The Sinkhole Saga Continues

Four weeks ago, my dog broke her toe, running through the woods.

She was utterly uncooperative about wearing the splint, and I was reprehensibly irresponsible about limiting her activity. So, just about the time we would now be thinking maybe we could take the splint off, she's running around the yard, occasionally re-injuring it and hopping around on three legs. (Lest you think me completely inhumane, I've been assured by at least three different veterinarians that it will heal, splintless.)

I could only wish my sinkhole, which occurred the very next day after the fracture, had as much potential for self-healing.

Not long after my last post, my husband & I decided we should really take matters into our own hands and find out just how much trouble we were dealing with. We'd already excavated the rim of the sinkhole, so at least the sides were unlikely to cave in on us. Still, we poked at the bottom with a stick, safely, from the sinkhole's rim, so we could now see the Gateway to Hell a little more clearly:

To help orient you, the above photo was taken looking straight down at the deepest part of the hole. Here, let my genius dog, Loki, help point it out to you (note the climbing rope in the lower left corner, ominously foreshadowing things to come):

So, what we're looking at, in the upper photo, is a line of 3 (or more!...??...!!!) railroad tie-sized beams, the middle of which has collapsed downward, allowing the soil to rush in, thereby spontaneously self-excavating my backyard one sunny summer afternoon, lo, not so very long ago.

OK, well, that seems easy enough (if a little on the chain-gang, back-breaking end of the spectrum) to rectify. But oughtn't we try to find out how big that hole actually is under there? Since the specialists (insurance company, engineers) left it up to us to manage this project on our own. Our main goals were, in the following order: a) not die; b) keep all our limbs intact and attached to our bodies; and c) try to find out what's down there.  This is what we ended up with, technique-wise:

So, the climbing rope (blue) is kind of obvious. It's attached to a climbing harness (have I mentioned I've climbed maybe twice in my life, both times in an air-conditioned gym?), which is in turn attached to a carabiner on our shed, then to my husband. The mini-backpack I'm wearing was some ill-founded idea on my part that my husband should have something to grab onto on my front end to pull me out if it came to that. How I ever thought a 1-inch plastic buckle from REI was going to save my life, I'm not sure. But knowing REI's generous return policy, in the unlikely event of my demise, at least he could return it and get a nice hiking pole out the deal, I guess.

As it turns out, I was way too wimpy to even put my head and shoulders down far enough to learn anything valuable. I kept thinking of the beams collapsing and trapping my arm (or head), and though I guess I probably COULD chew through my arm to free myself (as did a character in a recent Carl Hiassen novel I've been reading), I'd rather not. Leave all that "127 Hours" stuff to the real climbers, and James Franco.

So my husband & I switched places, and he went in the hole. He is taller than I, and far more intrepid, especially after I'd already jumped around on the beams for about twenty minutes without falling in. The photo is blurry because I'm a crap photographer, especially when I'm simultaneously belaying my husband in an effort to prevent his being buried alive:

His arms were long enough (and heart stout enough) that he was able to stick a camera down through the hole and take some photographs. This is what we saw:

It turns out there's been a whole fucking CHAMBER under our backyard the entire time we've lived here! And although we quickly ascertained it was simply an old septic crib that had never been properly filled in, these were the images that went through my head:

I mean, there's even a pipe high on the wall to prevent suffocation of the captives!

My husband says I'm morbid. These are the thoughts that went through his head:

We're still discussing that last one. Providing a wine cellar is not ultimately elected, however, the next task, obviously, is to fill in the hole. And no matter how many ways I've spun it, I can not figure out a way to make gravel go sideways far enough to fill up an eight-foot wide chamber. Strangely enough, once we knew what we were dealing with, we ultimately found professionals who would help us (for a fee, of course). It turns out Life is a little like a Google search; you have to key in the proper key words to find what you're seeking. The proper search term in this case is "excavation."

As of this writing, we have three different bids from three different excavation contractors, ranging from about-reasonable, to less-reasonable, to there-goes-my-Vespa-idea.  And, unlike Goldilocks,

my choice isn't so straightforward as preferred temperature. I mean, what's the difference between a repair for $1000, and a repair for $7000? Does the high-dollar repair come with a Bulgari watch? Is the low-dollar guy gonna show up lookin' like this guy?

I have some experience, after all, with the consequences of cutting corners. It rarely ends well. For instance, just a couple bucks for another yard of fabric could've made the whole difference for this lovely bride:

On the other hand, how different can it be to dig a hole, break up a bunch of timbers, and fill it back in? If I had a backhoe of my own, I might even try it myself. Of course, I've also had some experience with the consequences of DIY, as well:

So that is where we leave you today, dear readers: in a quandary. Do you truly get what you pay for? Or is a hole just a hole just a hole?

Stay tuned for (hopefully soon) the final chapters of our saga!