Logan:
Since you brought up the Chiquibul, and since it was not calm, I feel compelled to correct your memory of the events. I have gathered that you think that I “forced” myself upon the expedition but that was not the case. Back in 83 (I think?) I had recently returned to Belmopan from several weeks of exploration at the head of the Manatee river where I discovered a wonderful cave of enormous dimensions filled with the usual treasures. It was my first trip deep in the jungle and I was totally stoked! I was loathe to return home, so I decided to head out alone to the Chiquibul. You suggested that I wait a week or so to meet Tom Miller who had received a National Geographic Society grant and would soon be mounting a reconnaissance trip to the Guacamayo bridge. To your credit, you had some reservations about this and said that “You guys might not get along”. Truer words were never spoken. When Miller and his two companions arrived we did get along for a few hours while drinking rum in your living room, thereafter our relations spiraled into hell, for Miller proved himself to be in intolerably arrogant jackass, a junior Captain Bligh. He went to the extreme of telling me that I could not cook my own dinner in the jungle because it was illegal to build a fire in a forest reserve, so with a great display of generosity he allowed me to borrow a small fuel bottle so I could use his ridiculous little camp stove, but insisted that I buy the gas. I remember well that the cost of the gas was $0.17 cents. After innumerable unpleasantries we did make it to the Guacamayo bridge, but shortly thereafter I simply left the car to avoid certain violence and hitchhiked back to Cayo. Three days later I returned alone with supplies to the bridge, then headed to Milllionario where three days later I secured the services of a muleteer named Santiago to carry my food to Holec camp. Santiago was a fine fellow who shared what little he had with me. I went ahead with my heavy pack several hours in advance of the mules. It was the worst walk of my life and I became crippled due to arthritis in my broken foot. In Holec I met a band of Chicleros who welcomed me. They admired the fact that I had travelled alone into the wilderness, but they said, “we don’t like your three Gringo friends who tried to trick us yesterday!” I was appalled to learn that while I was in Millionario “Los tres Gringos” had passed through in the middle of the night on a hired tractor and had gotten to Holec the short way through Grano de Oro camp. They had been rude and arrogant to the chicleros, had refused to explain what they were doing, had deliberately tried to mislead them, then in the morning had headed back toward Grano de Oro in an attempt to fool them again, then circled camp and headed north on the trail I had taken. All of this was obvious to the Chicleros, one of whom was even wearing a ribbon in his hat that Miller had used to mark the turnoff to the cave. Because of the arthritis I had to rest for a day before I could walk again. When I could hobble I headed back north along the trail with a savage fellow named Chico who knew of a place with a big hole and the sound of running water below. That was where the ribbon had been tied. (The enormous dolina is easily visible on a topo) We climbed down into the magnificent sink and in the huge entrance I was dismayed to find Miller’s footprints. He had beaten me to the Chiquibul by a matter of hours! I went alone as far into the cave as was prudent but didn’t make it to the Chiquibul chamber. That evening Santiago returned to camp looking very unhappy. He explained that the three Gringos had burned down his house and left a ten dollar bill and a note saying “sorry”. His home and all of his meager possessions had been destroyed. I later met one of Miller’s companions whose name I have forgotten and heard the rest of the story. After entering the cave they had taken the same death trek that I had and had reached Millionario after dark utterly exhausted. Rather than make camp they broke into an available empty house (Santiago was still on the trail) and decided to cook dinner. Rather than use his kitchen Miller insisted that they use their camp stoves which were not working properly (Such stoves never worked properly!) They pumped and pumped until one of the stoves exploded and the gas was ignited by a carbide lamp. This was the same gas that I had purchased for $0.17. The house went up in flames. They removed their own gear but did nothing to save Santiago’s few possessions. Later, alone and with my friends the Chicleros, I located the upstream entrance, numerous other caves and archeological sites, and explored much of the Vaca plateau. Three weeks and many adventures later I walked out of the jungle to discover that in the interim Miller had done everything possible to discredit me. He had sent letters to the Belizean Forest department and Department of Archaeology asking that I be arrested, to National Geographic, and to the Florida Museum of Natural History. He apparently accused me of being a thief and looter who associated with criminals, and that I had gotten permission to enter the forest reserve under false pretenses. He also accused me of being a drug user but that part is true! I really wish I had a copy of those letters but I learned this all second hand from the recipients. So the bottom line is that I did not force myself upon the “expedition”. I set out to discover the Chiquibul cave and did. I was not about to allow an overinflated boy scout leader to prevent me from doing so! Sleazel From: Texascavers <[email protected]> On Behalf Of Logan Sent: Thursday, June 6, 2019 1:26 AM To: Liz Herren <[email protected]>; [email protected] Subject: [Texascavers] When You Grotto Go Tonight was another excellent Underground Texas Grotto meeting. The feature presentation was by Liz Herren about "Texas Cavers in Vietnam". When she showed the photos and videos of riding an oar-rowed boat through one of the incredibly huge caves, it reminded me of a 1985 story by humor writer Dave Barry about touring the famous Blue Grotto in Italy. The article was originally published in the Sunday Magazine of the Miami Herald, which I subscribed to when I lived in Belize. It arrived just before an international group of cavers organized by Tom Miller gathered at my house for an expedition to the remote unexplored river caves of the Chiquibul River. Everyone had read the article, so as we paddled in inner tubes through kilometers of the deep slow-moving river in huge passage, (well, it was big, but nothing like the Vietnam caves), you could hear the echos of people yelling out "When you pudda you handa inna da wadda, you handa looka blue." Fortunately the Vietnam and Chiquibul trips were much calmer than Dave Barry's trip. You havta readda da article to understand. https://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-xpm-1985-10-20-8503140182-story.html Enjoy, Lowgun
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