By George Norwood
It was a fine spring morning in Dallas, Texas, when I climbed into a dusty old van parked outside a church. I didn’t know it then, but this would be one of the most spiritual and terrifying experiences of my life. Jim and Bill, two guys I barely knew but felt strangely drawn to, climbed in beside me. We laughed, made jokes, and had no idea what we were stepping into. Five more people climbed into the van. Someone passed around carmel popcorn packages..
We were headed for a cave in the cliffs along the Texas stretch of the Colorado River near Lampasas, Texas. The plan was simple—explore, have fun, and get a little muddy. Nothing about it seemed dangerous at the time. When we arrived, the group leader tossed some rocks into the cave's entrance to make sure no bears had made it their home. It was a moment of caution that, in hindsight, felt almost ceremonial, like knocking on the door of another world.
We entered the cave cautiously, trying to keep our shoes dry and our spirits high. Soon, though, we surrendered to the inevitable—our feet were soaked, and mud clung to our legs. We each carried carbide gas lamps that hissed and burned with a soft, ghostly glow. I had little experience with spelunking, and even less understanding of the dangers that might await underground.
As we ventured deeper, we began to notice something strange. We were panting. Our breath came quicker and shallower. The air felt thick, wrong somehow. Someone struck a match—and it fizzled out instantly. That was our warning: the air was low on oxygen, likely laced with dangerous gas. But, like fools—or perhaps like pilgrims under a spell—we pressed on.
Water rose to our knees, then higher. Still, we trudged forward. After about thirty minutes, we squeezed through two narrow rock gaps, forcing our bodies through stone like toothpaste. Fifteen minutes later, we reached a dead end. We had no choice but to turn back.
As we retraced our steps, Jim and Bill suddenly veered off into a side passage. I called after them, warned them, told them it was a bad idea. But something pulled me—a protective instinct, maybe something deeper—and I followed. The water was waist-high now, murky and cold. Every step felt like a question: What lies beneath this surface? Could there be a drop-off? A shaft? I asked if they could swim. Neither of them could.
We kept going. The passage seemed endless, a watery tunnel of stone and silence. Then it hit us—we were lost.
No one knew where we were. No one would hear us call. The lights hissed in the gas-thick air. Time stretched. I thought of how easy it would be to disappear in a place like this, how many had before. My heart pounded with both fear and something else: a kind of surrender. This might be it.
But just when our hope was wearing thin, the miracle happened.
