On top of the mountain there are several lakes, but they are really much more than lakes, for they are nestled in dolines, large, funnel-shaped depressions normally with drains (and caves¡) at the bottom.

However, on this mountain top some of the

drains became plugged, creating several solitary lakes which have given this spot the name Lagunillas, The Lagoons ... “What about the Dolines that aren’t plugged up?” we wondered. “Why do the people of J___ call the whole limestone mountain top The Hollow Land?” It sounded more than promising, so, even though the rainy season, is not the caving season, we decided to go have a look.

Since the lakes can only be reached by a two-hour climb from the, village of J___, we planned on backpacking up and spending two nights camped next to one of the beautiful lakes en the solitary mountain top.

While Susy and I drove behind in our Jeep, Mano and Jesús brought the promise of excitement and mystery to the trip, for they were piloting Mano’s newly purchased, used VW Caribe (Rabbit in the USA) on its maiden long-distance voyage.

The theory was that if this car could survive one of our typical caving trips, without a doubt it could be pronounced roadworthy. Mano’s vehicle did quite well during the first hour as we whizzed over asphalted roads with no hazard greater than an occasional gapping pothole or stray steer. It kept chugging along, too, over, the dusty dirt road where we spent the next two hours bumping our way up and down steep hills alongside perilous precipices and across several shallow rivers. However, when we finally got good and far from civilization, the Caribe-Rabbit suddenly screeched to a halt (is its possible to screech at 5 MPH). both doors flew open and out leaped Mano and Jesus onto the road followed by a huge could of white smoke billowing forth from inside the car.

Susy and I had been following right behind in the Jeep, ready to pick up any pieces that should fall off Mano’s precious new possession. As we approached, Jesús reemerged from the smoky interior with something in his hand. “It’s just a fuse” he said, showing us a most curious piece of half-melted plastic. “You mean it was a fuse” I commented.

‘Nothing is left but the metal strip. If it was hot enough to melt plastic, why didn’t this thing blow like fuses are supposed to? ...” We eventually discovered that all of the car’s fuses contained the same indestructible, unmeltable metal strips, no doubt manufactured by some local entrepreneur who got tired of changing “those damn German fuses that keep blowing all the time.”

We also discovered that Mano now had no headlights, but as it was daytime, we weren’t toe concerned and continued on down the winding road to J___. Just as we were about to cross the great patch of mud that welcomed visitors at the edge of town.

The Caribe halted and once again discharged Mano and Jesús followed by another huge white cloud, only this time it came from under the hood. Fortunately, the cloud was merely steam from a broken radiator hose, which we quickly fixed by cutting an inch of one end. That was when asked Mano if anyone had looked over the car before, or at least after he had purchased it. Yes, he said, a mechanic had inspected it, but maybe not too thoroughly..

Once we parked the cars, our luck changed. To increase the chances that our vehicles would be still be there after returning from the mountain.

We asked a man in a nearby doorway if we could leave them in the street for a few nights. He said it would be all right, and, by the way, we were welcome to camp up around Lagunillas which just happened to be his property! We thanked the man and asked about caves. He replied that there were so many difficult to describe them all.

That was why the pastures just beyond the lakes are locally known as Las Tierras Huecas, The Hollow Land.

He did, however, specifically describe a hole where you could hear a thrown rock bounce for a long time before finally splashing into water far below ... all year round. This news seemed to justify Jesús’ contention that on top (literally) of all our camping gear, we ought to backpack up all of our ropes.

I suggested that the 100 meters one would be enough, but Jesús offered to carry the entire, full, 20-ton rope bag all by himself. “Live and learn,” I figured. Half way up the mountain, we heard the first clap of thunder...

Unfortunately, only Susy got to witness that was undoubtedly the most memorable scene of the whole trip, which occurred during the heaviest downpour of the storm that attacked us on the way up.

Three of us had been resting under the sparse shelter of some tall bushes and when Jesús didn’t show up for a while, Susy, whose wet pecked merely weighed 3000 pounds (far less than the others,) slogged her way back around the bend below us and there found Jesús tipped over backwards, his two gigantic packs on the ground and his feet in the air! if ever a Mexican caver deserved the Moctezuma award for long-suffering, but avoidable torture, it’s Jesús. At last, an hour after sunset, we reached the edge of the largest lake, where we were granted a half-hour of clear skies to set up our tents. That night I -slept like a rock while Susy slept on the rocks, her air mattress having, sprung a leak.

