REBELAYS AND REDIRECTS AND DEATH BOLTS, OH MY!
2003 UAYCEF Ukraine Expedition
Text And Photos By Seth Perlman

Why do I do this to myself? I shake my head and smile, a facial contortion unseen by the other cavers huddled in the small dome room, as I'm wearing a balaclava. I'm 920' beneath the surface and freezing my ass off. There are 9 of us here, passing around cups of hot tea and borscht, and I'm the only one not smoking. I'm encouraged by the fact that any second now freezing will turn to sweating as we head up rope. But wait: is that another light coming down?

In The Beginning
I joined the 2003 UAYCEF expedition to Ukraine at the halfway mark, after the completion of horizontal caving in the country's west. I'm here for the vertical caving that Ukraine's southern region, the Crimea, possesses in large quantities. Ukraine was home to the world's deepest cave, Georgia's Krubera (aka Voronja) Cave, at 1.06 miles deep, until earlier this year the honor was passed to the Gouffre Mirolda/Lucien Bouclier system, at 1.08 miles, in Haute-Savoie, France. We won't see anything of that magnitude during our 6 days of underground adventures, but Bob Cohen and I have about 700' of rope with us in addition to whatever our Ukrainian friends might provide, so we're equipped for some decent vertical work.

There are 3 legs to the trip: a flight to Kiev, a flight to Simferopol, and a car ride up to the karst plateau where the caves are located. I have a 4-hour layover in Amsterdam, most of which is spent sleeping in the terminal. I read Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation on the way over, a critical look at the effect of fast food establishments on American culture, so I proceed immediately to the airport's McDonald's to renew my vows. In Kiev, I'm greeted by our host Larissa and Peter Lenahan from Met Grotto, who has returned from western Ukraine but not yet flown back to New York.

Miguel in Dublanska; there are better photos below, I promise

Ukraine is a strange and wonderful place. The traffic signals turn yellow before red and before green; there is very little regard for the painted lines between lanes on the highway (which, I suppose, makes it rather like New Jersey); and there has been no attempt to Americanize the country by posting signs in English: Ukrainian uses the Cyrillic alphabet, which feels like secret code.

Having spent 3 weeks caving in Ukraine in 2001, I knew the frustration of not being unable to understand the language or read the signs. Since this year we're not traveling with any fluent English speakers in Crimea, I learned the alphabet and its pronunciation, and the words for the numbers 1-500, which seemed prudent for discussions about pit depths and rope lengths. Being able to read and pronounce words is very helpful. Our Kiev subway station is pronounced Shulavska, but doesn't contain anything resembling an s, h, u, l, or v. For those readers playing the home edition of this trip report, if you guessed that it's spelled ШУЛЯВСЬКА, you're right.

I spend a day and a half in Kiev with Larissa, Peter, and Franklin Moreno, a Puerto Rican caver who also caved in Western Ukraine this year, before it's time for me to proceed south. This year, an improvement to UAYCEF expeditions of the past is the elimination of the 20-hour train ride from Kiev to Simferopol, in Crimea. Instead, we travel by air, a journey that takes just over an hour. I arrived in Kiev a day earlier than Bob, and thus proceed to Simferopol a day earlier than him and Larissa. Upon arriving there, I am met by Marik, a friend of Larissa's, and Miguel, our caving guide for Crimea. The fun begins.

Pashli
Miguel is in his mid-fifties and is of Argentine descent, but has spent his whole life in Ukraine and does not speak English except for the numbers 1-6, and the universal Where's Bob? that all cavers learn sooner or later when caving with Mr. Cohen. Thus, communication involves a lot of hand waving and sound effects, both of which have us laughing much of the time. He has a wonderful sense of humor and is constantly poking fun at Bob or Larissa or anyone else who happens by. By the end of the trip we carry lengthy conversations containing no spoken word that the other understands.

Our fearless leader outside Mira; look closely at his hat — and keep in mind he doesn't speak English

Miguel has been a UAYCEF guide several times, including my last visit here, so I'm no stranger to his insistence on pushing forward at all times while hiking or caving. The Russian pashli is his favorite word, and it apparently means come on. I'm not in Simferopol for 2 minutes and already he's opened a can of pashli on my ass, and we're off to the races. Pashli to the autobus, pashli up the 5 steps to Marik's office, pashli out the door, and pashli like madmen through an open air market that sells plumbing supplies, fish, and sneakers in equal quantities. We make some purchases, namely a new pair of sneakers and a gigantic piece of some aquatic creature, and it's pashli to Miguel's house, where we pass the rest of the afternoon looking at a book about Pamir, with Miguel excitedly explaining to me (insert lots of hand waving here) each photo. In the evening, we head back to Marik's office and are joined by Larissa and Bob.

