Any views expressed by any contributor to the Belfry
Bulletin, including those of officers of the club, do not necessarily coincide
with those of the editor or the committee of the Bristol Exploration Club,
unless stated as being the view of the committee or editor.
Contents
- 1
- 2 Editorial
- 3 Stal under the Severn
- 4
- 5 Europe 73
- 6
- 7 Belfry Sub-Committee
- 8 Publications
- 9 Fred Davies Forty?
- 10
- 11 Birks Fell
- 12
- 13 Annual Report of the B B L H & S R G
- 14
- 15 Round and About
- 16 Change Of Address
- 17
- 18 Last & First
- 19
- 20 G.G. Episode
- 21
- 22 Langstroth Pot The Rescue
- 23
- 24 The Coolite
- 25 Monthly Crossword Number 39.
Club Headquarters
The Belfry,
Rd.
Club Committee
Chairman: S.J.
Collins
Minutes Sec: To be appointed.
Members: B. Wilton; D.J. Irwin;
D. Stuckey; N. Jago; A.R. Thomas; N. Taylor; G. Wilton-Jones; M. Bishop
Officers Of The Club
Hon. Secretary: A.R.
THOMAS, Allens House,
Barrows Lane
Hon. Treasurer: B.
Caving Sec: D. STUCKEY, 34 Allington
Rd, Southville, Bristol
Climbing Sec: N. Jago, 27 Quantock Rd,
Windmill Hill, Bedminster, Bristol 3.
Hut Warden: N. TAYLOR, Whiddons,
Chilcote,
Hut Engineer: M. BISHOP, Islay, 98 Winsley Hill, Limpley Stoke,
Tacklemaster: G. WILTON-JONES, 17
Monkhams Drive, Watton, Thetford,
B.B. Editor: S.J. COLLINS, Lavender
Cottage, Bishop Sutton, Nr. Bristol. Tele. CHEW MAGNA 2915.
Librarian: D.J. IRWIN, Townsend
Cottage, Priddy, Wells,
Publications: To be appointed
B.B. Post: B.
MENDIP RESCUE ORGANISATION. In case of emergency telephone WELLS 73481. This will shortly become a 999 service. We will let members know when this starts to
operate.
Editorial
Christmas B. B.
This Christmas B,B, is, of course, late – and for many
readers it will be a case of ‘Happy New Year’ rather than ‘Merry
Christmas’. It is 20 pages – and that
again is hardly a record.
However, it is seldom that I can remember a set of articles
of such general interest making up a B.B. with so little ‘padding’. We have three caving articles – twp of which
describe situations which could have got so much more awkward than they did,
and for which I suspect credit must go to the members involved who in each
case, kept their heads. In addition, we
have a travel article, a climbing and skiing article and one which purports to
be humorous.
Add this to Dave Irwin’s new series of general caving
interest, and a few other bits and pieces, and we have a B.B. which contains
some reasonable reading matter. A word
of thanks to all the authors of these and all the other articles this year.
Sorting the Men from the Boys?
We write at a time when petrol rationing looms over the New
Years horizon and things look a trifle gloomy. If all these things actually come to pass in 1974, it might pay us to
remember that last time we went through a period of austerity – just after the
war, when things were a lot worse than they were during it – B.E.C. membership
rocketed upwards, and the club was never busier. The ingenuity of club members in getting to
Mendip was proverbial. We can, if need be, do it again.
Stal under the
Severn
A small ‘Space filler’
by the Editor.
Last September I had an opportunity to visit the new tunnel
for electrical transmission lines, which has been driven under the
The tunnel has three entrances. One on the Gloucestershire side, one between
the two rivers and one on the other side of the Wye. It was this last entrance that I descended.
The 90 foot entrance pitch is descended via a very small
lift, into which people are crammed like sardines. It operates on a rack and pinion principle
and sways its way downwards. On arrival
at the bottom, the main tunnel starts. This is 8 feet in diameter, but one has to share this space with the
drainage channel – on top of which one walks – and six very large transmission
lines about 14″ diameter, which line the walls. The whole tunnel, which is concrete lined,
leaks at quite an impressive rate. Some
parts are distinctly wet with very heavy drip, and you get quite wet. The rate of leakage is of the order of a
hundred gallons an hour.
An impressive quantity of stal, is in process of
formation. Some is, of course, the soft
evaporation type which is normally found under bridges and in cellars – but
some is quite hard and much more like cave stal. I noticed the start of curtains (about a
quarter of an inch long so far) some of which had ‘shark’s tooth’ edges. In one area there are some rudimentary small
gours on a bank and also the type of ‘cauliflower’ stal flow like that in the
main gorge of G.B. All this, of course,
is on a minute scale to date. I even
found some helicities, but these were of soft stal and perhaps really were
anemolites.
I shall try to wangle another visit in a few years’ time as
by then, if the present trends continue, the Severn Transmission Tunnel may be
the only place noted for its wealth and beauty of cave formations!
Europe 73
Colin Sage’s report on his trip
abroad, for which he obtained some assistance from the Ian Dear Memorial Fund
Well, thanks to the generosity of the administrators of the
Ian Dear Memorial Fund, I managed to see part of
this year. With fifty quid in my pocket and clutching a one way air ticket to
on Monday the 16th of July.
On consideration now, I think it wasn’t such a ‘great’ thing
to do; after all, people are hitching their way through countries such as
and
and I was only crossing the channel. One
the other hand, I hadn’t visited a foreign country before (apart from
it was a bit of an adventure.
I stayed my first night in
and on the following day flew from Gatwick to Schiphol airport; supposedly the
most modern in the Western world – but my pack soon jammed up the conveyor belt
which delivers passengers’ luggage – thus ending that claim; I caught a bus to
central
and found some accommodation quite easily. The following days, I spent looking around; the most interesting sights
being the Van Gogh Museum; the Stedeljik Museum and the red light district –
the latter being the most expensive. All
the streets in this area had hundreds of women (no exaggeration!) lining each
side, selling their wares. Prices? On enquiry I found out that they start at 30
guilders (approx. £5) for a fifteen minute conversation.
I suppose the highlight of my stay in
Heineken Brewery. It is such a desirable
visit that one has to start queuing at around nine in the morning, but I
certainly recommend it in spite of the wait. A quick look round the works (the guides don’t bore you with
technicalities – they know you’re only there for one thing!) and then you’re into
the staff canteen with half an hour to sup as much as you want. Waiters bring round the halves of lager (not
too efficiently, it should be said!). They must have known that a B.E.C. member was there. However, by asking (telling?) the plentiful
American tourists for their drinks, it is possible to down about four pints in
the time allowed. The waiters have a
really nice way of kicking you out – that is, they snatch your glass out of
your hand, especially if it is full. Still, for one guilder (15p) it is a nice way to spend a morning.
The next day, I moved to
to see a collection of Van Gogh’s works – then to
unimpressive apart from its harbour (the second busiest in the world.) Finally, I arrived in
right down in Southern Holland in the enclave that juts between
particularly noticeable in the architecture of the buildings, especially the
churches. Another reason for visiting
the town was to visit the extensive series of catacombs of St.
Pietersburg. These catacombs have been
mined since Roman times, when they were first used to provide stone for
fortresses but – apart from the occasional blasting by the Netherlands Cement
industry – they are now no longer used. However, they are particularly interesting for the visitor.
