I sometimes camp under rock overhangs of about 5-50 feet deep, and a few to several feet high and wide. Here I’ll just call them caves. In the summertime I don’t generally camp in them, because there are too many critters like snakes and scorpions, various bugs and rodents. This is especially true in ones that have a lot of loose and broken-up rock, cracks in the walls, odd combustible items, and sometimes moss or dripping. The time to camp in a cave, to be a caveman, is in the winter.
I have half a dozen such places scattered around Wyoming, Utah, and Colorado. They are mostly between 3,000 and 7,000 feet in elevation, where the winters are milder than up high. I go to them when I’m out wandering around, looking for petroglyphs and Indian ruins, and maybe finding a few antlers. I prefer caves that face east, so that the morning sun floods in as soon as it’s up. In just a few minutes, this reflective sunlight can really boost the temperature, and in the winter this is important.
The ambiance of a cave, however, is at its height after dark. Near the front of each of my caves I’ve built three-sided reflective firewalls. This is better than a simple stone ring, because some of the heat comes out low and right where you sit, to either enjoy the fire, or for the convenience of cooking on coals raked out of the flames. You can always reconstitute freeze-dried foods in water, obtained by melting snow, but there’s nothing like toasted multi-grain bread right off the coals.
I have also propped up slabs of rock for back rests.
I like to have a pile of wood that will last for three or four hours. And sometimes I’ve had visitors. I was reclining back and reading a book by headlamp, and warmed by a good fire, when gradually I felt as though I were under observation. I looked into the darkness and two glowing eyes looked at me. They bobbed around a little, shy and a little uncertain, but curious. Gradually a bobcat came into focus.
“Hello Bob. You live ‘round here? This your cave? How’s the hunting? Seen any good antlers,” I said. Bob didn’t answer, but he understood that I meant no harm. “I’m just passing through, and will only be here for two nights. I hope that’s OK with you.” He nodded in assent, but didn’t get any closer than fifteen feet. Bob didn’t seem to want any food or anything, he just wanted to hang out and keep me company. I was grateful.
“I read a lot of books, you know, and only the most current will do,” I said to Bob. He seemed to perk up with interest.
“This evening I’m reading Thoreau’s ‘Walden.’ He was a little too civilized for my taste, living in a cabin and all, but his diction is pretty good.” I lay back and turn off the light. Bob probably goes off to his job of rabbit control.
The fire’s glow softly illuminates the walls and ceiling. I dream of what they have seen and heard. Thousands of years ago there would have been saber-toothed cats, and short-faced bears, animals that no longer exist.
Then a particularly clever animal, group-orientated, and possessing incredibly intricate hands and a mental agility like no other animal had ever had, came along -the first waves of humans, the early Indians.
Later the fur trappers arrived. Many of their stories are recounted in the ten volumes of “The Mountain Men,” edited by LeRoy Hafen. These volumes are available in many Wyoming libraries.
The cowboys came next. Though today we put them on pedestals, the reality is that they were some of the poorest and most abused workers the world has ever seen. One cowboy in Wyoming was David Love, who in winter would pack an overhang with brush then set it ablaze to warm up the dirt floor, then scoop it out and sleep in it. Check it out in the incomparable “Rising from the Plains,” by John McPhee. It’s a Wyoming story blending geology with culture.
They all came to the Rocky Mountain region and might have made use of the same caves that I do.
Today cavemen are few, and like former U.S. presidents we’re a small and exclusive club, and I’m proud to be a part of it- a Rocky Mountain Caveman.
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