The next morning, Larissa, Marik, Miguel, and I head to the market to purchase food for our trip. We're going to be staying in a building atop a hill on the Karabi plateau in Crimea, and we won't have an opportunity to replenish our supplies for the next week. I tag along for the shopping trip to ensure that we keep the amount of canned mystery meat to a minimum. Luckily, Bob's a vegetarian, so the food consists mostly of vegetables and high-carb meals staples like potatoes, pasta, and bread. No liver spread is purchased.

We travel to the plateau by car. Maxim, the assistant director of the local search and rescue organization, picks us up in his Niva 1600, a burly little Russian 4x4 hatchback. We pile our heap of gear on the roof and the 5 of us squeeze in for the 3-hour drive. The Niva bounces along, tearing up the miles, and we are soon on the long dirt road that leads up and over the plateau to our luxury accommodations.

Our digs on the plateau

The house resembles a fortress. Karabi being one of 3 major karst plateaus in Crimea, there is limestone a-plenty and the building is constructed of concrete. It's painted a vivid white with blue trim, and is on one of the higher “peaks”, overlooking a vast expanse of rolling terrain covered in exposed rock and very few trees. For our part, we have a suite with a couple of rooms including a kitchen, and bunk beds. Bob, Miguel, and I take one room and Larissa takes the other. There is a well for drinking water and another reservoir for washing water. The complex even has a sauna and shower building, as well as the obligatory toilet facilities. As custom dictates in Ukraine, “toilet” means a horrible hole in the ground over which you may squat and weep.

Down the slope from the concrete wonderland is a flat camping area that is currently home to around 40 people. It appears that 2 caving schools are here for the week to teach their students rope skills and test their abilities. The leader of a group from Melitopol (east of Kiev), Yura, apparently has some past connection to people Larissa knows, so we're all friends. His group is using nearby Nahimovskaya Cave as the exam cave. It's nearly a quarter mile deep and likely filled to the brim with rebelays and other vertical treats. Larissa is going to work on getting us access.

Time To Get Underground: Krubera Cave
We arrive early enough to do a warm-up cave in the afternoon. There is really no such thing as a “nearby” cave in Karabi. The plateau is immense, 6 times the size of the Chatyr Daq plateau I visited 2 years ago, and there are no approach hikes shorter than an hour. Though the elevation gains and losses are ultimately slight, the exposed karst provides ample opportunity to roll an ankle and careful attention to the so-called trails is required at all times. The sky is clear and the sun is strong as we hike. Larissa is not going into the cave with us, but she packs a stove and food and is going to prepare some treats and tea for us upon our exit. Miguel says pashli.

Bob illuminated by surface light at the base of Krubera's entrance pit

Krubera Cave (not to be confused with the former record-holding monster of the same name in Georgia) has an entrance pit roughly 200' deep. Miguel has one of the 350' ropes with him — the extra weight doing nothing to slow him down on the way — and he quickly rigs to a loose boulder and a crappy rusted hanger.

The bolts and hangers in Ukrainian caves are a constant source of amusement to we American cavers, though our laughter is really just a nervous reaction to the certain death that will result from using any of them as an actual anchor. In Ukraine, average annual income not being what it is in the States, most of the hangers are handmade, sometimes from thin folded pieces of sheet metal and sometimes from thicker single pieces. The holes are hand-drilled and are of inconsistent diameters; thankfully, Krubera's hangers accommodate regular biners. In truth, the hangers only look bad in comparison to our Petzl-ated minds, where all anchors are identically forged from stainless steel. In the back of my mind I know they're going to hold, but man, they look terrible. Rust is not my friend. I shudder involuntarily.

Miguel zips down the rope and I follow, with Bob bringing up the rear. Directly adjacent to the pit are two huge rooms, the ceilings towering above us at nearly 100'. I'm impressed. The vertical caves in Ukraine don't have significant horizontal extent, but the rooms are so large than it's easy to spend quite a while criss-crossing them and admiring the formations. The decoration is astounding. The walls are sheets of flowstone that fall 80' to the floor. There are draperies and bacon and stalactites and stalagmites everywhere, and I'm already thrilled to be here. In some cases vertical caves are just vertical, with very little to please the eye other than the striations in the walls of the pit (beautiful in their own right) but in this case the rope serves only as access to the eye candy below.

We continue through the giant galleries, crossing from wall to wall, until we reach the terminus several hundred feet later. There are many live formations here, and it's time to take some photos. With only 3 of us caving, we can afford to take the time to set up some shots, though none of us has brought serious photo gear. I've supplemented my point and shoot camera with a decent slave flash in the hopes that I might avoid the grainy, underexposed crap I got last time I visited Ukraine. These rooms really require at least a half dozen strobes, but we do what we can. Miguel, Bob, and I take turns pointing the slave unit in various directions while Bob and I snap pictures, and we leave the results to fate.

