me right to the campsite with nary a moment's confusion.  I was a bit intimidated when I read such general landmarks as "small rock wall" followed by an "unmarked dirt road", but found these at night without a glitch.  After a six-hour drive I was very happy when I rolled the digits into place on the combination lock securing the campground gate and its pin popped open, confirming that I had reached my destination at last.  As I ascended the steep, winding dirt road up the mountain, I noted the lights of sleepy little Scottsboro, Alabama sinking behind me, impressed by the height of the climb and thankful for my four-wheel drive. 

Locally known as Broadcast Mountain for the radio tower at its crest, this caver-owned prime real estate is about as fine as primitive camping gets, providing flat, comfy campsites in the bosom of hardwood forest, not to mention gated seclusion just a five-minute drive from civilization. One needed to bring plenty of water as well as an entrenching tool to dig a makeshift latrine, but anything found lacking could be easily procured in the town twinkling below (including indoor plumbing, if one preferred not to go al fresco).  Additionally, neighborly cavers had stacked sawn firewood near the several fire rings dotting the mountaintop; it was within the glow of one of these that I found my comrades, sipping beer and chatting merrily.

On geologic maps the site appears as Scottsboro Mountain, and possesses a significant pit of its own, bearing the mountain's official name.  We did not bother with this drop, however, having a full weekend of rigorous caving already on the agenda.  The weather was perfect, charming even the mosquitoes into submission.  Moonlight filtered through the treetops like quicksilver, lending the woods a magical glimmer as we clinked bottles and shared laughter around the crackling campfire.  Among the pilgrims were Van and his Cherokee buddy, Little Hawk; Todd Merriman had made his way up from Atlanta, as had Mark Burnley, a fetching newcomer to the group.  Mark had just shelled out $500 on vertical gear and was eager to try it out on Valhalla's gut-sucking plunge.  I was an unexpected late arrival, everyone having read my discouraging email that gave the reasonable impression that I would not be in attendance.  I'd even scheduled the day off work to make the drive, but went in to my office anyway.  If there's anything more convincing to hit the highway for long-distance caving than eight hours at a desk in front of a cinderblock wall, I don't know what it could be!  So I waffled once more, loaded up my Jimmy, and headed south.  Sitting in such fine company on this splendid summer's eve, I knew I'd made the right decision. 

Wanting to be rested for the strenuous day before us, we hit the sack after a couple hours of quiet socializing, all of us tired from our journeys.  We breakfasted leisurely in the morning, then carpooled to Tumbling Rock Cave, less than a half hour's drive from Scottsboro.   I was again reminded of how beautiful the landscape is in this tri-state convergence as we wound our way between forrested foothills and verdant pastureland.  In no time we were pulling in front of the landowner's tidy home, situated a mere stone's throw from the cave entrance.   Already awaiting us were three of Van's friends, a father and son team who were relatively new to caving, as well as Jimmy Uptain, an experienced, (straight) NSS caver who had joined us two years prior for Van's first Cave Follies.  As before, Jimmy fit right in. 

We paid the friendly proprietor his $7 fee per person--a bargain considering the world-class grandeur of the cave we were about to visit.  Additionally, this sum included the use of small barn that had been converted into a rustic changing area with a hand sink and a flush toilet--most appreciated amenities after a long, sweaty cave trip.  The landowner also offered tee-shirts for sale, featuring the map of the cave on the shirt front.  If this is an accurate depiction, Tumbling Rock is primarily comprised of one huge, central trunk, with few opportunities for error, unless it would be within the breakdown choking the passage at several points along the way.  We suited up and headed to the small, gated cave entrance, the wind blasting from its aperture, forcefully suggesting that there is more than this single, known entrance. 

After a brief stint of stoop-walking, Tumbling Rock revealed its true nature--soaring, sculpted borehole linking breakdown rooms of colossal volume.  Although in general not a heavily decorated cave, at several junctures we came upon impressive formation areas, the first of which we encountered about ten minutes into the trek.  It was quite stunning, the roof thick with stalactites poised above phalanxes of squat stalagmites blackened with age.  But the evidence of vandalism was undeniable here, the stumps of harvested speleothems jutting from the ceiling and floor, abandoned fragments lying about in ruins, though still much remained to admire.  Now protected behind lock and key, the damage looked old, and most (but not all) of the graffiti was prior to the cave's gating.  We soon passed into a room where the gracefully contoured, powdery white ceiling had been smeared childishly with signatures in mud, spoiling its simple beauty with excremental nonsense.  I shook my head at the thoughtless vanity of people and their apparent inability to leave well enough alone.  At least it wasn't spray paint (though the iron content of red clay is almost as indelible, permanently staining white limestone). 

