The cold, windy drive from Leye took us through karst valleys and then up along the shoulders of steep mountains, past limestone caves and stone forests to a small town gate. Beyond the gate was Huo Mai, a pleasant village of around 240 people. Down the hill, past the main square, and past the “experience picking garden” we were quickly on a dirt country road that hugged close to the side of a towering karst peak.
The road wrapped around and swung down the other side of the mountain in a smooth arc, terminating at another village tucked into the valley between two tall peaks. Just past the curve, we found a staircase of chipped stone leading to a narrow stone ridge path. In the middle of the mountain was a large white and gray limestone scar where part of the peak had calved off into the valley, revealing the dark, musty maw of a deep cave. Above the cave opening were deeply carved Chinese characters painted in a faded red. At the cave opening was a metal gate that had been securely bolted shut, but, either due to human intervention or rusting or both, it was free from its hinges and hung awkwardly from its padlock.
In front of us was a troupe of young and excited Chinese who had begun the precipitous journey into the darkness. We could clearly hear their trompings below and part of their group was still standing at the top of the stairs, nervously peering down the dilapidated staircase and the seemingly impenetrable blackness beyond it. Halfway down the stairs, their lead party turned around and in a rush of echoes we were alone in the cave.
Putting on our headlamps and staring down into the cave we could see nothing. Flashing our camera strobes at pull power there was a barely discernible railed plateau and second staircase, beyond which was again blackness. We spent a long time examining risk and our own desires to descend or stay up before we decided to go down.