Miguel coiling outside Krubera

There appears to be another drop from the base of the entrance pit and Miguel rigs to a rock protrusion. I lead the way down and call back to the others that it's only around 30' to the bottom. I take off down a canyon that gets deeper and deeper, dead-ending in a chimneyable crack. After making sure the others are on their way, I start to climb. Around 40' up I squeeze past some formations and the cave goes. Bob and Miguel aren't following so I'm off to check it out. There are several difficult climbs and eventually the sketch factor becomes too great for solo adventures and I turn back. Naturally, my camera is at the bottom so I can't document anything up here, but there are obvious signs of previous visitors. This is no virgin territory.

There is an easy scramble out of the canyon that we didn't see on the way down, and we avoid the rope until it's time to ascend out of the cave altogether. I head up and Larissa fires up the stove for some tea. I snap some photos of the others, and one of the rigging just in case we need it in court. Miguel de-rigs and performs the traditional Ukrainian rope-straightening ritual prior to coiling: he grabs one end of the rope and simply walks until it's stretched out across the karst. We're enjoying the sun a little too much, and Miguel quickly remedies that with some pointed pashlis aimed at Bob and I. We pack and make for the hills.

Bob in drapery paradise in Simferopol 200

But It's Such A Little Hole: Simferopol 200 Cave
The next day, Miguel wakes us at 8am. We have potatoes and pasta — and tea — for breakfast and head out across the plateau. We hike into the sun in the morning and into the sun on the way back in the afternoons. By the end of the week we're all much browner, and unusual side effect for a sport that mostly involves lightlessness. Today's mission is a cave called Simferopol 200 Cave, whose name I don't quite understand since its total depth is 102m, or 334'. I'm unable to extract an explanation that I can understand from Miguel or Larissa, so I let it go.

Miguel and Bob among the pretties in Simferopol 200

Simferopol 200 is a deceiving little hole in the ground. In fact, we're on top of it before I even notice, since it doesn't live at the bottom of a sinkhole. The entrance is little more than a hole 1' in diameter that drops abruptly through the surface with not a tree in sight. It resembles Shoehorn or Keyhole Cave on the Barton Hill Karst Preserve in Schoharie, if that gives you a better mental image. There are two hangers on a nearby piece of limestone embedded in the ground, and a log across the entrance. I curse the Ukrainian hangers, as one of the holes proves way too small for even the smallest of the many different biners we've brought. I swap the carabiner with the 6mm screw link from my rack.

The entrance is as tight as it looks, but with the gravity assist it's no problem. I can already tell it's going to be a different story on the way out, and I secretly hope I ascend first so I can take photos of the others struggling with it. Their pain is my photographic gain. Once through the pinch, it's a climb down (though on rope) to a bolt, and the next rappel is phenomenal. I slip though the ceiling and am free hanging in a huge chamber that is absolutely dripping with formations everywhere I can see. I flip my headlamp to the high beam to get a better look and realize I should probably get moving lest French harness syndrome set in while I'm drooling.

Miguel spies some encrusted speleothems in Simferopol 200

The cave features 4 drops in all, though no rebelays. The drops are separated by some horizontal passage, or, more accurately, some distance across the spacious rooms that are linked together. As Bob, Miguel, and I get to the bottom of the cave, we fan out, looking for crawlways that might lead to more decorations, and soon Miguel finds one. We shed our vertical gear and crawl alongside some speleothems, skirt a dead-bottom pit, and walk into show cave paradise. The formations are alternately the color of mud and gleaming white, draperies reaching 25' from the walls and ceilings to just above our helmets. Flowstone covers every surface. Bob and I don't share a common tongue with our guide, but we all understand excited hoots, and that becomes our means of communication for the next half hour as we walk around like kids in a candy store. There are some prime photographic opportunities here and I wish I had a wide-angle lens.

After we've blown through enough film, we begin the trip out. I get my wish, as Miguel sends me out first. I take my time on the big drop, admiring the view again, and then quickly shoot to the surface after I've passed the bolt. The top is as awkward as I imagined it would be, since there are no footholds, but I manage to get my right foot in my foot loop and just superman up through the entrance. From there it's like getting out of a swimming pool. I give the off rope call and wait with my camera.

Bob fights his way out of Simferopol 200

I'm not disappointed. Bob is next up rope and I start laughing almost as soon as he starts fighting the entrance. It's probably not helping that I'm 2' from his face taking photos but he sees the humor and is laughing as well. When he's finally out and we've got tea in hand (Larissa has come through again) we wait for Miguel, who has similar difficulty and gets similar ribbing from Bob and I.

After some lunch and tea, we pashli over to Buzuluk Cave, and find it filled with tourists from Moscow. They have rigged a hand line to aid in downclimbing a slippery rock face, and Miguel and I avail ourselves of it to arm rappel down. The tourists use a second hand line in the sloping cave entrance, which is probably 75' wide and 50' high, but we walk around them and down the slope. We are here only to look around and are not wearing any gear, but Miguel explains to the group that we (in theory) know what we're doing. At the back of the entrance room are pillars of ice that extend some 50' from the floor to the ceiling. Naturally, the area is freezing, and we're only in t-shirts, so after a quick word with the group's guide, we head out and back to warmth.

