NCRC Level One
The National Cave Rescue Commission (NCRC) is the coordinating body for cave rescue in the United States. One of NCRC's major initiatives is an intensive training program for those who might undertake cave rescue. These individuals range from agency officials who know a great deal about rescue but little about caving, to local cavers who may be experts in navigating through dark spaces but lack knowledge of standard rescue techniques. There are three primary levels of NCRC training. Level One is a basic course, traditionally taught over eight days, designed to produce effective rescue team members. Several members of the Hamilton County cave rescue team, one of the most experienced in the country, participated in a new approach to this class, which was taught over a series of three long weekends. This is the story of those three weekends.
Chapter I: We Are So Great
Adventures at Club Conrad
The Morning After
March 11-12, 1994: We Are So Great
In caving, as in any sport, there are newcomers and old timers, dedicated enthusiasts and casual participants, common folk and the elite. The casual observer might assume the elite would be that small band of individuals who spend their time discovering and exploring new caves, pushing back the frontiers while the rest of the crowd follow well-trodden routes in caves already "explored" by hundreds or thousands of people. Often, that assumption is wrong.
The minority who explore new caves tend to be tight-lipped and close-ranked, keeping their discoveries to themselves. In a sense, they are too elite to be the elite, because no one else knows of their activities. Fortunately, there is another, more vocal minority who rarely hesitate to speak freely of their exploits, adventures which tap directly into the deepest regions of human empathy and ego. What new caver would not aspire to join their ranks? What public could fail to admire their daring and skill? These are the caver rescuers, the aristocracy of the caving world.
"One thing I ought to mention," Jeff Parnell tells a class of 29 current and would-be cave rescuers. Parnell is an Instructor for the National Cave Rescue Commission, or NCRC. "We've got several people in this class from Hamilton County Rescue," he says. "I don't know why they're taking this class, because Hamilton County is probably the finest cave rescue team in the country."
There are two possible outcomes of such a statement. First, the other students might regard us with awe and respect. This is unlikely in the jealous world of rescue. Instead, they will probably be watching our every move, waiting for the inevitable mistake that will prove we're nothing more than humans, after all. The truth is that we do get a lot of practice rescuing people from caves, but in fact we are only human, and sooner or later we'll screw up like anybody else.
The morning lectures, conducted in a cramped classroom on the campus of Middle Tennessee State University, consist of hurried introductions to the cave environment (it is dark and cold, but we all knew that) and litter packaging (any of several methods are okay). After practicing moving a loaded stretcher around the hallway and down the stairs, we drive south for an hour to Monteagle Mountain. Out on the cliffs known as Morgan's Steep, we spend four hours making sure that everyone has the requisite vertical caving skills to proceed in the class. The task is to rappel most of the way down a 50 foot cliff, change over to climb, and then come back up. The cavers are done with this task in a short time. Others, decked out in bizarre or untried climbing systems, take much longer. Some are faced with the embarrassment being rescued; one unlucky person spends half an hour hanging at the lip, unable to get over without assistance.
The Hamilton County people lounge around in the sun, occasionally offering advice or rescuing those stuck on the ropes. A plane buzzes over, dipping its wings, and we immediately make radio contact with Beth Elliott, who is on a routine fire patrol and has flown over to check us out. Instructor Parnell seems impressed that we're able to talk to the plane.
Later, following the arrival of Butch Feldhaus, who has brought along one of our rescue trucks, Hamilton County shows off some of the high-tech gear we have that most other squads may never possess: a $5,000 cardiac monitor, a locked box full of narcotics and other drugs, and a fancy full-body vacuum splint. We're not trying to show off, really. Afterwards, Dan Twilley and I practice the newly-coined Hamilton County theme song (with apologies to Bart Simpson):
We are so great.As darkness falls, we divide into two teams, each with a litter, and practice moving the patient down a hiking trail and over rough terrain. Part of the route follows a steep mountain stream where some students get wet to the waist. At the insistence of Buddy Lane, belays are used by one group, while the other sacrifices safety for speed. "Whatever works and is safe," Parnell lectures, "is okay."
We are so great.
We are the best.
We are so great.
Dan and I rush back to the Holiday Inn in Murfreesboro (for some ridiculous reason, the Holidome sauna and pool closes at 10:00) still singing our theme song.
On Sunday morning we have a predictable breakfast at Shoney's, then return to the classroom for a morning of quick lectures on hypothermia, shock, and knots. After lunch at the local Ryans Steakhouse, we travel to Snail Shell Cave for in-cave practice of moving the litter. Snail Shell, once threatened by Tennessee's bid to host the ill-fated Supercollider, remains a beautiful place: a tremendous, sheer sinkhole 200 feet in diameter and 80 feet deep, with a stream emerging from deep water on one side and disappearing into the other.
