Mammoth Cave, Kentucky
I didn’t sleep the night before leaving, so to say I “woke up” at 4:30 a.m. would be misleading. If I wasn’t laying with eyes open, mentally running through all the things that could go wrong on my trip, I was in a half-aware dream state. My dream started in the middle of time, as if I had awoken from a coma, and was more of a feeling than an image. I knew I was married but couldn’t remember to who, or when, or how long we’d been apart. I didn’t know if they remembered me. I didn’t know why they were gone. I just knew I was very alone, but I wasn’t meant to be.
Packing my RAV4, Darla, the day before leaving
Heading Out to Kentucky
By 5:30 a.m. I had kissed Eric and Romeo goodbye and started my 10-hour drive through West Virginia and Kentucky. My anxiety from the night held strong, and I was on high alert for anything that could mean danger. My mind kept replaying a video I had seen from the perspective of a dash cam. The car came up upon another car that was parked in a city tunnel, door open to block the road and men standing by at the ready to do who knows what. The driver tried to back up but another car pulled in from behind, so he quickly sped through the open door of the car in front. Would I have the guts to speed through? Would I even know if the moment called for it?
Meanwhile, the road ahead was not full of city tunnels, but wide two or three lanes traveling each direction with grassy medians separating them and lush green spires protruding on either side. Driving through West Virginia, the mountains swallowed up Darla, my RAV4, as we drove through the mist, fragments of clouds hanging in the crevices of the green walls.
At the entrance to Kentucky, the sky turned from steel blue to royal blue, and cumulonimbus clouds grand enough for Olympus opened their gates. Endless undulating fields were segmented by split-rail fences and dotted with horses and cows lazily grazing and flicking their tails. As I drove deeper into the state, white clouds turned a deep granite and rain poured, columns of water extending down over each car in front of me. Zeus made himself known.
A small post office in Jetson, Kentucky
Somewhere in the middle of Kentucky I stopped at a gas station and was one of a small handful of cars in a very wide open parking lot. As I opened the door to the convenience store, a potent stench greeted me; a man seated in a small booth to my right held a blunt to his lips. He lifted his eyes over the shoulder of the woman sitting in front of him to look me up and down. An invitation or a warning?
To my left was a fully exposed kitchen with two cooks who bounced back and forth hastily from oven to stove, looking very busy despite the place being empty, other than me and the couple at the booth. A sign at the back of the store directed me to the restroom: “Take a right, then a left, then another right.” After walking the labyrinth of dishwashing stations and storage rooms I found it: a toilet, sink, mirror, and noticeable lack of soap, surrounded by plywood walls that hovered inches above the floor. Under the mirror someone had written in Sharpie, “ALL EMPLOYEE’S WASH HAND’S.”
Hour 10: Arriving at Mammoth Cave
The moment I pulled up to my campsite and shifted into park, my whole life went from 80 miles an hour to zero. The tears were sudden and fierce. I was so alone.
The crown of trees that hung over my campsite
Set up at the campsite in Mammoth Cave National Park
After 10 minutes of sobbing my face was numb and I figured I should probably get a move on. I gathered myself, got out of the car and inspected my site’s tent pad: flooded with a good two inches of water. I checked my cell service - a little next to the dumpster, but that was it. I sent a test message from my satellite communicator to my mom and Eric. The text went through. I didn’t feel satisfied.
I had set out on this trip to prove to myself that I could be self-reliant, to experience something that was mine alone, to learn to be happy spending time with myself. I was only a partial-day in, and already these fantasies were replaced by waves of exhaustion and straight-up existential dread. How was I going to make it a month if I could barely make it a day?
It was 5 p.m. and all I had eaten was an apple. I was too anxious to be hungry, but not eating wasn’t going to help my mental state. I emptied a handful of chicken onto a small tortilla, took a few bites, and decided on one date for dessert. Then I chose the highest spot in the campsite, where the rainwater had mostly dried, and constructed my tent.
A Fresh Start
The next morning I woke up laughing to myself about all my drama. What was I so panicked about? Birds chirped, and a group of played at the water spigot, dipping their toes into the pressurized stream and giggling while they splashed each other, pretending to be surprised when another splashed them back. I exchanged cheerful “good mornings” with women entering and exiting the camp bathroom to wash their faces and brush their teeth. I wasn’t alone at all.
I spent the morning at a coffee shop in Cave City, drinking a chai latte and finishing up the last of my work before logging off for six weeks. The world felt normal.