On the way back, Miguel leaves us and Larissa explains that he's going to hide the rope for the next day so he doesn't have to carry it back out here. Smart plan. I always stash my rope in the woods. Later that evening, Miguel returns to base camp, sans rope, wearing a floppy sun hat with the word “STRANGE” embroidered on the front of it. Bob and I start laughing, and we know some American smartass must have given the hat to Miguel. It's all too appropriate.

Time To Pray: Monastery Cave
It's finally time to get some rebelay work. For those who haven't seen rebelays before, imagine a single long drop broken into several shorter drops, the tail of each rope tied into the bolt that is the anchor for the next drop. This is a simplistic description, to be sure, but you can see the benefits: as soon as one person passes the first bolt, the next person can begin his descent or ascent, thus speeding the process. It is also a good way to direct an ascent or descent down a specific path, to avoid rope abrasion, rockfall, or water. It's rare to see rebelays in the United States; we're from the throw-the-rope-in-the-pit-and-pad-the-entrance school.

Bob (and Miguel, if you look closely) in Monastery's entrance pit

Monastery Cave has 3 rebelays that break a 250' entrance pit into sections. The walls of the pit are wet and moss-covered, and the lush green stands in stark contrast to the barren landscape above. It's almost enough to distract me from the rusty hangers, but these aren't actually as bad as some of the others I've seen. My standards must be getting low.

Miguel dwarfed by a massive column in Monastery

Miguel heads down the mud and rock slope at the bottom of the cave and sheds his gear, and I do the same when I reach the bottom. Once again we're in a spectacularly large room. This is better than West Virginia caving as far as I'm concerned, and certainly more impressive in the decoration category, though the formations in Monastery are mostly dry and dead. The 100' ceiling is joined the floor in the center of the room by a massive wedding cake column. There's no way I'm going to capture it on film so I just sit and admire it.

Miguel is yelling pashli from some other corner of the room, so I circle the column and climb down between some giant stalagmites. I hear Bob passing the last rebelay to the final, free-hanging drop, and know he'll be joining us momentarily. Miguel and I run around the huge room, hooting and hollering like fools. It's good to see someone with as much experience as he has still get excited about cool things underground. In a side room whose scope is only slightly less expansive than the main chamber, I direct him to one side of a pool for a prime photo opportunity. I'm far enough away that I can't see what he's doing through the viewfinder so I put the slave off to the side and just fire away in the dark. It's one of the few good shots: Miguel dips his finger into the pool as exactly the right time, and we get the ripples on film. For me, cave photography is all luck. I'll take it.

I love it when a plan comes together

The rooms are huge but it doesn't take us long to explore them, and I head back to the rope. As I get near it, Miguel starts arguing vehemently. Does he want to go first? Apparently not. He manages to convey that there is supposed to be another room somewhere that we haven't seen, and sets out in search of it. Bob and I follow, and within moments Miguel's light vanishes near the base of the wall of the main chamber. I kneel down and see he's gone through a nasty little belly crawl. I call ahead to see if it goes.

My question is answered when I hear my voice echoing from beyond the passage. The room on the other side sounds huge. I shove my camera through and go for it. We're finally doing some real caving. The crawl is wet and cobbled, and I grin as I realize it's northeast style goodness right here in the heart of the Crimea. At the other end I'm shocked by the size of room. That tiny crawl connects to a chamber as large as the previous one, and the hooting resumes as I call Bob through.

Miguel has disappeared once again and I go to follow. He's apparently climbed a very slippery, very sketchy flowstone slope and gone to check out whatever lies beyond. I shake my head and try to repeat the climb. By the time Bob catches up I'm only 10' off the ground but my legs are shaking with the effort it takes to maintain enough friction to keep myself from falling. I work my way up to better footholds and am presented with an exposed traverse to the top. I have no idea how Miguel got there so I just wait, and eventually he returns, wondering why we didn't follow. I point at the empty space and blank features between us and raise my hands. He points the way and I start laughing. He must be joking.

Miguel surrounded by formations in Monastery

Er, apparently not. He's emphatically pointing the way, and there may have even been a pashli in there somewhere. I suppose I'd better take the leap of faith, and that's more or less what it is. I tell Bob to tell my mother I love her, and take a big step out into nothingness. To my surprise, my legs are long enough and I get myself nice and spread-eagled over this nonsense. From there it's a simple matter of some hand jams in cracks that feel like they're coated in butter and I'm done. My heart is pounding but it was worth it, because I'm staring into yet another huge room. I suppose I should be getting tired of this, but I'm not and I run around checking it out. I realize Bob isn't going to follow for this one, so I head back and do the sketchy climb in reverse, which is even worse, and we exit the cave.

At the top, Larissa has made tea, surprisingly enough, but she is camped under a tarp and it starts to rain. I yell down to Bob to make it quick, and we get out and pull the rope just as the rain starts to come down. It rains for 10 minutes — and I don't see another drop until I'm back in New York. It's teatime.

