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| Alex Sproul |
Alex Sproul, Paul Hebbert, Bill Royster, Stave Garberand an unidentified soul preparing to adventure forth. Photo uncredited. |
Bob Roller, archtyptcal "DOM". Photo by P. C. Lucas. |
"Tab1" I was introduced to caving as a sport in 1958 or 1959 through the Exploring program of the BSA and my Post Advisor and cousin, Hugh Sproul (who shortly thereafter joined the Army and disappeared). We adopted "Mountaineering" (i.e. caving and rock climbing) as our post speciality, and Hugh taught us well, the basics of safety and good rope work. We became proficient in the carabiner-wrap rappel (always used a prusik safety and bottom belay), but our climbing efforts were primarily directed at free--climbing and piton work. Manila rope was always preferred over sisal (too prickly and of questionable strength), and while nylon was definitely too dynamic, for use as a climbing rope, it found extensive use as slings and swiss seats. I can't recall ever using a rope to climb out of a cave; we would rappel in and use the rope as a static belay for a free climb out. Even in those days of rampant graffiti, we used only reflective tape arrows to mark our routes, although we blithely dumped and/or buried our carbide anywhere it would be out of sight. I recall being called on this once and being embarrassed about it. Camping overnight in Breathing Cave, we buried our carbide and garbage in the sleeping rooms; returning the following weekend, we found garbage strewn all over the room by the pack rats and a small, neatly-lettered wooden sign that said: "IF YOU CAN'T PACK IT OUT, AT LEAST BURY IT DEEPER. Nittany Grotto."
Probably the hub of caving activity in the Shenandoah Valley in those days was Oscar Estes of Staunton. It was he who was the primary collector of data, swapper of tall tales, and dispenser of good leads. An active caver in the earlier days, by the midsixties his health had tied him to this armchair.
Our caving was pretty well restricted to the local area, our primary habitat being Bath and Highland Counties. To anyone who frequented these areas during the 1960's, no account of caving in Virginia would be complete without at least a chapter on Bob Roller. That archetypical 'dirty old man" lived halfway between Williamsville and Marshall's Cave in a small, very rustic cabin literally wallpapered with Playboy foldouts and carpeted with gin bottles. Over the years, Bob probably hosted more cavers than all NSS Conventions combined. Christmas vacation would find over a hundred cavers from as far as Pittsburgh or Atlanta camped all over his place for a brawl that would rival any Old Timers'. His hoary, toothless grin, and shuffling gait will always be remembered by the thousands who knew him.
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