Oddly enough, the next evening I found the mattresses had been switched, affording me many fine sleepless opportunities to get up and chase away visiting horses and cows during the night.

Next morning the sun shone brightly and we set off for a resumidero (natural drainhole) we had discovered on a short visit some months earlier. This hole is at the side of a small doline just past the second lake.

We dumped a few thousand meters of cord from the famous rope bag, tied on to a tree, and made our way into the resumidero. It turned out we only needed about 30 meters of all that rope, even though we went down past six different levels.

But at the bottom of the seventh, we found a small hole choked with boulders and debris. The water obviously continued beyond this point, but it was the end of the trail for us.

This hole, however, had other features which confirmed our enthusiastic speculations about the entire area, for the room at the bottom of the seven level was half-covered with a fine variety of speleothems: white flowstone, golden curtains and a sprinkling of stalactites.

What might be waiting us once we’ve found our way down to the water table? The rest of the day was to have been dedicated to finding the super-deep pit described by the landowner ... however , a few rumbles from the sky turned out to be harbingers of several other powerful storms awaiting their chance to catch us off guard. To make a long story short, our only discovery that day was made during one of the sun-drenched lulls between storms, when the lake was investigated for swimability and found to merit three stars, not for the murkiness of its reddish water, but for the softness of the grassy bottom around the shoreline.

When we finally headed back down the mountain, we got all the sunshine and blue skies we had wanted on the days before. The cow trail we always follow was a sea of black mud a foot deep, giving us plenty of time to observe and collect some of the many unusual plants and insects we came upon.

By the time we got to the bottom, we all needed a cool drink, especially Jesús (still panting beneath the soggy rope bag). By the purest of chances (anywhere else but Mexico¡) we stumbled into the shop of an amiable old-timer who was most interested in our exploration. He knew of several large, well-decorated caves on the mountain top.

One of these, however, he suggested we not visit, as “Thirty people have contracted histoplasmosis from it.”

Certainly of those thirty people is Don Leautaud of CEO, the man who first got us hunting in this area and who had long ago warned us of a cave. Oddly enough the old-timer insisted there is no bat guano in “Histo Cave.” He also kindly offered to show us the other Caves “any time we want” and wished us well in our treasure-hunting adventures.” We explained that we weren’t looking for gold but always dragged tons of gear up mountains, mainly for the pleasure of measuring dark, tight crawlways full of mud and bats.

Then we paid for our drinks and left. “¡Hasta luego!” shouted the kindly caballero, “and next time don’t forget your metal-detector!”

The crafty Caribe-Rabbit was suspiciously well behaved as we cautiously exited J.___ past the mud and over the narrow bridge without a guardrail. Then, after twenty minutes of steady uphill driving, we decided we must have gotten all the bugs out of it, for it was going to overheat. It would surely at that precise moment, the perverse machine spouted a new geyser, of scalding steam.

We lifted the hood and discovered that another water hose had split, but this time the long way¡ On top of that, steam could be seen leaking from what appeared to be a wad of ... gulp, surely it was epoxy and not chewing gum ... plugging what looked like a (shudder) hole in the engine block¡ Ah, dear reader you are about to say “and that was the end of that¡ They al piled into the Jeep and went home.” But no, yet forget these events occurred in México, where the Great Provider Up Above stations 98% of the heavenly hordes, mainly to keep cars from falling off hairpin mountain curves, but also to straighten out messes like this one. ¡Si, amigos! Not more than five seconds later, steam still hanging in the air, we are visited by an overload truckful of assorted goods, animals and people, one of whom just happened to be a mechanic from the next village, where he just happened to know a used radiator-hose salesman who might just happen to have the size we needed.

And so it happened! But, several hours later, once we had that used hose installed, ¡it occurred to me to wonder aloud why the engine had turned into a steam generator “maybe,” I was told, it’s because the engine fan hasn’t been turning lately.”

That surely being the understatement of the year. We decided to investigate the errant, electrical fan and found it unwilling to spin due to a bad connection, which in turn, appeared to have been provoked by the car battery, which was not clamped in a fixed spot like your ordinary battery, but unshackled and free to roam about the engine compartment, happily bouncing to and for in a shower or sparks and electrolyte.

Once we got the varmint lashed down and the fan, headlights and other useful components reconnected, the incredible Caribe began to behave likely a model of virtue and, still under the protection of our heavenly umbrella, we peacefully wended our way back home.