Miguel in the otherworldy beauty of Dublanska

Take Two: Dublanska and Kastere Caves
Bob needs a day off, so Miguel and I are on our own. We don't get the earliest start, but with only two of us, we can move fast, and we plan to visit 2 caves. Coincidentally, these caves are located the furthest from base camp of anything we plan to do this week, with an approach hike of more than 2 hours. Luckily, it's the hottest day we've had so far, so we're sweating like fiends within minutes of departing. Miguel has once again stashed the rope and all of his caving gear somewhere on the plateau, so he carries most of the food and water in his otherwise empty pack, a formerly red workhorse bleached pink by the sun over many years of use.

First on our list is Dublanksa Cave, which seems far enough away to be at the end of the world. Occasionally I glance behind me and see the fortress on its hill, but it's nearly over the horizon by the time we get to the cave. Perhaps I'm being melodramatic. There is some route-finding involved — it's not as if these caves have big signs on them, and the terrain is vast and repetitive — so the trip probably takes a bit longer than expected.

Dublanska is, hands down, the most wildly decorated cave I've ever seen. I'm not even going to go into details about the 165' vertical part of the experience, because the bottom is simply awesome. As has become typical, the end of the rope puts us smack in the middle of a phenomenal chamber, but even by the standards to which I've become accustomed during the past few days, this room is impressive. It's like a movie set, seemingly endless in all directions. The ceiling is all but invisible with our lights, and the floor is an uneven maze of towering wedding cakes and stalagmites. Miguel climbs atop some huge flowstone and is dwarfed by the formations around him.

Miguel takes a break to admire the ceiling in Dublanska

The hooting has reached new levels, and the two of us are truly floored as we move about the room. There is barely a square foot not covered in flowstone, and massive draperies hang off every ledge on the walls. We walk around, almost dazed, and the rooms continue. There is a lot of climbing to be done here. We move quickly up and down over any obstacles in our way, and the cave just seems to stretch endlessly. We shimmy up massive flowstone slopes and we chimney through deep canyons.

Miguel pushes through a little squeeze and turns back, grins, and says traverse, which comes out sounding like the name Travis, but I know I'm in for a treat. I follow him through and we skirt the edge of a deep pool, our butts hanging over the water, moving slowly with whatever slippery hand and footholds we can find, until we're on safe ground. We turn and see that the stalactites hanging above the pool extend 40' down from the ceiling. They're very alive, and very white, and we are very awed.

We climb and climb and traverse and chimney until there are no more openings through which we can fit, no more leads to push. I know hundreds if not thousands of cavers have been here before me, but I can't help thinking I've just seen something amazing. Where can it go from here?

We exit the cave and, predictably, Larissa has tea and lunch waiting. We still have plenty of time to hit another cave, and I'm excited to continue.

Kastere Cave, which also has roughly 165' of vertical and a couple of rebelays in the entrance, is an entirely different experience. It is not known for its flowstone or columns or huge halls, and indeed most of the cave is dry, but it contains rather unique disc-shaped formations, as if someone sliced a huge stalactite into thin sections and spread them throughout the rooms. They range from a few inches in diameter to a few feet.

One of the larger discs in Kastere

Miguel sets about counting the discs, which he alternately describes as kleine or grosse. Apparently, some German has leaked into his vocabulary, but there's no way I'm going to be able to find out how that happened. He's extremely excited about the number of discs in what is a relatively small cave, and we duck into every nook and cranny seeking more.

Near some flowstone, Miguel finds a little crawlway and heads through. It turns out to be a lot tighter than he expected, and I have to brace his feet as he pushes through. This doesn't bode well for me, since I have several inches and quite a few pounds on Miguel, but I remove my pack and try to follow. It's a chest compressor — and on an incline — and I have to exhale to make miniscule progress while Miguel laughs at me from the other side. It takes quite a lot of grunting to do it, and I spend the time debating the wisdom of trapping the only other caver in the cave on the wrong side of me. Nevertheless, I'm from the northeast and if there's one thing I'm trained to do, it's put myself through tight squeezes. Until recently (damn you, french fries, damn you) I could get through the chairs in the Schoharie cabin, and this is easier than that.

Once past the compressor, we resume our scurrying around and counting, Miguel yelling the numbers in Russian. We count 53 total, in every imaginable orientation and location. How they formed is a complete mystery to me. I snap a couple of photos, hoping that someone at the next Met meeting might have an idea.

You Said You Wanted Vertical: Nahimovskaya Cave
I wake up the following morning and wonder how tonight is going to play out. Yura has agreed to let me descend into Nahimovskaya with a group of Ukrainian cavers this evening, after the day's exams are over. The cave is 380m deep, nearly 1250' down to the sump, where a dive of 250' leads to more cave. We're not going in the water, but I'm planning to get down to it. I know the cave is going to have a ton of rebelays and who knows what else, and I'm slightly apprehensive. Okay, I'm actually pretty nervous about it, knowing that nobody in the group will speak English and that I've been advertised as a strong caver in order to gain access. I have to put in a good showing for Team USA.