Two teams package their first patients in the litter, and we move into the downstream passage. For the next four hours, we move the litter over breakdown, through crawlways, and across small canyons, repackaging and changing patients two more times. Around 6:30 p.m., we finish and head for the surface.
With the first of three weekends of training complete, I have learned this much:
- The NCRC curriculum--here, at least--is far looser than I had imagined. So far we've been shown very few absolutes and instead told that we must think for ourselves. This I like.
- While the "lap-pass" is not the only way to move a litter down a narrow passage, rushing it forward with just one person on the front and one on the rear, as I attempted to do in Snail Shell, can be a tricky business.
- About the only thing more complicated than running a cave rescue is running a cave rescue class like Parnell is doing. When I fall down a hole, I hope he's around to help pull me out.
March 18-20, 1994: Adventures at Club Conrad
The second weekend of NCRC Level I training was like a trip back to grade school for the crack Hamilton County Cave Rescue Team. What was the purpose of all this training, we wondered, when we were already experts? Surely our valuable time could be better spent in more challenging pursuits.
"You're going to flunk out," Dan Twilley kept telling me as we drove north towards Murfreesboro. "You'll never be able to tie a clove hitch under pressure."
"Will to!" I said. "You'll see."
Who wanted to learn useless skills like the clove hitch, anyway? I'd gotten along just fine without the clove hitch for years, and had seen no reason to change. That is, until now. Dan and I arrived at Jeff Parnell's shop well in advance of the rest of the Hamilton County team, who had been delayed by tornadoes. For the next several hours, we demonstrated our expertise and were checked off on various skills. Suddenly, it was clove hitch time. All eyes were upon me. Despite (or perhaps because of) Dan's coaching, I failed to tie a proper clove hitch, as predicted.
Arriving at the Holiday Inn, Dan and I were initially unable to claim our room, so we decided to wait in the hotel lounge, a happening place called Club Conrad. Inside the smokey, mirrored room, loud dance music assaulted our ears. Waitresses in tiny outfits squeezed their warm bodies past us. On the dance floor, drunken patrons were line-dancing to disco music. Dan and I soon retreated to the Hamilton County suite, where Dan showed off his knot-tying ability and told tales of our adventures at "the club."
While everyone else arose after four hours of sleep for breakfast at Shoney's, Dan and I slept in until the last possible second and then rushed off to class via McDonalds. The lectures consisted of discussions of anchors, haul systems, communications, and water hazards--old hat to most of us. Dan, who graduated decades ago, began to regress back to his college days. His eyes grew even more mischevous than usual. "Come on," he kept saying. "Let's skip class and go caving or something."
The afternoon session was held at Snail Shell Cave, where we did some simple haul and lower systems on the bluffs around the sinkhole. Back at the Holidome, Dan worked on my neck trying to cure a slight headache. Between his manipulations and some time spent downstairs in the hot tub, I was soon back in the pink. We gathered in the suite to drink wine and watch bad movies on television. By midnight, just about everyone was zonked out. Dan, still in college student mode, announced he was headed downstairs to Club Conrad. I decided to go along to make sure he stayed out of trouble.
Ah, the club. The music! The dancing! The waitresses! It was all there, just as we had left it the night before. How the time flew past! By the time Dan and I got back upstairs to our room, we had only a couple of hours until class.
We arrived on campus fashionably late. By now Dan and I were fully integrated into the college lifestyle. We sat doodling in our notebooks, trying vaguely to stay awake, oblivious to the lectures.
For the afternoon, the class again returned to Snail Shell Sink. Having declared that I would drive in this time rather than walk, I led a small convey of three vehicles down the swampy road back to the cave entrance, hitting every submerged rock on the way. Divided into two teams, we did a haul and lower up the side of the sink, then moved into the cave to rig a simulated pit.
Our exit out the 4WD road was delayed by a jeep sitting sideways in the ruts which had to be pulled out of the way. Another NCRC weekend came to a close as Dan and I rolled towards home with the booming music of Club Conrad still ringing in our ears.
May 14-16, 1994: The Morning After
We had a plan. It was a good plan. Dan Twilley and I would rendezvous at the grotto meeting on Friday night, then head for the Murfreesboro Holidome for our third and final weekend of NCRC training. Dan and I planned to stay in the background, avoid responsibility, and get our certificates without breaking a sweat, as befitted our growing reputations as Cave Rescue Gods. As usual, the Hamilton County team had the jump on everyone else, since we had gotten our individual skills sheets (including the dreaded Clove Hitch test) checked off back in Chattanooga the week before.