Although a stream transects the main passage at various junctures, I managed to keep my feet dry, hopping from stone to stone to avoid ankle-wetting traverses.  Occasional troughs of boot-sucking mud could be sidestepped by some timely bouldering.  There were several crawls along the trip, but none that were particularly grueling, a couple of which over sand as soft as brown sugar.  Having cut my cave teeth on the miserable, claustrophobic pinches of the Grand Central Spaghetti section of the Sloan's Valley Cave System, the hands & knees crawls of Tumbling Rock were a walk in the park.  Surprisingly, the youngest of the group (the nineteen-year-old accompanying his dad), was finding some of these less than pleasurable, however.  We coaxed him onward impatiently as the rest of us were chomping at the bit to see more of this extraordinary cave. 

Our first side trip led us up through a manhole-sized opening in the ceiling.  Water was streaming over its lip and Van informed us that often the flow is much heavier.  We were lucky today and could mantle our way into the passage above without soaking ourselves.  Negotiating this move, we were deposited within a lofty canyon that promptly led us to a concavity of eerie vastness, known as "Topless Dome".  Looking up into the rain spilling from the void, I inquired about its height.  "436 feet," came the shocking answer.  "You're kidding, right?"  I had never heard of anything anywhere near this tall.  I was informed that I was gazing into the tallest closed dome in the country.  Several in the group were familiar with the story of its measuring and scaling; after initially using a tethered helium balloon to determine its height, a climbing team spent two weeks bolting to the top.  Even with a high-powered, hand-held spotlight we could not pierce the inky gloom, mist absorbing the beam hundreds of feet above us, yet still far from the dome's elusive cap.  Reeling from the staggering data, I followed the others back through the hole in the floor and we continued on our adventure.

Following a hands & knees scamper we found ourselves in a large chamber encircling an elegant, towering stalagmite.  This area is named the "Hall of Mysteries" and the formation itself is aptly dubbed "The Christmas Tree", looking much like a skinny conifer heavily flocked with snow.  A corresponding stalactite stretched downward as if to top the tree with a star...in around ten thousand years!   We snacked in this junction room before continuing our trek to the rear of the cave.  Soon we crossed into a tilted breakdown room, gingerly making our way across a high-angle obstacle course of fallen boulders.  Here we were shown the rock that inspired the name of the cave--a mighty slab of limestone that had been snagged by a ceiling outcrop as it tumbled downhill.  It was now perched on its narrow edge in an impressive, gravity-defying pose.  Only a couple of inches of rock impeded the progress of its destructive descent, suspended precariously above where we were obliged to travel.  One good tremor would free it like a juggernaut.  It seemed that every new room we entered was grander than the last, the final two as spacious as coliseums. 

One remaining breakdown negotiation brought us to the foot of Mt. Olympus, a precipitous slope at the far end of an enormous room, treacherously laminated in mud.  Resting on a ledge with the others, I watched Van, Todd, and Mark as they scrambled up the steep hill, thinking at the time that it was just an aerobic exercise with nothing more than a register at the top as one's reward.  But, hearing their excited voices, I couldn't bear the separation any longer, and picked my way across the boulders to begin the climb myself.  About two-thirds the way up I encountered Van coming back down, wide-eyed with trepidation at the prospect of falling.  One slip and it would be nearly impossible to stop yourself from plummeting all the way to the bottom of the hill--a potentially lethal mishap.  This gave me a moment's pause as I consider Van as sure-footed as a mountain goat, but Todd's and Mark's happy shouting encouraged me upward. 