Bob isn't going into Nahimovskaya, but we all head out as a group in the morning, and Bob and Valeriy visit Telachya Cave, which features two 165' pits. Valeriy and his wife, also named Larissa, and their son Anatoliy, have joined us at base camp, as they are on vacation, and all 3 are cavers. I met them in 2001, and, like all the Ukrainians I've met, they couldn't be nicer people. Anatoliy is already doing 300'+ vertical and he's a young child. They start early in Ukraine.

Miguel rigs the entrance drop, using a shirt as a rope pad, as I've forgotten my protectors at base camp. It turns out that despite the careful European handling of rope, and thus the use of rebelays, many of the caves we've visited require rope protection. The caretaker of our fortress camp, Guenna, has detailed rigging maps for many of the caves on the plateau, and even the drawings indicate rope protectors in many places. It seems to defeat one of the main advantages of using rebelays, especially since some of the rub points could easily be avoided by placing additional bolts.

I have no photos of Telachya, so here's another one of Miguel climbing in Dublanska

In any case, Bob and Valeriy descend and the rest of us remain topside, eating lunch and drinking tea. I snap a few pictures, but I'm really just killing time until the evening's adventure. I'm anxious to get started, and I'm relieved when we're finally done and can head over to Nahimovskaya.

We arrive to find many of the students who are tent camping near the fortress preparing to leave the area and head back to camp, so Bob heads out with them. Valeriy and both Larissas spend some time talking to the other Ukrainians, and then they, too, leave; Miguel remains behind, as he is to guide me back to base camp after I get out of the cave.

The Ukrainian cavers get ready, and we gear up. My setup fascinates them. Apparently the notions of a short cowtail and a third ascender are completely foreign to them, and they eye me suspiciously. The cavers participating in this excursion count themselves off, starting with number one. As soon as Number One says one I know a single immutable truth: I'm about to get my ass kicked, and in no small way.

Number One, whose real name I never caught and was probably never given, looks every bit the quintessential eastern European caver. He's thin, with sharp features, doesn't smile, and stands apart from the rest of the group, calmly smoking a cigarette. He has the bare minimum gear required, not an ounce extra. He carries no food or water. The flame from his Petzl carbide lamp is catalog-perfect. He just looks fast. As I said, they start early in Ukraine. I have no doubt he's been on rope since he was 10. He reminds me of a young Pif, our guide from western Ukraine.

We troop over to the entrance, and Miguel joins us for the walk, perhaps to laugh at me once more before I die. There are six of us, and I'm Number Two. The second position is of some prestige. Being right behind the leader, I'm expected to not only keep up but not to hinder the rest of the group. Pressure. The entrance to Nahimovskaya is similar to the entrance to Simferopol 200: an unassuming little slot with a log thrown across the top. The leader rigs his rack and is gone in an instant.

Number One yells off rope — svobodna in Russian — and I move to rig my rack. I'm not even done looping the rope around the second bar and he's already yelled svobodna 3 more times. I can't believe he's moving that fast. I drop through the hole and we're off to the races. Literally.

Number One and I blitz the cave. It's a vertical paradise, rebelays and redirects and traverses, oh my. I'm in the groove, and the two of us are yelling svobodna almost in unison. The area in front of my face is a blur of cowtails and biners and brake bars. The bolts and hangers are brand new stainless Petzl glue-in jobs, and there is no doubt they're going to hold. Number One is outpacing me, but I'm outpacing the people behind me, so I feel I'm doing my part.

KAMIN! KAMIN! KAMIN! I'm jolted from my rappelling bliss by a shriek from above. Even if I didn't know that kamin means rock in Russian, I'd get the point. There's something in the way a caver yells rock that is unmistakable. Number Three could be yelling lasagna and I'd still know he meant rock. In this case, it's no lasagna: whatever he dislodged is big, and there's a lot of it. I can hear it ricocheting off of ledges above me. I'm in the middle of a rope segment, right in the middle of the pit, right in the fall zone. Without really thinking about it, I kick right, kick left, and pendulum towards a crack in the wall. I jam my arm in as far as it will go and twist my hand. It holds! I pull myself into the wall and try to hide beneath my helmet — just as the load of crap whooshes past me. The Indiana Jones maneuver pays off!

Number One calls lazily up from somewhere beneath me: ok. He's so far ahead the rocks probably burned up before they even reached him.

We resume our race to the bottom, zooming down mud-slicked 9mm rope — until I rappel into a knot. What the hell is a knot doing in the rope? It's only 6' above the floor. Number One is yelling svobodna and I'm yelling at myself. Poor showing. Team USA will not get high marks for this one. Still swearing, I change over to ascending gear, unload my rack, and downclimb to the floor. I slip through a little crack and get back on rope around the corner. The race is back on.