Covering stone walls are some huge works of art, especially
portraits of the royal family and such notables as Voltaire Sir Walter Scott
and Napoleon have all inscribed their names in the soft rock. The catacombs have a total length of over 200
km and stretch over part of
years ago and the authorities, determined to stamp out this practice, sent
groups of policemen underground. However, the smugglers, knowing every passage like the back of their
hands, had no difficulty in making detours to avoid the gangs of shouting
singing, lamp-swinging policemen. Now,
of course, in the days of the E.E.C., smuggling no longer exists.
Anyway, I next headed for
but ended up in Anhverpen, then hitched into
so I didn’t really get to know
I met a guy from
on the border and we stuck together for a bit. In fact, he was very useful because he could speak fluent German,
French, English and Dutch. We spent a
night in
France, but we were very lucky and we made
stay, and after a few metro journeys and a lot of walking, we found a
relatively cheap hotel. That night, all
the people in the hotel went out for a meal and I had my first decent meal since
leaving
with chips and a salad and ice cream with loads of bread and a bottle of red
wine. Total self-indulgence! Luckily, this restaurant is known to be the
cheapest in
and for 11 francs 50 (£1.15) it was certainly worth it. Not only the food but the atmosphere of the
place and the people, the whole scene impressed me immensely.
The next few days were crammed with the maximum amount of
sightseeing. The Louvre (the Mona Lisa
was a disappointment) Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Jeu de Paume Museum, Notre
Dame cathedral, Luxemburg Gardens and the Catacombs (there will be an article
in the B.B. on these – Ed.). I really
enjoyed
and would have liked to have stayed longer but time and finances did not
permit. In fact,
The three of us (Whoops! What a give away!) had decided to hitch down to Marseille for sun, sea
birds, wine etc. On the way we slept out
behind service stations or under trees – but we got there in the end. It was a b
. to get out of
hitchers in mind.
Marseille. Midden of
the South. A more horrible, filthy,
violent, unfriendly city I have never seen. As we were moving south, I had this vision of a huge expanse of blue
water – the Mediterranean Sea – but the first thing I saw on the coast was a
petrol refinery pouring out filth with all the surrounding beaches dirty and
the water full of empty bottles. It
strikes me that either there are a lot of shipwrecked people on lots of islands
waiting to be saved or that the French don’t give a damn about their
environment. I think the latter is the
most probable.
We stayed in Marseille for a week, swimming and sunbathing
and drinking dirt cheap wine that tasted like dirt.
Finally, we split up. I moved West towards the
the other two went to St. Tropez.
Hitching out of Marseille was difficult. I spent the best part of a day going 20 km
and was in the process of giving up when I got a lift that I was soon to
regret. I had only been standing at a
particular spot for a few minutes when a van came along and stopped. Using 90% of my French vocabulary and
muttering “Je suis aller a
I stumbled into the van, dragging my pack after me. Inside the van were half a dozen kids, the
oldest of which was doing the manoeuvring. The rest of the space inside was taken up by boxes of fruit. What followed could only be compared to
something out of the ‘Keystone Cops’ films. Most of the corners were negotiated on a maximum of two wheels and we
would go along straight roads swaying from side to side. Trying desperately to sound as casual as possible
I enquired why we were travelling in such a manner (being careful not to use
the word ‘dangerous’) Its because we’ve got a flat tyre.” came the reply
in French.
“Oh! I said
I decided to stick it out for as long as possible and we
finally made it to
demolished some road works in
on the way. After that, I thought that
nothing could frighten me, but only the very next day.
I stayed with the kids overnight and then next day got a
good lift to
city, but I made it to Tarbes where I stayed a night in the most modern Youth
Hostel I have ever seen. I noticed that
the people were much friendlier now, quite striking after Marseille. When I arrived at Orolon St. Marie, people
seemed surprised that I was hitching in the
alone. A grocer gave me a bag of bruised
fruit and a man offered to buy me a beer – everybody was really friendly.
Now I was nearing my destination – Saint Engrace. Waiting about twenty minutes, I got a lift
all the way. The people who gave me the
left bought me a beer in a cafe and then took me right to the campsite. I had finally arrived.
My first impression on arrival at the camp site was that a
bomb had hit the place. I later learned
that it was always like that. Most of
the people were either at the EDF hut or on the plateau, but I soon learned the
position from Albert (?) and others.
A group of Poles had gone down Tete Sauvage on the Monday
and had not returned. Bill Brooks had
gone in the EDF early on Wednesday and hadn’t found them. The remaining Poles decided to get a rescue
together, but things were very disorganised. That night, I crashed out reasonably early.
Next morning, I awoke to a torrent of abuse being directed
at some unfortunate who had chanced to cross the path of the person who was
screaming the abuse. For a moment I
thought I was in the Belfry and then, realising that in fact I was under
canvas, I crawled from my tent to face a most horrible sight. Camping next to me was NIGEL TAYLOR. Further down were Ken James and Aubrey
(W.C.C.)
That morning, I was elected (by Nigel) to climb the nearest
mountain (we were surrounded by the things) with a walkie talkie and try to set
up some form of communication with the plateau. After a hair raising climb, I found the battery in my radio was flat and
so, most annoyed, I went back to the camp site, meeting Dave Yeandle on the
way. The remainder of that day and the
subsequent days, I festered away because of the position with the Poles being
stuck and nobody really knowing what was going on.
Finally, the Poles were located and rescued after being
underground for six days, and I finally managed to go caving. With Dave and Carol Tringham and a guy called
Jonah, I made my first descent of the P.S.M. We went in EDF up to the Lepineux shaft and back, which took us eight
and a quarter hours. I am not going to
describe the cave because I shouldn’t be able to find enough superlatives to
use. Just say that I was very impressed!
The next day I went up to the plateau – walking into
wandered around. The best of British to
elephants! (I thought it was the
crossed – Ed.).
Finally, I left the camp site for home. Got a lift to
suspiciously. He kept touching my leg –
I dont know what for! Then I had an
amazing lift to
train to
I arrived back in
on Thursday 16th August, after covering nearly three thousand miles. Not that far really, but I had a damned good
time. Again, I’d like to say “thank
you” for the money, and I hope you dont think I wasted any of it. Perhaps when I’m a millionaire!
Belfry Sub-Committee
The purpose of this sub-committee is to look into what
should be done in and around the Belfry to make the place better and more
suitable for its function. The idea of a
separate sub-committee is to allow its members plenty of time to discuss the
problems without being distracted by general committee business. The Chairman of this subcommittee is GRAHAM
WILTON-JONES. Any member who has any
ideas which he or she feels would be useful should get in touch with Graham,
either at his home address or by sending or leaving a note for him at the
Belfry.
Publications
As nobody has come forward to act as editor for the club
publications, Dave Irwin has agreed to continue as Editor on the understanding
that the publications department is really a team effort between himself, Doug
Stuckey and Chris Howell. They need some
additional typing effort, so if any member can type or knows somebody who would
do some typing for the club, please get in touch with Dave, Doug or Chris.
Fred Davies Forty?
