The Caver's Paradox
[This poem is dedicated to the memory of the
Red Buddha Room, Horsethief Cave, Wyoming,
which used to have angel's hair formations.] Each man kills the thing he loves. It's a lesson no one learns. The years pass on, the people too, And yet this fact returns. The Inquisition, seeking souls, Destroys more than it saves. The trapper wipes the beaver out. The caver, he kills caves. Last week you found a virgin room, All filled with angel hair. Enjoy it now, while there's still time; Next year, it won't be there. Cavers' boots and cavers' packs Will pount it into dust. 'Cause there's a lead across the room, And push it cavers must! The first ones through will pick their route, Avoiding where the fibers lay. The second follow in their tracks - Or, sort of in them, anyway... First a few and then a lot, The caver traffic gains. And still the beat of vibrammed feet 'Till only dirt remains. And cavers cross the formless room Completely unaware.... They're heading for the newer cave, To see the angel hair!! So when you find that special spot With which none else compares, Only tell your closest friends..... And hope they don't tell theirs. And when you're in that moonmilk crawl And need to put down your glove.... Smear your crud all over the wall,
And KILL THE THING YOU LOVE.
- Bruce Unger (circa 1976)