It's not until later that I realize the knot did exactly what it was supposed to do. That was the only long section of rope that ends at a floor rather than a free hanging rebelay. The knot is there specifically to catch an out-of-control rappel, something a rebelay will do by design, on thin, muddy rope. I shake my head in admiration. The rigging is excellent in this cave. The knot is just icing on the cake: the rope never touches the rock anywhere, perfectly placed redirects seeing to that. The loops in the rebelays are the perfect size. In the one place where the angle of the rope makes standing in the loop difficult, a separate foot loop is tied into the bolt. The Ukrainians know their shit.

I still have no photos of Nahimovskaya, so here's yet another one of Miguel in Dublanska

As I reach the bottom, I hear voices. Voices? Wait a minute. How did people get in front of me? I finish the last rappel, and find myself in a dome room. In the middle of the room is a bright pink tent. There are people staying in the cave! Apparently a crew is in the cave for a few days to do some exploration. The rope that would otherwise be rigged in the remaining 300' of the cave is coiled here, and I know this is the end of the line for our little sport trip.

The 3 guys living in the cave have just finished their tasks for the day and begin shedding layers. They‘ve been working in water, and each wears a dry suit under his outer layer to keep warm. One of them skims some water from a shallow pool in the room and fires up the stove for tea. I'm cold and I pull out my balaclava, a northeasterner's best friend, much to the amusement of the Ukrainians. Naturally, none of them is cold. Cigarettes are the balaclavas of Europe.

Why do I do this to myself? I shake my head and smile, a facial contortion unseen by the other cavers behind my mask. I'm 920' beneath the surface and freezing my ass off. There are 9 of us here, passing around cups of hot tea and borscht, and I'm the only one not smoking. I'm encouraged by the fact that any second now freezing will turn to sweating as we head up rope. But wait: is that another light coming down?

When 4 more people have finally descended into the room — there are now 13 of us — one of the Ukrainians takes a camera up to a ledge and we all pose for a photo. I'm momentarily distracted from the cold by the entertainment value of 10 people holding their breath, only to exhale and laugh in unison when the camera won't fire, but my shivers return quickly and I'm ready to leave.

A new leader is chosen and he begins his ascent. I am nominated for second position again, mostly because I'm cold and they can see it. I thank everyone, say goodbye to those staying behind, and head up rope. Two pitches later I'm soaked in sweat, as expected. I stuff my balaclava into my pocket and focus on the task at hand.

One by one, the rest of the party gets on rope as svobodnas echo down the pit. I wait beneath each bolt for the leader's call. I thought I would have been in shape for this by now, but I get pounded. The thin rope doesn't help, as it's difficult to get an efficient stroke with so much stretch. I pant my way upwards, and find solace in the fact that the leader is breathing as heavily. When we finally get to a flat area — right below my favorite knot — we both take a few minutes' breather. I share my water with him, since he has brought none of his own, and we resume the trip.

The ascent affords me more time to admire the rigging. The redirects are perfect. One is a piece of 6mm accessory cord tied through a hole drilled in a fin that juts out of the side of the pit. They're all placed in areas where it's possible to chimney while moving the redirect biner below me, and I realize how much effort the precise placements save me.

Many, many rebelays later I see the surface debris that indicates the end of the journey is near. I can smell the outdoors. I squeeze through the narrow exit, call my last svobodna down the pit, and sprawl on the grass. As the others emerge, I share some beef jerky and we make the short walk back to camp.

Miguel has tea and soup ready, and indicates that I should quickly change my clothes and pack up for the hike back. Never mind that I've just climbed 900', it's time to go. I eat hastily, say goodbye and thank the Ukrainians, and we head out across the plateau in the dark.

Miguel works his navigational magic, periodically directing me to shut off my headlamp as he peers around in the blackness, looking at the dimly starlit silhouettes that surround us in the distance. Each of these brief stops ends with a curt pashli and we take off in another direction. I'm convinced we're going in circles. We plod up a long hill, and I finally have to tell Miguel nyet pashli and take a minute to catch my breath. Moments later, we're off again, and I have no idea where we are.

Out of nowhere, we emerge directly beneath a landmark that is no more than 20 minutes from base camp. Miguel exults in Ukrainian and slaps me on the back. He's managed to conjure the route home out of thin air. Moments later we can see the illuminated fortress atop its hill.

Last Hurrah: Mira Cave
The next morning, I feel like someone put me in a sack and beat me with a stick, but it's our last day of caving, so I'm going regardless of how I feel. Larissa indicates that we're going to an easy cave, but Bob and I both lobby for something more challenging. Aside from it being our final opportunity to get underground, Bob is eager to see some rebelays before he leaves, since he didn't get into Nahimovskaya and has already taken a day off. Miguel settles on Mira Cave, around 440' deep.