After having read Kangy’s article in last month’s BB, Fred
Davies commented that he may well be over forty now, but he has a better memory
than has Kangy, for he can recall the exact day, month and year that the event
described so graphically by Kangy took place. (He told me the exact date, but unlike Fred, I cannot now recall it as I
am (a) well over forty myself, (b) was told it at the Grampian Dinner and (c)
was half tight at the time – Ed.). Fred
also adds that Kangy’s recollection of giving Fred and Denise a lift was
possibly wrong, as Kangy had a motor bike at the time.
Birks Fell
An account of a visit
to this cave by Bucket Tilbury
The Friday night of the 31st of August saw a number of
people in various cars setting out from different points in the country with
the object of reaching
Fell on the following day.
I eventually arrived at the
hut to find others of the B.E.C. already there. We wondered about the rest of the party as it was pouring with rain and
they were planning to camp at Hubberholme.
At 7.30 on Saturday morning, my alarm went off and rang for
5 seconds. I sank back into my sleeping
bag and waited for the abuse to fly in my direction. Amazingly, everybody was awake and getting up
and not a single boot or anything else flew in my direction.
As breakfast was finished, the postman came and left two
letters, one of which was the letter of consent to go down this cave. Armed with the letter, and in the still
pouring rain, we set off to find the others at Hubberholme. A quick stop was made in Kettlewell to phone
the weather station at
mid-day with no more rain for approximately nine hours.
We found the rest of the party having breakfast in the pub
at Hubberholme and while we all drank coffee we discussed whether the rain
would really stop. The whole of the
party now assembled were as follows. Graham and Ian
Marshall; Crange; Ray Mansfield and myself.
Later in the morning, after clearing the access with the
farmer and changing in the Buckden car park, we found ourselves at the entrance
to the cave. The stream just above the
entrance flows down a miniature gorge and over some small cascades to disappear
into a small hole in the right hand bank. There was a fairly large stream flowing in, due to the rain (which had
recently stopped).
Someone led off, and everybody else seemed to try to get in
second. Things sorted themselves out,
and everybody was on their way. The
entrance drops for about five feet and turns into a crawl in the stream which, as
the stream was high, ensured that we all got wet. The crawl is quickly followed by a rift
passage which allows good progress to be made. A short flat out craw is followed by another section of the rift passage
to a small chamber. The party assembled in
this chamber – or rather squeezed in – and looked for the way on. The fact that it was not obvious was due to
the many pairs of legs blocking the lower section of the chamber. The route on was found to be a small crawl at
floor level on the left side. The crawl
started on gravel with the stream, and as the roof rose, the water got deeper
until a canal passage developed. At this
point, the whole party ground to a halt, and every one lay wallowing in the
water. Upon enquiry from the rear, we
were told that the passage ended in solid rock and the way on could not be
seen. Some comments were hurled at those
in front to the effect that if they were the sort of cavers they reckoned they
were; the way on should have been found instantly.
To the sound of grunts and grumbling noises, the party moved
on. But on to where? The front of the party seemed to be
disappearing into the wall of rock and water on the right hand side. When I reached the spot, there could be
observed a small cleft in the rock containing a triangle of airspace. Still, the others had gone on, so with a
quick breath, I went in. I found a flat
out crawl on stones and gravel with the water half filling the passage which
meant that the head had to be kept on one side in order to breathe. This crawl is not too long, and the floor
drops away to form another rift passage. On the way out, the water had fallen in this section, which made it much
easier. At the top of the thirty foot
pitch, the party again met in force, while the alternative climb to the ladder
pitch was found. This involves
traversing over the ladder pitch to the right hand side, where a parallel rift
has been formed. This is a fairly
straight forward climb. The passage was
now a good size, which allowed the party to keep moving and keep together. The stream disappeared in the floor under
boulders. A short way on, there are
sections of false flooring with stal on them. This gives the name of Slipped Floor Chamber to the section. The party again halted at the end of this
passage, as no way on could be found. Everyone started looking for the way on, and this involved all of us
disappearing into the boulder floor. Eventually, someone found the right hole, which led down through a
squeeze back to the stream. This hole is on the left just back from the end of
the chamber. We followed the stream in a
rift passage with a short climb down into a large spray and windswept
chamber. The spray was caused by the
large amount of water descending Shooting Box Aven. The exit from this chamber is awkward to find
on the way out.
Following on downstream from the aven led us into a large
canal passage with deep water. The water
gives way to boulders and another aven enters with a large stream flowing
down. From here, we dropped down through
some boulders and regained the stream. The passage was a large rift with various boulder ruckles to
negotiate. These ruckles offered
different routes through them, which led to our party swapping positions all
the time, giving everyone a chance to lead or to bring up the rear. At one point, while talking to the person
behind, I moved over a boulder and trod on Graham’s head as he emerged from
another hole! Graham’s head is so
covered in hair that he did not really notice! After some distance, the passage changed to a low, wide bedding plane
which necessitated some flat out crawling in the stream. At this point, Kay Martin and myself were in
the lead. The stream suddenly leaves the
bedding plane and goes off to the right down a small passage. The bedding plane continues on over mud
banks, and we opted to follow this. This
was a mistake, for after a couple of hundred feet, the bedding plane turns
right and gets too tight. We turned
round and started making our way back to the stream. The rest of the party reached the junction
and we informed them that this was not the way. Graham set off down the streamway to ascertain whether that was the way
on. Ray and Martin made their way back upstream to see if there was something
we had missed. This was the last I saw
of them until the top of the forty four foot pitch.
The rest of us waited until Graham came back and reported
that it closed down. Moving back
upstream after Ray and Martin, we found a large passage on the right of the
bedding plane. A climb up from this over
some boulders and we were off again! The
going was again fairly easy with mud covered boulders forming the floor. These boulders ended suddenly at a large
block wedged precariously across the passage. The way on was indicated to us by a knotted rope disappearing down
through a hole in the boulders. We followed
the rope, and quickly regained the stream. Following the stream again, we went on until the floor dropped away at
the first of the pitches. This first one
we climbed, and went on, turning the corner with the eighteen foot pitch, which
was rigged with a ladder, belayed to a bolt. Pete went down the ladder, while I waited for Graham and Ian to catch
up. The water went straight down over
the ladder. Graham and Ian arrived and expressed concern at the amount of water
on the ladder. I descended and waited
for the others. Ian had an attempt at
the pitch, but climbed back. Graham
decided that he did not want to go on and, after passing down the tackle, they
returned to the surface.
I set off to catch up the others. Down two cascades and into a large rift
passage called the Grand Gallery. The
rift really is grand and proceeds in an almost straight line. The stream through which I was walking varied
from knee to waist deep and my light disappeared into the blackness ahead. I passed occasional groups of formations
which broke up the dull colour of the walls and water with their
whiteness. I was beginning to wonder
when the passage would end, when it turned, the roof dropped, and another crawl
loomed up. This crawl was quite short
and I emerged in yet another rift passage of much smaller proportions. Following this passage brought me to Elbow
Bend. Here, the main rift used to carry
on to the old resurgence at Hermit’s Cave, but this connection is now choked
with boulders.
The stream turns right back on itself, and I followed it
over a couple of small drops to a deep canal. The water rapidly deepened and I nearly had to swim. The roof is also low and it looks as if this
section sumps in high water conditions. The canal gave way to a normal stream passage although of much size
than before.
