Now That’s a Batcave

Bruce Wayne’s Batcave is dark, dreary, and moody place. When we visited Carlsbad Caverns, known for its bats, I expected the same. But bat caves are beautiful! I think Bruce Wayne was just a bad interior designer. Clearly, he should have taken some cues from Carlsbad Caverns!

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/E8XXPyaNnnH15t5L8

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February 17th, 2024 - TexMex Day 2

The air was cool and dry. The bleak clouds settled somewhere below us in a grey sheet. From our vantage point atop the Guadalupe Mountains, the landscape below looked like a bed. The soft rolls in the clouds could have been wrinkles in a thick quilt. If the air were warmer, someone might even be tempted to take a nap. But this was a Slaven roadtrip, and no naps are to be had here. Just adventures! 

Following the advice of a friend, we had procured audio tour devices from the visitor center. Pressing them to our ears, we listened intently as we descended into the cave. Entering Carlsbad Caverns feels like walking into a cathedral. A series of switchbacks forces you to slow and gaze meditatively at the cragged rocks forming the arched cave entrance. In engineering, an arch is a significant structure. A simple arch can support a significantly larger weight load than its horizontal counterpart. Roman architecture demonstrated this so well that their designs are still replicated to this day. In Carlsbad Caverns, the arched cave entrance is something to be appreciated too. The blocky stones around the entrance carry the weight of an entire mountain range. It is almost as if an Architect knew that a rectangular entrance just wouldn’t work for the caves. How about that? 

The switchbacks guide you under the cave’s arch and into the darkness of the cave’s mouth. Gradually, your eyes adjust and your vision returns, lighted by soft white lights illuminating your path. Even just a few hundred feet into the cave, you are washed in awe. In a cathedral, there are sometimes small basins of holy water standing near the door. Upon entry, worshipers dip their fingers in the water, a reminiscence of their baptism and rebirth. In Carlsbad Caverns, the holy water drips from overhead, baptizing visitors with occasional cool splashes on your scalp. Crystal white stalactites and stalagmites stretch out of view like colonnades. Cave swallows, having just migrated back to their summer home, chirp happily high above. Daylight from the entrance streams down like a spotlight, casting visitors into anonymous shadows. This diminishing of visitors is a trait of the caverns. There is light in the cave, but it is to illuminate the cave’s beauty. In the cathedral of Carlsbad Caverns there is suspension of self. Your focus is not others nor yourself. Your focus is the cave and all it holds. 

Truly, there is not a sufficient way to describe Carlsbad Caverns. Each chamber of the cave is astounding in its own way. Every stalagmite and stalactite is unique, just like a snowflake. At one point in our tour, I heard a little boy whisper, “This is a big boy cave.” His childlike language was simple, but I agreed with his sentiment. Carlsbad Caverns makes you feel small. The magnanimity of its splendor forces one to realize their simplicity. Who am I in the face of something so ancient, so profound? What can I offer the world that mirrors something like this? I am an ant at the foot of a marble statue. I worship, marvel, and do life the best I can. In my smallness, I am simply grateful for a force larger than myself. 

If I reduced the cave to my menial descriptions, I’d say that my favorite elements were the wavy limestone sheets curving down from the ceiling. They were called drapery, and indeed they did mimic the fluidity of fabric. I thought they looked elegant. Tyler said they looked like bacon. Amusingly, we actually did see formations that were called cave bacon, cave popcorn, and soda straws. Do you think God ever chuckles about stuff like that? I imagine a potter painstakingly shaping a work of art and handing it to a child. “It looks like bacon!” the child shouts. And thus, the awe is made equal to a slab of crispy pork. Humans are funny. 

Speaking of funny humans, there are none more entertaining than in the town of Roswell. I can’t say that Roswell captures the same worshipful atmosphere as Carlsbad Caverns, but nevertheless we enjoyed our time there. Obliging the tourism of the town, we began with an alien museum tour. I’ve never been quite sure what to think about aliens, so I alternated between giggling at the statues and fascination with the displays. There were certainly some compelling narratives about alien experiences in Rosewell. It was fascinating! Tyler is a very patient husband, so he followed me into Roswell’s Goodwill after we were done with the museum. I had expected a slew of alien memorabilia in the thrift store. Instead, I stumbled across a pretty southwest cardigan that I immediately purchased. I was very pleased with my Roswell keepsake! 

We are accustomed to tiny towns out West, so we were startled at the size of Roswell. In comparison to my hometown of 20,000 people, Roswell has 48,000. Every part of the town leans into the alien identity. Mexican restaurants had aliens wearing sombreros. Donut shops had aliens wearing chef hats. A Dominos had a 12-foot alien statue holding the pizza shop’s logo. A Dunkin’ Donuts sign was a massive alien holding the sign overhead. McDonald’s was even shaped like a UFO! It was delightful.

We rounded out the night with dinner at the cowboy-themed Cattle Baron restaurant. I love places like this. Leather chaps hung on the wall. A mounted bison head overlooked the diners. The light fixtures were wagon wheels and the door handles were cattle brands. Best of all, many of the diners were actual cowboys. One man, sitting with his daughters, looked as though he’d just come from the range. He wore a Carhartt vest over his black and white flannel shirt. His beard was salt and pepper. His black cowboy hat was pulled low over steel-grey eyes that looked as though they’d spent a lifetime gazing for dust storms on the horizon. Having grown up on a healthy diet of Clint Eastwood and Gunsmoke, Tyler and I know how to recognize a cowboy. This man was a cowboy through and through. 

When we finally got around to eating instead of people-watching, I accidentally gave us a cultural experience. When we had bellied up to the buffet, I had excitedly grabbed a big scoop of french fries. Looking forward to some unhealthy carbs, these were the first thing I ate when we returned to our table. My initial bite was cold and crunchy. In confusion, I looked down at the thing. Clearly, it wasn’t a french fry. I tried another bite, then gave one to Tyler to try. They looked like potato sticks, but they were crunchy like an apple. They tasted a little like apple too, but not as sweet. Now intrigued, I asked our waitress about them. Turns out I had grabbed myself some jicama. Jicama is a root vegetable grown in Mexico. The outside looks like a brown beet, the inside looks like potato, and they taste like apple. Most people like them sliced up and sprinkled with chili powder. After my expectations were appropriately shifted from potato to jicama, I enjoyed it!

We ended our day with bellies full of jicama (in my case) and minds full of wonder. There’s so much to see in the world. We are truly blessed!