Reaching the summit, I saw what they were so enthused about.  Along the far wall, concealed from view until you'd braved the climb, mammoth, vermilion-hued formations hulked along the ledge like a vanguard of monsters.  They were the color of cave salamanders; their surfaces glistening with moisture only enhanced the similarity.  The largest of these is known as the "Pillar of Fire" in honor of its brilliant shade of orange.  Mark captured their exotic forms with his digital camera before we gingerly maneuvered our way back down the muddy slope.  The register book, it turned out, was sopping and could not be signed, alas.  Interestingly, it was while we were crouched up near the "mountain's" peak that Todd pointed out the only life I'd noticed in the entire trip--a troglophilic cave spider, dangling motionless in her web.  Here, in the furthest reaches of the cave, was the strongest evidence I'd seen thus far for the existence of another entrance, as cave spiders of this genus do not stray far from surface openings. 

We three managed to make it down without killing ourselves, joining the rest of the party gathered along the wall awaiting our return.  Pulling ourselves back into our cave packs, we began retracing our steps toward the distant entrance.  There were only a couple tricky moments in finding the route back through the breakdown piles.  In one of these instances I'd managed to poke my way into a lower passage, finding myself gazing upon a beachy stream bed--a watery crawlway that stretched as far as I could see.  I knew this was wrong, so I scurried back through the breakdown jumble to reunite with the others, who by now had found the way. 

Our nineteen-year-old (a veteran smoker) was beginning to tire, facing every new crawlway with increasing resistance.  Jimmy, Mark and I remained in the rear to shoo him along as he seemed prone to just sitting down and letting the group leave him behind--a common rescue scenario with which I'm far too acquainted.  I was in no mood for backtracking, so I assumed the sweeper position until my patience was exhausted.  Others took turns babysitting while Mark and I forged ahead until we were safely outside once more.  The two of us awaited the stragglers while appreciating the delicious breeze whistling through the entrance gate, wicking the streaming sweat from our grimy faces.  Some of us washed up while noseeums devoured those in waiting.  Thus refreshed (and/or smarting from insect bites), we loaded into our vehicles and headed our convoy toward Scottsboro.  Todd, Mark, & I made a beer run, trying to find something worth drinking in this small Alabama town.  Walmart provided our only recourse.  Mission accomplished, we chugged up the dirt road to the campsite. 

It was a much warmer night, the cicadas whirring like electric transformers, fireflies bobbing their lanterns between the shadowy silhouettes of trees.  Less endearing insects were also up to their mischief, mosquitoes and midges stalking us like vampires the moment we left the glow of the fire ring.  Mark even had a nighttime encounter with a ground-dwelling yellowjacket, stinging him on his forehead in his tent, leaving a sizeable knot for the entire next day.  Van's friends that had promised to bring a 300' rope for tomorrow's trip proved true to their word, showing up as we each assembled our makeshift dinners.  Another night of light partying came to a close as we peeled off one by one from the campfire circle to retire to our tents. 

We were up and at 'em early Sunday morning, breaking camp before setting out for Valhalla.  Todd could not accompany us, having a meeting to attend in Atlanta, so we said our good-byes before heading down the mountainside.   Two of Van's friends accompanied us all the way to the cave site, requiring a lengthy trek down rugged logging road in their Pontiac Sunbird, but decided to head back before even seeing the pit when the rain started.  The bumpy, pot-holed dirt road was only barely doable for them dry--wet, we all agreed it would be impossible.   We'd parked in a staging area for a logging operation, the carnage of its brutal industry sprawled before us.  Van assured me that the pit environs were to be permanently protected, but still it was sad to see the ravaged forest, the red clay exposed like the wounds of battle.  After a dismally familiar search for my misplaced car keys, we bundled up our vertical gear and marched through stands of goldenrod to the nearby pit. 

As a Kentucky boy, I'm never completely prepared for the radical topography that is relatively commonplace in TAG--pits nearly the breadth of city blocks that plummet 30 stories!  It seems so alien and deadly compared to the rolling hills of the Bluegrass that I always must give it a moment's reverence.  Valhalla is not as breathtakingly beautiful as the hanging gardens and waterfalls of Neversink, but what it lacks in adornment it makes up for in majesty.  Sheer cliffs sculpted as if the macabre handiwork of H.R. Giger plunge to the mossy boulders littering its floor.  Large hardwoods ring the perimeter, providing excellent rigging points.  A simple plaque was bolted onto a lichen-encrusted rock, remembering the two young men who were crushed in 1984 when a section of limestone as long as a Greyhound bus and twice as wide was dislodged above them by natural weathering processes.  Nonetheless, reading of their tragic, untimely deaths helped set the respectful tone of the trip to come. 