After following the stream for a while, the passage reduced
in size and the stream disappeared down a tube two feet six inches high by two
feet wide. As the others were still a
way in front, I went down the tube and as it was half full of water, I half
crawled and half floated through.
I emerged from this crawl into a large passage and at last
caught up with the rest of the party, who were laddering the forty four foot
pitch into Shale Chamber. The belay for
this pitch needs to be about twenty feet, and we used a double lifeline as the
pitch is rather damp. While the ladder
was being belayed in position, we showed some concern about the amount of water
going down, as it seemed to fall right on to the ladder. Ray went down first to see what it was
like. After a few moments, the line
stopped and he shouted up that it was all right. When I descended the ladder, I found that a
large ledge about ten feet down from the top breaks the stream into two
sections. I found that the ladder hung
in the middle between the two streams so formed. The lower section of the ladder receives a
heavy amount of spray and, with the close proximity of the two streams; the
descent is quite exciting without being at all dangerous. When Pete, the last man, had descended, we
set off after the other half of the party. At first we moved along a boulder floor with the stream running along
underneath. The noise of the stream
disappears after a while as the water turns to the right and flows into a
sump. Continuing on the boulders the
passage turns a couple of right angled bends and changes into a narrow
rift. The stream re-appears at the
bottom of this rift, but the way on is to traverse along the top on small
ledges. In fact, the ledges do not exist
in some places, and progress is made by wedging and straddling. At a slight widening of this passage, we
caught up with the others, who were frantically searching for the way on. No way on was apparent to any of us. After some deliberation, we decided to try to
get down to the stream in the lower section of the rift. At a small gap, Grange, Martin and Ray
managed to squeeze down to the stream. They followed the passage for some distance to a sump. When they returned, we decided to call it a
day and set off out.
We had in fact, missed a small crawl leading to the last
pitch and canal passages to the final sump.
The trip out was uneventful, except that the way was missed
in the boulders a few times, and Martin’s lamp ran out of light – which meant
fun and games getting the spare carbide going. We emerged after six hours underground to a nice sunny afternoon.
Annual Report of the B B L H & S R G
If there is one subject which the members of the Belfry
Bulletin Literary, Historical & Scientific Research Group have hitherto
avoided like the plague – as readers of this tiresome annual series will no
doubt have noticed – it is that of writing about present times. Our aged savants, like ancient leathery
pterodactyls, creak their way from the mythical past to the improbable future
without ever demeaning themselves by getting too close to present day affairs.
It will therefore come as an unpleasant surprise to find
that this year; using perhaps the same techniques as last year, we are to meet
once more such characters as Pete Pushem and Fred Ferrett in a situation that
could almost be classed as topical.
It is a fine, though wintery afternoon. The sun hangs low and red in a cloudless sky,
bathing nearly all of Mendip in its rays, as it picks out here a dry stone wall
and there a leafless tree, tuning them all to a rich golden hue.
It does not, however, shine on the B.E.C. Whilst the stonework of the Shepton hut glows
softly in the afternoon sunshine and even Upper Pitts basks in the rays of its
light; a brooding darkness hangs like a pall over the Belfry.
The reason for this phenomenon is readily seen to be due to
the presence of a vast pile of rubbish, which looms like some enormous piece of
modern sculpture behind the Belfry, casting a low and horrible shadow over that
noble building while inside, in the stygian gloom, the committee are discussing
it at some length while their bikes – for petrol is severely rationed – lean
against the outside of that building.
“It’s no use!”, Pete Pushem is saying as he bangs
his half empty tankard on the table by way of emphasis, “the ruddy council
say they can’t get ruddy petrol to shift our ruddy refuse, so we will have to
ruddy deal with it our selves.” He
shifts his large, untidy bulk and drains his tankard with a single, convulsive
swallow.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Tom Traverse, the
Climbing Secretary, “that if we chucked a bit of cement over it now and
again, it would make quite a decent climb in a few years’ time. That is, if the club could afford the
cement.” He glances at the
Treasurer, who makes what he considers to be an appropriate gesture.
Silence reigns, as this discussion has been going on for
some time and ideas are becoming scarce. At last Ron Runnitt, the Hut Warden, makes his contribution. “We will have to dig a gash pit.”
he announces. “After all, the club
always used gash pits before its rubbish was collected by the council. If the lads of those days could dig gash
pits, so can we.”
Nobody having any answer to this profound remark, the
meeting breaks up, as it is almost opening time.
The scene is more or less the same as before, except that
now there are two vast piles which disfigure the Belfry site. One is, of course, the rubbish pile – now
higher and if possible, even uglier than before and the other is an enormous
pile of spoil which looms nearby. The
B.E.C. is, as usual, doing something to excess. From the lip of the excavation, a winch cable tapers down into the
darkness; for this is no ordinary gash pit of the sort you might find beside
the hut of a minor Mendip club. Those
operating the winch are, in fact, peering over the edge and watching the tiny
lights of those working at the bottom. There seems to be a great deal of activity below and yet no bucket has
come up for some time. At last, a pull
on the cable sends the winch team back to their task. It is a heavy load this time. As the bucket slowly rises from the darkness
of the pit, it is found to contain Pete Pushem, riding up. He reaches the top and steps on to the
platform to deliver his simple but effective message.
“The dig’s over, lads,” he announces. Weve
struck oil!”
News of the B.E.C’s discovery produces, as one might well
expect, a variety of reactions. The
W—-x, for example, hold the opinion that this is just the sort of jammy thing
that is always happening to the B.E.C., while more deserving clubs are passed
by. Sid Stratum, the local geological
expert, confesses himself baffled and privately wishes that it had never
happened, as it completely upsets all his theories. The fact that the sample barrel which the
B.E.C. have sent away for analysis has shown the oil to possess a high carbon
content renders him, if possible, even more baffled than before. The B.E.C. point out that this is what you
would ruddy expect from carboniferous ruddy limestone, but this explanation
fails, somehow, to satisfy.
Meanwhile, the Conservation and Access committee of the
Southern Council of Caving Clubs are in a quandary – or, as one member from
dilemma. Much as they would like to
denounce this threat to the caves and countryside, they are only too well aware
that they have all had to cycle to the meeting, and are finding it difficult to
denounce the proposed commercial exploitation with any degree of conviction
while they have vivid memories of pushing their bikes up Harptree Hill.
The receptionist at No. 10,
wrinkles his nose disdainfully as he opens the historic door to admit a
collection of scruffy, oily and unkempt cavers. Against his better judgment, he ushers them in to the P.M.s study and
rushes off to see if he can find a large sized tin of airwick. Finding one at last, he knocks respectfully
on the study door and enters. The room
is full of these great hairy creatures. He broods on the sorry state to which the country has been reduced as he
places the airwick conspicuously on the P.M.S desk. Suddenly, he is addressed by the largest and
hairiest of these dreadful people. “You, lad, over there! Don’t
just ruddy stand there in a ruddy daze! Go and fetch us some ruddy beer!”
The receptionist looks beseechingly at his master, hoping
for some crisp order to clear out this rabble from his presence. Nothing happens. A broken man, he leaves the room to get beer
as directed.
