This gap, an eroded crack in the rock, was about eight feet wide at the top, 12 feet (3.5m) deep,
and wide enough at the bottom to walk in. Falling into it would likely be a one-way trip: there
was no way out, unless its far end opened up, but even if it did open up, the slope it opened up
to was too steep to descend safely (I had seen that slope when exploring the first garden).

Being stranded at the bottom, having fallen in, would be a sobering experience. The only ways
to get anyone’s attention would be with a cell phone (which I had but would probably be useless),
an emergency locator beacon (which I didn’t have), or a whistle (which I had). Shouting was out
of the question because it quickly tires the voice and is generally not loud enough to be of
value. I pictured myself, with clothes waded over my ears, blowing my super-loud Storm whistle
every minute and hoping that its sound was heard by someone.

But who would be close enough and free of nearby noise enough to hear any sounds emanating from
this pit? Only one group of people came to mind: campers and bicyclists on Potash Road.
(Mountain bicyclists on the Poison Spider Trail were probably too far away and too infrequent
to be of any help.) In other words, the outlook about getting someone’s attention was poor.

Thus it was a great consolation that my wife knew where I was, what kind of car I was driving,
and how to notify the local county sheriff should I fail to phone her as arranged that night.
Rescuers would at least know my general location and figure out---based on the location of the
car---where I had gone. There was only one route leading to my location, so they would
eventually---sometime the following day---get as high as the garden’s access bench, from which
they could hear my whistle-blowing. My food and water supply would last until the next day,
and I could survive the night with the spare clothing in my pack. Even so, the thought
of being in that situation was nightmarish! I stayed clear of the rounded precipice.
.