The historic entrance to Mammoth Cave, as seen from the outside
The historic entrance to Mammoth Cave, as seen from the inside
A Tour of Mammoth Cave
The view during the start of the historic cave tour
A constant rush of cold air swept up the steps of the historic cave entrance, pushing outward yet inviting visitors in to release their lungs from the grip of the thick, humid summer air. A crowd followed the cool breeze down a winding staircase, passing under trickling water that veiled the dark entryway, only a small incandescent bulb illuminating the path.
I followed closely behind our guide as we meandered through miles of Mammoth Cave, the longest cave system in the world. The group snapped dark, blurry photos of limestone as the guide spoke of pioneers - or rather, the enslaved African Americans they leased to conduct the grueling work - sourcing saltpetre for gunpowder during the war of 1812. A child in front of me repeatedly poked at his teenage brother who barked at him to stop while the tour guide continued on, explaining that nearly 5,000 years prior, Native Americans had explored the cave, mining gypsum for reasons that are now unknown to us. The older brother gave up and scrolled his phone while the younger continued poking, and the group moved forward.
After making our way through “Fat Man’s Misery,” a tight section of the cave that takes either a small or brave person to maneuver, we reached “Level 5,” 310 feet below the earth’s surface. One level below us, the Green River - which has spent more than 10 million years carving out the cave - could be heard running through. “The Green River flows out to the Ohio River, to the Mississippi River, to the Gulf of Mexi- I mean, Gulf of America,” said the tour guide. The crowd laughed, me included, though I wondered which side of the joke we were collectively laughing at.
After nearly two hours underground we resurfaced, greeted by the afternoon sun. As the group took a left back toward the visitor center, I took a right, following a wooded path down to the Green River. Swollen from summer rain, the river swallowed the roots of nearby trees, who dipped their leaves into the gentle current, a friendly handshake. I removed my boots and sifted my toes through the sandy riverbank, offering my own greeting.
Tree branches hang over a swollen Green River
Tree trunks are submerged in a swollen Green River
A Nightmare and a Mystery
My second and final night at Mammoth Cave Camp Ground I bolted awake 4:30 a.m. I had dreamt that I went to sleep in my tent at my campsite, only to wake up in my tent but in a faraway and unfamiliar place that someone else had moved me to. In the dream I felt drugged and repeatedly attempted to ask where I was, and the man who had moved me continued to dodge the question, making me feel increasingly trapped, the walls of the tent moving in and getting smaller. I dreamt this same dream in a loop for what felt like eternity.
Then I went from dream state to fully awake in a fraction of a second. My senses were operating at 200%, working hard to detect what external stimulus had interrupted my dream loop. A rhythmic sound.
I laid with my eyes open, listening. Something was rustling. Not rustling, scratching. Frantic, metallic scratching. It was coming from the far side of my car.
I sat up and touched the tip of my nose to the mesh of my tent, holding my breath, looking out at Darla’s nose. I could see nothing other than the reflection of the moon through the trees on her windshield. The scratching became more incessant.
I was frozen, my legs as heavy as stone under my sleeping bag. For nearly 10 minutes I sat listening, imagining what, or who, might be on the other side of my car. Then in a singular moment I found the momentum to grab my bear spray and exit the tent.
Sweatshirt hood up and tied, sandals strapped, bear spray unlocked and at the ready, I turned the corner of the car.
Nothing.
A bridge path guides visitors through the woods in Mammoth Cave National Park
I climbed into the drivers seat of Darla and sat incredibly still, listening, for the next hour. Nothing.
I wondered if I had imagined it but knew I hadn’t. Had I? I needed to be sure I hadn’t. I hoped I had. As the sky gave way from night to twilight I popped Darla’s hood and looked through all the plastic and metal and wires with my flashlight, finding no signs of anything. But as I got down by the driver’s side wheel well, the scratching turned frantic. My eyes found no evidence but my ears confirmed.
I spent the next full day once again driving in a heightened anxious state, imagining the wires in my car being chewed by a stowaway rodent and getting stuck at my next destination, 13 hours from home.
When I finally arrived at an area with service, I searched “what repels animals from car” and found mixed reviews about mothballs. It was the best lead I had. I made a quick stop at the dollar store to pick some up before continuing on, putting myself even deeper into the center of the continent. I would check again and place the mothballs when I arrived in St. Louis.
I drove, feeling like an ant without an ant hill.