Once again, we find the B.E.C. Committee in session at the Belfry. Outside the building, both heaps are now much
smaller and although the sun’s rays do not yet shine again on the building, one
begins to hope that this might be the case again, given any sort of luck.
Inside the building, Ron Runnitt is speaking. He is reading from an impressive-looking document covered all over with
massive seals.
Complete removal of all rubbish and spoil from the site,
he reads. Construction of a buried
pipeline from the well to a point at least a mile from the site; Unlimited
petrol coupons for all active B.E.C. members for the duration of petrol
rationing; Abolition of tax on B.E.C. members vehicles.
There is a deep silence. Even the B.E.C. are impressed.
“What did we have to give them in exchange?” asks
Tom Traverse, after a suitable pause.
“The complete output of the well for as long as it can
produce or be pumped.” Ron replies. “They’ll have the rest of the rubbish and spoil away by next
weekend and the pipeline laid by the week after. They’ve issued priority fuel to the
contractors.”
There is another long silence, broken eventually by Pete
Pushem who, as usual, expresses the general feeling of the club.
Let’s have some more ruddy beer! he suggests.
Outside a garage on Mendip top, two mechanics are busy with
what has been a weekly job for more years than they can remember. They are trundling a drum of old sump oil
along to a place nearby where two planks have been laid over a small
swallet. With the ease of long practice,
they roll the drum onto the planks, where one of them steadies the drum while
the other unscrews the bung. Another
load of sump oil soaks its way into the swallet.
Once again, the winter sun shines on the Belfry site. All is clean and tidy. A row of shiny vehicles reflects the golden
rays of the sun from gleaming chrome and glossy paintwork. A small coach on whose sides the club name
and emblem have been tastefully emblazoned turns into the car park. The driver gets out, carrying a large bag and
goes into the Belfry. It is Fred
Ferrett.
Once inside, he dumps the bag on the table. It chinks. “That’s it for to-day!” he says, as he makes for the barrel
and pours himself a well-earned pint. “I’ve been the rounds and collected all those poor cavers who’ve
got no petrol ration and taken them all to their huts.”
“Ah! says Tom Traverse, Its nice to be able to help
those less fortunate than oneself!”
“Yes,” says Ron Runnitt, pausing for a moment in
his job of counting all the money from the sack, “It does one’s heart
good.”
Stop ruddy wittering like a lot of ruddy old hens!”
growls Pete Pushem. “Have we made
enough profit for our beer tonight or not?”
Ron looks at the pile of cash with an expert’s glance. “Dont worry, Pete. We have.”
Suddenly, the telephone rings. Pete answers it, and remains listening for
some time. It is, as the others realise,
an important call, for Pete’s tankard remains motionless in his left hand
throughout the long call. At last, when
the tension is threatening to become unbearable, he grins and says
“Cheerio then, lad, and thanks for ruddy ringing.” He puts the ‘phone down thoughtfully.
That, he says, “was the ruddy Ministry. It seems that they started the ruddy pipeline
working to-day.
Something in Petes manner is disturbing. Ron voices the general anxiety by asking Pete
how it is going.
Like a ruddy bomb! comes the surprising answer, there is a
collective sigh of relief. That should
please them! says Tom.
“Well, no.”, Pete replies, it ruddy doesnt. They got two ruddy hundred barrels out
today. The first six were full of ruddy
oil and the other hundred and ninety four were full of ruddy cowsh!
You can almost hear the collective brains of the B.E.C.
humming as they assess the situation. It
is Fred Ferrett who puts his finger on the crux of the matter.
We agreed they could have everything they could get out of
the well. So they can! he says.
Even if they ruddy refuse to give us any more ruddy
coupons, adds Pete, We already have enough for all active ruddy members for
months and for the coach as well.
They exchange self-satisfied looks. Pete gets up and draws a fresh tankard of
ale. He takes a meditative sip.
What we could do with, he announces, is an engine that
runs on cowsh. Now I reckon thats a job
for the Hut Engineer, but if we take the carb. off an ordinary engine and
.”
The B.E.C. settles down to its job of keeping well ahead of
the situation.
*****************************************
A gentle reminder –
subs are due in January. Pay Barry.
Round and About
A Monthly Miscellany of Caving News and associated topics.
by Wig
- MANOR
FARM is still in the news. Nig Taylor is pushing gently at the lower end
of the cave and I understand ‘Prew’ is still interested in an inlet
passage further up the cave. Willie
Stanton is well ahead with the survey. It will be interesting to get some accurate figures as to the
length of cave. The surveys
published in the November B. B. are extremely interesting in that the
scale bars show the plans as drawn by Jim Hanwell and ‘Wig’ to have a
variation of about two to one. The
bend in the passage in Jim’s survey is probably nearer the truth, since he
used a compass! However, a word of
warning. Nigel reports that after
some fairly heavy rain the squeeze – Albert’s Eye – had sumped, leaving
the usual frothy mess in the opening. At the moment, the fifty feet of electron ladder is not required,
as the fixed ladder was re-installed to allow the surveyors to enter the
cave without undue quantities of tackle. Best to check at the Belfry first for the tackle requirements. - NHSA
is now on to another dig – though it has not been without its political
consequences. They are digging at
TIMBER HOLE near the junction with the Longwood valley and Velvet Bottom. A minor squabble has arisen as to who
has the rights over the site – the M.C.G. or NHASA! - POSTOJNA
is the title of a coffee table book. Four pages of general interest text followed by over 90 colour
plates of the cave and its surrounds. Marvellous value for £2.00. Hard back; high gloss paper and jacket. Size: 9″ x 9″ – available from
Tony Oldham, 17,
Road
- CAMBRIAN
CAVE REGISTRY have published a list of sites of speleological
interest. This is available from
Alan Ashwell, ‘Cuilagh’,
Rd
15p. It does not include mines at
present - Still
in
DAN-YR-OGOF has proved the impossibility of getting a seriously injured
person through the Long Crawl. The
possibilities are: 1. Enlarging the Long Crawl. 2. Excavating a by-pass (this is being
worked on) 3. Sinking a shaft and 4 (the most uncomfortable)
hospitalisation until fit. Frank Baguley,
the Secretary of the Cambrian Council, commented that this would not be
possible if the lakes flooded. - CAVE
PRESERVATION. No longer can the
experienced cavers blame those school kids and novices for destroying
their cave formations. What has
happened to those magnificent helictites near the maypole in O.F.D. III? - N.C.B.
and C.D.G. get their heads together. Following the Lofthouse mine disaster earlier this year, C.D.G.
through Oliver Lloyd, contacted the N.C.B. rescue team divers to exchange
ideas on diving matters. It seems
that the N.C.B. divers had only experience of open water diving and thus
it was found that C.D.G. had much to offer in the way of experience and
technique. The N.C.B. divers have
slightly differing requirements over the use of their air supply, due to the
additional hazard of foul air, and so require a two hour duration even
though the diving time is limited to 20 minutes or so because of the water
temperature. However, the C.D.G.
and N.C.B. teams have since held combined practices in White Lady’s (near
LNRC) and at Wookey Hole. A fine
piece of public relations on the part of C.D.G. -
an overseas trip next year. THE
mentioned. If you are interested in
any away meet next year, contact Doug. Stuckey. (See address at start of this B.B.)