I couldn't resist poking my head inside Club Conrad as we passed through the Holiday Inn lobby around 1:00 AM. That place exists in some kind of time warp, never changing, the music and lights and people all moving in synchronized orbits. But the hour was late, even for Dan, so he and I made our way to the room peacefully.
In the morning everyone else went to Shoneys, as usual, while Dan and I slept until the last possible minute. The classroom lectures were somewhat forgettable, as evidenced by the fact that I have now forgotten them. However, it was soon time for the big event: THE WRITTEN TEST. Although I had failed to study or even read the book, the test was a breeze. And why not? Were we not experts? It felt good to put down my pencil, lean back in my chair, and gaze disdainfully around the room at all the others who hadn't finished yet.
After lunch we headed off for the practice mock rescue (the so-called "mock mock") in preparation for the "real" mock rescue the next day. The site was a muddy cave somewhere near Beech Grove with a steep slope and 15 foot pit entrance. I successfully avoided going into the cave by being given the task of rigging the haul systems on the surface. There were no major disasters and we managed to have the patient (William Shewsbury) to the surface and get derigged before a major thunderstorm hit.
Back at the Holidome, we watched a movie and finally went to the hot tub, pool, and sauna, which were strangely deserted. When the Holidome facilities closed, we went back to the room to watch another movie. Around 1:00 AM, the rest of the team went to bed while Dan and I headed down to the club. There we quickly found the Fentress County rescue team, who were in high spirits. At 2:00 AM the club was going strong. A half hour later the music stopped, the patrons fled, and the club as we knew it ceased to exist. Good lord, I thought, this place is nothing more than an illusion.
The mock rescue was held on Sunday at Window Cave. Buddy Lane, after 20 years of hauling people out of caves, was the patient. Although the chosen leader had carefully made plans and assignments, we were broken up randomly and told that we would arrive on the scene at different times. Doctor Dan, who was by chance in the first group to arrive, assumed command for the duration.
By the time my team arrived at the entrance, Dan was sending in search parties and telephones, still trying to locate the victim. I ran entrance control for a while, then got sent in the cave to help with the carry-out. The first part of the cave was actually quite inviting. The blasted entrance was 12 feet up the side of a cliff, but almost immediately dropped back down the same 12 feet to a stream passage (the cave was aptly named, since the entrance was essentially a window of sorts). A ladder led up a waterfall into a scalloped passage surrounded by flowstone. Buddy, we found out, was about 1,000 feet inside, past a canyon traverse, some stoopway, and an easy stream crawl.
Buddy's trip out of the cave was fairly uneventful. I was surprised by the obstacles that could be negotiated fairly easily with a large group to assist (on a real cave rescue, you never seem to have 20 people there when you need them.) The only real excitement occurred at the entrance.
The stretcher had to be lifted up to entrance level, moved a few feet horizontally through the blasted passage, and then lowered down to the ground. To do this, Dan had ordered haul and lower lines rigged to a large tree about 30 feet above the entrance. The ropes ran through a pulley on the tree, down the face of the cliff, and then to the litter. The arrangement had been rigged while I was still at my post at entrance control, and I had considered putting edge rollers in place where the rope touched the rock. Naw, I had thought, it looks pretty solid.
The trouble began as Buddy was lifted up into the blasted passage. Under tension, the haul line cranked down on the bluff and started knocking rocks loose. A football sized rock crashing down in our midst was the first clue that we might be doing something wrong. Then again, it was probably just an isolated incident, no cause for alarm.
By now Buddy was horizontal in the entrance, tied down in the litter and staring up into the rockfall zone. The attendants bent low over him to protect him--just in time, as another large rock came loose, glancing off someone's helmet and shoulder.
"Stop!" Instructor Parnell cried. "Get Buddy out of the litter. This exercise is over!"
During the debriefing, it was quite clear that the ace Hamilton County Team (okay, make that Dan and me) had spent too much time at Club Conrad and not enough time considering the rockfall hazards at this particular entrance. Yes, we should have used the edge rollers. Yes, we should have tested the system with a full load before putting our patient on it, especially when that patient was Buddy Lane (rocks and even trees have been known to go miles out of their way to hit Buddy).
Dan and I limped off towards Chattanooga, our plan obviously in shambles. With our training now complete and our official certificates presumably soon to be in the mail, it appeared that we had learned something despite ourselves.
Copyright © 1996-2007 by Rodger Ling.
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