Ediger's great story about Cantile's adventures with the Kaluha reminded me of a classic moment in Carta Valley caving history.
It was the custom in the early 1970s that following a day caving in the Carta Valley area, we would reconvene at the TRIANGLE (holy emphasis) to wash off the grime and get organized for a trip to Acuña where we would often eat at Ma Crosby's and purchase a few bottles of inexpensive Mexican liquor. On this particular occasion, not all went to Mexico and I placed my order for liquor with some willing shopper. It was simple. I wanted a liter of Brandy and Benedictine. Hours passed and my bottle appeared but it was Benedictine; not Brandy and Benedictine. Believe me. There is a difference! Oh, well. Close enough, I first thought. I took a swig and nearly gagged. It was awful. Other brave souls gave it a try and the verdict was unanimous. Not fit even for a Carta Valley caver campfire. But then, the bottle reached the lips of Russell Parker. Russell took a shot and smacked his lips. He actually claimed to like it! (Coming now to the core of the legend. . . .) The nearly full bottle was happily bequeathed to Russell and as the night wore on he worked his way toward the bottom of that bottle while others sampled more palatable beverages. OK. Time passed. The camp fire became embers, one by one the Suckers drifted away to sleep, and silence descended upon the camp ground. In those days, the various cavers circled their vans and pickup campers with asses toward a central campfire. As dawn was arriving, I heard the creak of a door slowly opening and I looked out across the campfire embers to see Russell Parker slowly stick his head out the back of a vehicle. With unintentional but forceful accuracy he regurgitated at least a liter of partially digested Benedictine directly into the open top of a boot unfortunately placed on the back bumper of the truck. Then, equally slowly, he withdrew and closed the door. Silence returned. It was as if nothing had happened. Except for this boot now sloshing full with something words cannot adequately describe. Thus, the enduring legend of R. "Benedictine" Parker was added to the lore of caving, Carta Valley style. Others with better memories may now inform us as to who had to burn their boots. ===C. Edwin Kunath -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----- Original Message ----- From: Gill Edigar To: Cavers Texas Sent: Friday, June 11, 2010 8:31 PM Subject: Re: [Texascavers] Flaming near death in a Cave On our first several A&I (pre-)Grotto trips to Bustamante in the spring of '67 we camped in the cave--carried all our gear and food for the weekend up the treacherous trail--in the dark--and slept and ate there. Don't ask me why. I thought it was tradition. Saturday (morning, I think) we were sitting around in the Entrance Room cooking and getting ready to go caving. Several Svea (white gasoline) stoves were roaring away. Lee Cantile was refueling his prior to firing it up. He was a bit clumsy and poured a good bit more gas on the packed mud cave floor than into the stove. Finally filling it he sat the fuel bottle down without replacing the cap and proceeded to replace the cap on his stove and begin the rather long, complicated, and tedious process needed to preheat the fuel and fire up those silly stoves. In the midst of this a great poof was heard and a fireball about 8 feet in diameter rose up from his cooking area (and I recall a fearful scream, but may have imagined it) then a ground fire of about an equal area about one foot high continued to burn off the gas spilt on the ground. The fuel bottle spit a flare a couple of feet or so out of its mouth. Lee sat there dumbfounded. Peggy Anderson, alarmed by the fuel bottle, ran over and immediately kicked the fuel bottle across the large room in a long arc, end over end, whoooosh, whoooosh, whoooosh, fuel and flame following majestically in its wake. A bit of gasoline had flown out and wetted Lee's arm, as Peggy had kicked it past him, and singed all the hair off his arm. As soon as the fires were put out Lee began complaining about his burn. There was no blistering or obvious burning or redness. We finished eating whilst Lee moaned and complained. Then we went caving for 6 hours. Lee stayed behind in camp cuddled up next to a quart of Kaluha he'd bought in Laredo. He said that ought to drive out the pain. We pretty much agreed. Upon returning from exploring the cave we found Lee passed out, face down on a large, flattish, breast shaped formation with his mouth and nose blowing bubbles in a pool of Kaluha/vomit/drool and very close to auto-drowning. Peggy thought we should turn him over to preclude his eminent demise. We did and laid him on his back, at which point he began vomiting a foot or so straight up into the air like and erupting volcano, all the drool falling right back onto his face and threatening to drown him all over again. Vallooosh, he urped again and the cascading fountain fell back into his open mouth and nostrils and he coughed and gagged and blew more bubbles for our entertainment. It was all no good. We settled for propping him up on his side and supporting his head and letting him spend the night thus in his own misery. As I recall, his arm was all better the next day--but the hair on his head was matted like a wool blanket, his sleeping bag suitable for little more than fueling the fire. And we stopped camping in the cave. --Ediger