Anyone interested in a BELGIAN trip next Easter? - Mid-week
caving on WEDNESDAY evenings; Yes,
the Tuesday night diggers have confronted the NHASA diggers by going into
competition on Wednesday evenings! Sounds complicated, don’t it? Anyway, if you are interested in a
quick flip to the bottom of HUNTERS. (No, sorry – not the pub!) HOLE to take part in a digging session
down there; contact Roy Bennett 8,
Hunters Car Park at 6.45 p.m. - ADITIONS
TO THE LIBRARY. Red Rose CPC
Newsletter 10 (3); Derbyshire Caving Club ‘Dodger’s Despatch’ (1) (2) (3);
Climbing Guide No 5 – Llanberis South; D.B.S.S. Proceedings 6 (1) 1946-48;
D.C.C. items and to Martin (Milch) Mills for the climbing guide. - Lastly,
but not least. Members will have
noticed the general clean-up and repainting taking place at the
Belfry. A great improvement
indeed. The Womens Room and the
general living room have received a good coat of paint. Our thanks to Martin Bishop and
helpers. Incidentally, the
re-formed Belfry Sub-Committee under the chairmanship of Graham
Wilton-Jones is under way and is looking at the long term requirements of
the Belfry, so that the committee may be pointed in the right direction
when considering improvements. If
you have any strong feelings, get in touch with Graham, Nigel Taylor or
any committee member as soon as possible. An interim report is due at the January meeting of the
committee. N.B. The club committee
now meets on the FIRST FRIDAY OF THE MONTH at 7.30 p.m. at the Belfry.
Change Of Address
Bob White is now at 2 Keward Walk, Wells,
His phone number is St. CUTHBERT 4331 (S.T.D. Code 074 982 )
Last & First
No Christmas B.B. would
be complete without a contribution from ‘Our Man in
– Kangy.
Written in May 1973.
At the Western extremities of the
high winds had blown most of the snow from the ridges, and what remained lay
hard in the hollows and gullies. The
central
covering of show and, optimistically, one could still enjoy downhill skiing at
the end of April. And that was how we
arranged the last day’s skiing and the first day’s climbing of the year.
We left
on Saturday morning. Two cars were
taken, one to take Ken Sayers and Kangy to Pic Carlit after the skiing and the
other to take Nadine Sayers and Pierre Gay back to
The day was not encouraging. Water ran down the ‘cowboy town’ streets of Pas de la Cas. The man who sold the ski tow tickets
cynically observed that we’d be better off on the beach and, when we got
higher, it started to sleet. I made
several descents and found that the snow, although soggy, went well. Gay, full of enthusiasm, shot off the piste
into the heavy stuff and made a fairly elegant job of it. Following him, not being sufficiently
relaxed, I managed several spectacular dives before deciding to save my legs
for ‘tomorrow’s mountain’ and stuck with the piste. There I could be as elegant as I liked
without burying myself prematurely. We
got wet on the ski tow and packed it in for an early lunch and to dry off. Lunch, to digress, was a good selection of
hors deuvres, then grilled snails ‘a la Catalan’ and a good slice of
steak. There was a selection of dessert
or cheese and ‘un bon petit vin rouge’ – all for ten francs.
After a long lunch, we went out into the sunshine and made a
mad rush for the tow. Part way up, a
stream had broken through the snow, directly in the line of the tows causing a
deep trench and it was necessary to slalom briskly to avoid water skiing. (Did
you hear about the man who bought some water skis and then spent the rest of
the season looking for a lake with an inclined surface?)
Nadine stationed herself here strategically. As I passed she heaved a couple of large
snowballs at me, and only by a series of frantic contortions did I avoid both
the snow balls and my first wet caving trip on skis. And that was the skiing – just before the
station closed for the summer – pretty useless snow with rocky patches, but
fun.
That evening, after a fairly complicated series of swapping
manoeuvres to ensure that the skiing gear and the duty free plonk went home in
one car and that Ken and I went off in the other, we arrived at Font
Romau. The good news was that the road
was open right up to the Touring Club de France hotel, at about 2,000 metres –
and that the weather was fair.
Ken and I stayed in the refuge behind the hotel and, bright
and early next morning, we set off with M. and Mme Loubet and M. and Mme
Delafon to tramp across the barrage at the Lac des Bouillouses and to kick the
first steps in the hard snow on the other side. The approach to the Carlit is a good one, passing lakes and pine trees
dotted in a high level plateau, and very pretty. The lakes were now frozen, which helped progress,
and we went rapidly until we hesitated at the initial slopes of the mountain. After discussion, we chose a deep snowy
valley between two arms of the mountain. Higher, we found traces of a summer path which confirmed the route. Traversing high on one wall of the valley, we
arrived at a col with beautiful views of the Spanish mountains to the South and
an aerial perspective of the approaches. From the col, an arête, craggy and steep, grew out of the snow and this
was the route that Ken and I took. To
the right, it was possible to traverse into an open gully and follow the snow
to the top. The rest of the party took
this. The arête was airy but
straightforward and led directly to the summit. The views were good to start with but soon, clouds blew up to hide the
nearer ridges. However, from previous
observation and from the map, it seemed that a long ridge curved eastwards for
4 or 5 kilometres and Ken and I started off down this. The first part of the descent was steep and
took the ladies of the party so long that, in the end, the Loubets and the
Delafons glissaded down a connecting couloir to join the morning route while
Ken and I continued. The ridge we
followed was mixed rock and snow exciting to look at and satisfying to be
on. Both sides fell away sharply and
gave uninterrupted views to the left and right. Gradually, after a long period of tiptoeing along a knife edge, the
ridge began to flatten out and, although we kept to the edge, the effect was
that of walking on a high plateau. All
the way we had the benefit of wide views and a rapidly changing cloudscape.
Eventually, the flat angle of the ridge steepened and we
turned South towards the Lac des Bouillouses and the cars. Decreasing altitude caused softer snow and
started to make walking difficult as we sank in up to our knees.
Before we were too low, we stopped to study the next section
of country between us and the Lac des Boiullouses to find a reasonable route
through the complicated terrain. Once
committed, route finding would be difficult.
Descending rapidly, we narrowly avoided a wetting in a lake
hidden under heavy snow and ice and then watched, gripped by the spectacle, as
the green water – laden with snow and ice – hissed and broke free of the snow
barrier damming the end and, aided by a large stream which rapidly formed,
moved massively down a small valley. Avoiding this by moving quickly, we wound a tortuous way through the
forest until, eventually, we gained the Lac des Bouillouses. We had thought to walk easily along the two
kilometres of the lakeside. Deep, soft
snow and the shattered remains of the edges of the thick ice sheet which had
covered the now dry lake prevented anything other than an exhausting slog. As it was unavoidable and we’d had the best
part of the day, we plodded philosophically on and thought of beer.
G.G. Episode
Another caving trip
with a difference. This time, in G.G.
and written by Derek Sanderson.
During last summers C.P.C. winch meet at Gaping Gill, Keith
Sanderson and myself decided to attempt an abseil trip through Disappointment
Pot and out via the winch or Bar Pot after visiting Far Country if we had
time. The trip in itself is not
particularly super severe, but neither of us had been into this part of the
system before, so we spent some time finding out what the problems were likely
to be.