Van carefully rigged the 300' rope while the rest of us pulled on our gear.  When Van confessed he was a little nervous about the drop, I volunteered to be the first down.  Rappels generally do not bother me, and this was by no means the longest rappel I'd ever made, though it would be the longest rope ascent I'd undertaken.  Only doing vertical ropework four or five times a year, I am never abundantly comfortable with the process and have become too accustomed to having Randy Paylor look over my gear to make sure I haven't done something mortally stupid.  But Randy was not with us this weekend, leaving me to fend for myself.  Rappels are a cinch, just thread your rack and go, but too many things can go wrong with your equipment while rope-climbing and I'm always concerned I've overlooked some crucial detail.  Van and I made a deal that he would make sure my vertical gear was okay if I would be the first to make the drop.  I think the agreement relieved us both of some unnecessary anxiety. 

I was strangely eager to sling my butt over open air, gazing into the vertiginous abyss as I positioned myself for the drop.  Although I have modest fear of heights, I've learned to focus my mind upon the beauty of the view, putting aside the morbid conjecture of a severed rope or equipment failure.  The first 15 feet or so there is cliff face to prop your feet against; beyond that the rappel is overhung, leaving you suspended like a spider--my preferred rappel position.  I took my time lowering into the pit, enjoying the slow change of scenery from my ideal vantage point as I descended.  The loamy smell of the cave wafted up to me, carried upon a refreshing mist buffeted upward by the light rainstorm passing overhead.  Soon my boots were upon terra firma once more and I unclipped from my tether to await Mark and Van.  It was an awesome place to be all alone, as if sequestered within some roofless, pagan cathedral, the only sound being the soft patter of raindrops upon the stones and fallen leaves.   I checked out the fatal boulder, aghast at its dimensions and tonnage, but took some comfort in knowing the boys never knew what hit them.  In a short while, Mark and Van had made their drops and I was preparing myself for the taxing return. 

There is certainly more to Valhalla than we saw.  I'm told another hundred foot drop leads the inquisitive to about a mile of cave passage, but we were just pit bouncing today.  I tightened up my chest box and seat harness, pulled my foot loops securely around my boot soles, clipped on my ascenders and had Van give it his seal of approval.  I made a somewhat leisurely ascent, resting my arms often so that I wouldn't be exhausted at the lip.  I hate lips.  My modified Mitchell system requires the involvement of both arms to manually drag up each ascender, so pushing off the wall to get the ascenders over a lip is awkward and tiresome--coming at a time when my energy level is flagging from the climb.  I was also painfully aware that this is where most ascending accidents occur and could not squelch a sense of dread as I neared the crux.  Nonetheless, with a modicum of struggle, I managed to shove myself away from the rock and jimmy my ascenders past the impediment.  Soon I was standing beside Little Hawk, who had remained topside, videotaping us until the battery died on Van's camera. 

Van was the next to poke his head over the cliff's edge, making the climb without a hitch.  We both picked our way to an overlook to watch Mark make his virgin ascent.  Actually, Mark had admitted that he'd played around on a couple small climbs to check out his equipment, but those were just test drives.  Today was his true maiden voyage--and what a first ascent!  You'd have thought he'd been doing vertical work since childhood as he rose from the depths, his feet pedaling the air.  Both Van and Mark have ropewalker systems and I gazed in envy as they marched up the rope with considerably less effort than I'd expended.  In much of Kentucky, pits are too narrow for comfortable ropewalking, but in such grand, open spaces as TAG pits have to offer, anything but a ropewalker is second rate.  I'll be saving my pennies toward an upgrade, you can bet on that!

Mark joined us at top to a lot of back-clapping congratulations for a spectacular first ascent.  I was concerned about the hour, as I needed to return to Lexington in time for a seven o'clock rehearsal.  None of us in possession of a watch, we all walked down to my truck so I could check the time.  It was ten after one--if I hauled ass I could probably make it just under the wire.  I regretted leaving the de-rigging to my buddies, but they understood and were happy to take up the slack.  I gave hugs all around then charged my trusty steed down the Caterpillar-rutted road.  I felt really good about the last-second change of heart that had brought me to Alabama.  I left knowing that I had gained new friends, as well as a much improved outlook upon the immediate future.  What more can you ask of one weekend?  Thanks again, Van, for yet another great TAG adventure!