Bob in Mira's lush entrance pit

Valeriy and his wife Larissa join us for the trip, and we get a late start. The hike takes more than an hour, leading to the cave at the bottom of a large sinkhole. Like the other known pits on the plateau, there is a small stainless steel plate, perhaps 3” square, imprinted with the name of the cave and its depth bolted into a nearby rock outcropping.

The entrance to Mira is a large open-air pit ending in a debris-covered slope that leads to the main vertical extent of the cave. We rappel down and park ourselves at the top of the slope, away from the debris, as Miguel descends to rig the rebelays to the bottom. He's gone for quite some time, and I'm seconds away from bailing out when he yells svobodna from very far away. Due to the risk of rockfall, we're each going to descend all the way to the bottom before yelling off rope, which means it's going to take a while. Some careful rebolting might solve this problem, but now is not the time.

As soon as I get back on rope, my stomach flips. These are the worst bolts and hangers I've ever seen. I mean, they're straight out of a caving safety video. Bob says later that he forced his eyes into soft focus at each rebelay so he wouldn't have to look at them. The hangers that aren't totally rusted are soft — flexible enough to bend with a finger — and one of them has a rusted fracture across the hanger right where the bolt intersects it. Normally, it wouldn't bother me that much in a rebelay scenario; if one rips out, I'll take a short fall but the next bolt up will catch me. The trouble here is that I have no confidence that all of the bolts to the top won't zipper right out if shock loaded. Tasty. I cross my fingers and toes and descend.

The final drop, predictably, opens into a huge chamber, the center of which is piled high with debris that came hurtling down from the top. Looking at the mound, I suppose it's a good thing we're doing this one at a time. I get off rope and check out the space. Everything here is dry, and the adjoining rooms aren't nearly as well-decorated as some of what we saw earlier in the week, but it's worth a look and I scout around.

I join Miguel on a side room and we wait for the others to descend. That's when I notice that the cave is rather cold. Within minutes I have my balaclava on, and Miguel is hopping around trying to keep warm. We're freezing, and it happened quickly. I start whistling the theme from Gilligan's Island. Where's Bob?

Bob finally makes his way to the bottom, but we still have 2 more cavers, Valeriy and Larissa, to expect before any of us can head back up rope. I can see Miguel is already very cold, and my balaclava is barely enough. I pull my suit's hood from my collar and put that on as well. Bob dons his balaclava. The three of us do what we can to stay warm. I set up some photos, walking around the main room to aim the slave and choose my angles. This is all unnecessary, as the room is really too large to light, but it's keeping me occupied.

After what seems like an eternity, Larissa and Valeriy make it to the bottom, and Miguel is practically climbing the rope before Valeriy can even remove his rappel device. I have to wait for Miguel to ascend about 325' before I can get on rope, and as cold as I am, the time stretches out interminably. Valeriy and Larissa have no extra gear for warmth, so they get close. I'm in no mood to cuddle with Bob, so I dance around by myself. Perhaps I'm going insane.

Miguel finally gives the word, and I hit the rope with a fury, tossing my balaclava to Valeriy. It doesn't take long to warm up, but now I must contend with the hangers, oh those horrible hangers. I do my best to avoid looking directly at them, as if that will cause them less stress than my frogging up rope. At each rebelay I breathe a sigh of relief: one more shaky anchor is below me and I'm a step closer to (relative) safety.

After the lengthy ascent, I yell off rope to Bob and head up the open-air pit to the surface. Once there, I can laugh about the hangers, and I quickly shed my caving gear. Miguel and I pace around — Larissa's already gone back to base camp — and wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. Where's Bob? Later he reveals he's been fiddling with his vertical system, switching between ropewalker and frog. One of these days, he says, he's going to get it working. He eventually joins Miguel and me, but the sun is starting to set and Miguel dispatches him immediately to base camp. I stick around to help pull the rope.

Larissa is next up rope after her long wait at the bottom and she shakes her fist at the air, grits her teeth, and says Bob. She and Valeriy were very cold, not surprisingly. Valeriy is also in the unfortunate position of having to de-rig the rebelays, but any extra work is likely to warm him up, so it's not all bad. It's nearly dark when he finally makes it to the top, and all of us set about untying knots, pulling and coiling the rope. I never want to go caving again.

In The End
With a pashli, we take off. We arrive at base camp well after dark to find Larissa nervously pacing around, thinking something has gone wrong. I try to comfort her: we had a lot of people climbing a lot of rope. No big deal. All part of the game.

That night, the expedition over and nobody injured or worse, we toast the week and each other and the plateau and Ukrainian independence and the rope and everything else. I drink my 54,329th cup of tea as the others polish off vodka and schnapps, and then to bed.

The next morning we take the mountain rescue squad’s van back down to Simferopol, where we deposit Miguel, and the rest of us are off to the Black Sea for some rest. Later that day, sitting on the sandless rock pile they call a beach, I squint into the sun and realize that cavers should never be exposed to this much light. I’d rather be underground.