Armed with a waterproof survey; a hundred feet of rope and a
twenty five foot ladder, we made sure that the winch operators knew where we
were going before entering Disappointment Pot. Quite a lot has been written about this pot and I got the impression
that cavers tend to underestimate it. We
found the going quite tiring, as the streamway is narrow and one often has to
traverse above stream level. The cave
was not as friendly as I had expected, but the grey rock had a pleasant feel to
it.
The pitches too, were not very spacious, and abseiling was
constricted. All the pitches except the
last were 1addered (30′, 25′, 25′, 30′ and 25′). The last pitch is a fifty foot drop into a boulder
chamber, and a flake of rock served as a belay point from which the rope could
be retrieved.
From below this pitch, a narrow squeeze through boulders
leads to a crawl passage which enters Hensler’s Main Stream Passage. The character of the cave from this point on
is very different. Development is
horizontal and the stream way is wide and not washed clean. To the left is a crawl which links this to
Bar Pot. We turned right (downstream)
and, after some pleasant walking, we came to climb over a mud pile into a
higher parallel passage (the lower passage leads to a sump). This passage is more like a mine, with dry
mud walls and floor and a stale atmosphere. After an ‘S’ bend, the passage narrows and the roof becomes arched and
ribbed with calcite to give the impression that one is walking down the throat
of a whale:
Crossing a glutinous pool, we emerged into a small chamber
with a slippery fixed ladder which disappeared through a square hole in the
roof. This is the start of Far
Country. We gingerly climbed the ladder
and emerged into a muddy chamber with a small letter-box squeeze at the far
side. This is the ‘Blowing Hole’. This squeeze looks very awkward as it is on a
slope. After getting halfway through I
decided that it would be unwise for just the two of us to push on any further
on this occasion (in other words, I chickened out.) Keith agreed, and we backed out.
We strolled gently back through Main Stream Passage past the
turning for Disappointment Pot on the left and the infamous Henslers Long
Crawl on the right. The passage lowered
to a crawl, and it was here that our troubles started. We had been underground for four hours and
felt fine. Dead ahead was supposed to be
the Muddy Crawl into Bar Pot. The
information we had been given was that it was either short and muddy, or long
(about two hundred feet) and muddy. All
said we couldnt miss it.
In fact, the area turned out to be a maze of tubes, some of
which were half full of water and frightening liquid mud. The area was so confusing, that after a full
hour of wallowing, we even experienced some difficulty in retracing our steps
back to the streamway.
We were now faced with a dilemma. It was clear that we were not going to get
out via Bar Pot. (Personally, I wasn’t prepared to enter those tubes again
under any circumstances) and we couldn’t get back into Disappointment Pot as
the fifty foot pitch was not laddered. So we had a choice. Either to sit
and wait to be rescued or to find an alternative route out. As far as we could see, the only other way
was via Hensler’s Long Crawl. All we
knew about this route was that it was difficult – with over a third of a mile
of bedding plane crawling – and that one could get lost if a particular left
turn was missed. It was now important
that we made up our minds one way or the other, and we elected to try Hensler’s
Long Crawl.
Climbing out of the streamway, we entered a smaller passage
which led to the entrance of the crawl proper, a bedding plane which proved to
be about eighteen inches high and six to eight feet wide in scalloped grey rock
and which, under different circumstances, one might well call pleasant. We entered the crawl, working on one light
and keep keeping the other in reserve and crawled flat out around a
never-ending progression of bends. It
was obvious that we couldnt pinpoint our position on the map, but we explored
every possible opening on the left. After some time, we found our turning and knew that we were about half
way home.
The second half of the crawl seemed to have an even lower
roof and at times it was difficult even to roll over. The effort too, was beginning to have an
effect, as shown by the increase in colourful language. At one stage, a waterlogged tube on the left
was reached from which a strong draught blew. This was later identified as Gemmel’s Folly, and it took a lot of effort
to ignore this tube and move away to the right – especially as we felt that a
left turn would have been better.
Soon after this, we stacked our tackle on one side and left
it behind, as it had become too much of an effort to drag it along. A further age of crawling, and we suddenly
emerged into a bigger passage running from right to left and we knew we were
out. A quick scramble up to the left and
a short stroll to the right, and we were at the winch.
It had taken us one and three-quarter hours to pass the
crawl, and we had only been underground for six and a half hours, yet we were
worn out.
Some people may think: that I am overemphasising the trip,
but it must be remembered that for us it was covering new ground. Neither of us enjoy caving which involves
blindly following the feet of the person in front – so much more satisfaction
can be had from caving with friends if one finds one’s own way – but it is
important to find out as much as possible about a cave first, and not to take
on too much. The above trip turned out
to be far harder than was planned, but by stretching ourselves a little, we
managed it without accident.
Langstroth Pot The Rescue
Being a full and veritable account of our journeys into this
dangerous an gulf and our safe return.
(To be read after reading Bucket’s description of
Langstroth)
by Graharn Wilton-Jones
This was essentially an Ashford Speleological Society trip,
as only three of us are B.E.C. members – Bucket, me and brother Ian. The other three were our Northern friends
Bernard, Fred and Brian.
We arrived in Langstrothdale fairly early and called at
Paisgill to seek permission to descend. All was well, and we parked by the Warfe to change. There was light rain, but the river was low
and the forecast was for clearer weather. After a very thorough look at the map, we set off up the hillside to
find the entrance. Months previously we had searched for the entrance in the
snow, but failed to realise that we’d found it when we did. On that occasion we investigated practically
every hole on that side of the valley. This time, we found it with ease, exactly as the book had said but Fred,
who got there first, insisted that this was not it because he could not even
negotiate the entrance.
I quickly went through, climbed the first pitch, and
confirmed that this was indeed Langstroth Pot. The others had begun to follow so I set off rapidly, carrying the
tackle, to check the route. There was no
need, for the way is obvious. It seemed
a long drag, especially over the bouldery section before the slot, so I took a
little tackle from someone else, who had at last caught up after I’d waited
ages.
There was much wittering at the slot after I’d gone through
but since I could do little to assist, I went ahead with Bernard to rig the
first ladder pitch. While we did this,
the others tried to excavate an alternative to the slot – a bedding plane to
one side of the rift. We made our way
through a chamber with good straws well above the stream to the head of the
next pitch and rigged that.
Whereas the first pitch has a tight take-off and one is in
the wet all the way, against the wall and with a ledge halfway down; this
second pitch was free-hanging and dry. The stream dropped into the rift from somewhere below us and several
yards behind us. Having waited ages at
the bottom of this pitch, I was joined by Bucket and Ian who told me that Fred
and Brian had failed at the slot and were going out to do
and immediately assumed that the little rain would prevent access.)
Bernard had set off down the rift, so we rapidly
followed. This passage has nasty,
stumpy, wet-suit-destroying helictites, especially for people who hurry. Suddenly the rift changed to a bedding plane,
which offered quite a pleasant crawl on hands and knees. Here, there was a small amount of water
flowing gently over the gravelly floor.
As the passage floor dropped away, we reached; laddered and
climbed the fourth and fifth pitches fairly rapidly. The sixth pitch of fifteen feet is wide, and
the small quantity of water flowing over left several choices of dry free
climbs. As for the next pitch, all the
water of the stream went straight over the ladder for all its length. However, it was possible to dam the stream
with one’s posterior, and two were able to climb dry.
