Great Grandpa and the Caves of Yellow Rock

Every region of the world has its own geography. Beachfronts, prairie lands, deserts, mountainous cascades, fertile farmlands, variegated arctic and equatorial contrasts, glacial highlands, tundras, tropical rainforests, and the Eastern Kentucky hills where my own kin were born and raised, forming a filial chain those traces back to Daniel Boone and the era of the pioneers.

In a few minutes here I want to share one of the features of this region where my great-grandfather Grant Newman was born, lived and died, specifically the abundance of caves and caverns in what is known as Kentucky's Cumberland Plateau near Yellow Rock. The caves are the result of a specific geological phenomenon called karst topography.

My great-grandfather's home sat on the side of a mountain above the meandering Kentucky River just across from the quarry in Yellow Rock, in Lee County, 75 miles southeast of Lexington. In addition to the quarry, Yellow Rock featured a post office and maybe five residences. Historically recorded in geological and federal mine datasets as the Yellow Rock Mine & Mill (or Yellow Rock Quarry), the site's primary commodity was crushed and broken stone used for local construction, roads, and infrastructure aggregates. Visiting my great-grandfather's place on the mountain is one of the fond memories from my childhood. 

View from Kentucky River at Yellow Rock
House is visible in upper right quadrant.

To reach my great-grandpa's property by car you had to find the trail that ran down from the Spencer Fork Road that snaked along the crest of the mountain. Once you descended through the canopy of forest--mostly hardwoods of the beech, poplar, hickory, black walnut, maple and buckeye varieties, along with a smattering of pines--the trail would flare out to unveil his miscellaneous outbuildings and two-story ramshackle home.

I can't remember all the animals he kept--chickens, a dog, maybe cats--though the two massive hogs were to be definitely avoided. He must have had a cow because I seem to recall a butter churn. He also had an abundance of mice. My cousin Gary, brother Ron and I slept upstairs in the double bed and throughout the night we could hear the scampering of little feet about our bed. We made sure none of our sheets or blankets hung down to the floor.  

At one time great-grandpa had a couple rattlesnakes which he used to "milk" to keep them from being deadly. I was told that on one occason he went too long between "milkings" and got bit by his now-venomous rattler. He not only survived the bite, it also cured him of his rheumatism. As descendants of Daniel Boone I remembered from my research that Squire Boone, Daniel's father, suffered from rheumatism. For years that factoid made me wonder if rheumatism were genetic. I've since learned it was an informal, non-medical term used to describe a range of painful conditions affecting joints, muscles and connective tissues.

Great grandpa raised eleven kids on the side of this mountain. Roscoe, my grandfather, was the firstborn. His story and many others may appear in some other collection of digressions. What interested me at this moment were the caves that permeated this part of the country along with a few associated memories.

These Eastern Kentucky caves were formed in limestone left behind by an ancient sea more than 300 million years ago. Over time, slightly acidic rainwater seeped through cracks and slowly dissolved the rock, enlarging them into tunnels and caverns. Protective sandstone layers helped preserve the caves. Later, dripping mineral-rich water created stalactites, stalagmites and other formations which you will see in abundance at Mammoth Cave National Park southwest of Louisville.

The week we were at my great-grandpa's in the 1960s, my dad told us about a cave across the river that his dad showed him when he was young. To get there we scrambled down the side of the mountain on a path that led to the river. There my brother Ron, cousin Gary and I found an old rowboat with a oars and a little shovel in it. The oars were for rowing, of course, and we quickly understood the presence of the shovel. The boat leaked. If you weren't rowing you were shovelling.

The brown, languid water flowed without enthusiasm, but our hearts raced, eager to find the mouth of that cave as if it were a family heirloom. Once we reached the other side we tugged the skiff up into the weeds and headed off on our quest.

The post office and quarry were off to our left, but Dad said to cross the road and follow the railroad track along the base of the mountain to the right. The distance was perhaps a couple football fields. The opening, he said, was so low that you couldn't crawl in on your hands and knees. You'd have to scoot on your belly about ten feet before the cavern opened up and you could explore.

Armed with flashlights, we walked a ways along the track looking for some clue as to where the entrance might be. Spying the opening became challenging because of the brambles, witch hazel, weeds, shrubs and flora that flourished at the base of the mountain. After a while we supposed we'd missed it and began tracking back in the direction of the post office. I don't whether it was my cuz or my brother who first spotted it, but there it was. Five minutes later we were inside the mountain, armed with flashlights.

Temps in these caves generally hover around 48 to 54 degrees F. The feeling is distinctive as is the smell--clean, chill and intensely earthy. With no solar energy to evaporate the moisture the air is heavily scented, crisp and tangy from the limestone and calcite.

But the big thrill is the absolute darkness once you turn off your flashlights. 

This particular cave may have been 20 feet high or more. Though narrow at the base where we scrambled over rocks, it may have been 20 feet wide or more. Up ahead it was like a long tentacle wending its way through the mountain. We explored but never went as far as we might have been able.

At one point a train passed while we were in the cave and the mountain trembled.  

On another day we located some other caves not far from our great-grandpa's house. He told us to be careful. He once had a hunting dog that chased an animal into one of those caves and got lost in there. For three days he could hear his hound howling until one day it stopped and he knew he would never see it again.

Nevertheless, having been forewarned, we did enter one of these caves. It had a low opening and my cousin went first I believe. Around ten feet inside there was ledge and a large room, but also a dropoff so you couldn't go any further forward or to the left or right. When you shone your light down over the edge we could see a rotted ladder. In other words, someone had been here and used that ladder to climb down further into the cave. What if there was treasure in the cave? Well, we weren't the ones to go looking for it. 

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