We quickly passed through the next large section and the
well decorated Canal Passage. At the finish
pitch we went down two at a time to look at the nearby sump leading to
who wished climbed dry.
We spent some time hear the bottom, and then began to make
our way upwards. At the top of the
Seventh pitch, I went up the inlet to try to find the fifteen foot long
straw. A short way up the inlet, there
is an aven and I could see no way in. Then I noticed a small trickle of water against one wall of the aven –
this appeared from a narrow slot. Above
this slot, a way on was visible if you stood right against one wall – otherwise
it would have easily been missed. Climbing up about fifteen feet, I was able to crawl into the bottom of a
narrow rift. Crawling for some sixty to
eighty feet, I came to a chamber with five foot straws, but nothing approaching
fifteen feet. There was one very narrow
inlet and a possibility of a way on in the roof. I heard Ian’s and Bucket’s voices behind me
and took a further look into the tight inlet. As I put my hand in the stream, the noise increased and I presumed that
a little waterfall round the corner made the noise. I decided against going into this tight, low
crawl and took my hand out. The noise
continued to increase very rapidly and I realised that the place was about to
flood.
Turning round, I yelled to Bucket and Ian to get out. Bucket understood at once, having heard the
stream, but Ian was climbing into the roof of the inlet, quite unaware of the
danger. Seeing Bucket and I zooming past
him like lightning “and yelling” Get out;” he finally made a
move. One flood pulse passed us in the
crawl and the water immediately became rapid and deep. At the short climb, a torrent of white water
shot across to the other side. I just
grabbed a couple of handholds and dropped, as did Ian, seeing Bucket and me
vanish beneath the jet of water with such rapidity. Reaching the junction, we found Bernard with
most of the tackle – a little was washed away and we retrieved some from the stream
at once. He said that the flood pulses
of the main stream and the inlet reached the junction at the same moment. The main passage now carried a heavily
swollen, peaty brown, roaring stream. The noise was deafening, and we had to shout to each other although we
were close together. The decision was to
head upwards to the chamber between the second and third pitches.
At the fifteen foot free-climbable pitch, we were confronted
by a six foot high, ten foot wide wall of water – now an almost impossible
climb simply due to the force of the water. Ian, however, climbed up into the rift and slung a rope over a rock
bridge and we used this rope to climb up through the water. Even so, it was not easy.
On the ladder pitches, the order was Bucket, Ian, Bernard
(the youngest member of the party and also the only one without a wetsuit) the
tackle and finally me. We have got into
the habit of tying an extra length of line on to the bottom of a lifeline. This means that there is never any difficulty
retrieving the line and when tackle is raised it can be held by the bottom man
away from snags etc. Thus we were very
efficient and fast on the pitches.
Anyone climbing immediately disappeared behind a mass of
spray and it was quite a suspense for us at the bottom, waiting first for a
glimmer of light and then for a body to emerge at the top of the spray.
The bedding plane was taking an enormous amount of water at
great speed. It was up to eighteen
inches deep and proved very tiring. As
we hurried through the next section – the Helictite Rift – the pace
slowed. The next pitch, a long but ‘dry’
one, was now a mass of water. An inlet
was coming in from the side carrying perhaps as much water as the main stream
and hitting the ladder about six feet short of the top. On the way down, there had been no water here
at all. Fortunately, we had left all the
tackle on a ledge at the head of the Fourth Pitch and could safely forget this. Bernard had difficulty near the top of this
pitch where the water hit. He was beginning
to feel the cold quite severely. He was
virtually dragged up the last few rungs. I had no choice when my turn came. I was dragged up far faster than I could climb and thus tore my wetsuit
trousers very badly, but not quite indecently. However, it did allow valuable body warmth to escape.
Almost immediately above this pitch, we were in the chamber
we had passed through on the way down. From here, the next pitch was clearly visible – just through a squeeze
and over a climb, but the ladder was utterly hidden beneath a massive flow of
water and the aven was filled with cold whirling spray. Without discussion, we decided to sit it out.
The floor was about five feet wide before it dropped into
the deep, narrow rift which took the water. We set up the carbide spare as a sort of homely, warm light and, after
much preparation, including wiping as much water from the floor as possible, we
sat together with our backs to the wall and covered ourselves with a space
blanket. This was not really large enough
and those at either end of the row were not fully covered.
Bernard, who had wrung his clothes out (NOT hung them up to
dry, as the papers said; but what a concept! – a new use for the clothesline in
Swildons Sump I!) was cold. Ian, with his wet socks, had frozen feet. I, in my torn wetsuit, was cold. Bucket, with his new wetsuit and his generous
layers of natural insulation, was merely cool. Without crouching right down, with knees bent double, it was not
possible to stay totally under the space blanket. There were constant exchanges between Ian and
Bucket at either end, the one arguing that we should be breathing under the
sheet to conserve warmth, and the other insisting that it made little
difference at his end because he was only half covered.
We dozed for most of the time, and although this undoubtedly
conserved energy, we later learned that one is not advised to sleep if one is
at all cold. On two occasions we got up
to stamp around to restore circulation to cramped muscles, but we rapidly felt
the cold each time and soon sat again. Unfortunately, the air in the chamber was swirled between the two
pitches and was never still and presumably full of a fine, chilling spray – not
visible but soon felt. The noise of the
two waterfalls – one above us and one beneath – roared on unceasingly,
deafeningly loud.
At midnight, the noise of water had not diminished when,
from above, we heard a hulloo. We called
back in acknowledgment and were amazed at the state of the pitch. There was practically no water at all in
comparison with the noise. We made ready
to move, and Bucket went back to the top of the lower big pitch to check that
the tackle was secure. There he found
that the inlet was carrying an increased stream – enormous when compared with
the main stream. Hence the reason for
the lack of lessening of the noise. While one stream decreased, the other increased. The lower big pitch was now virtually
impassable.
The first member of the rescue team abseiled down to us – a
sight to behold. With him came a comfort
box, whose goodies were rapidly consummed by rescuers and rescued alike. Soon after, a goon suit arrived for
Bernard. It appeared that someone on the
surface knew that he was without a wetsuit. The someone was Fred. We had
wondered about him ever since the flood began. Had he gone into Yodienthwaite? Was he stuck higher up in Langstroth? Was he outside?
In fact, it was raining hard when Fred and Brian emerged, so
Brian decided to go back home and Fred sat in the van and, for something to do,
watched the water level rise against a boulder in the Warfe. He dozed off, and when he woke up there was
no boulder to be seen – only a very swollen Warfe, lapping its banks. He trudged up the hill and found a small
stream entering the pot. However, he
went in with the intention of helping us out with the tackle. This was at 6.p.m., six hours after we had
entered. He reached the slot, but since
there was no sight or sound of us, he made his way out with difficulty, finding
the duck virtually sumped. On the
surface, the stream had risen further and Fred attempted to dam it up, using
mud, boulders and overalls. He dug with
his bare hands, but to no avail. He
decided to attempt to reach the slot again, but the streamway was by now
sumped. Soon after, at 8 p.m. he called
out the C.R.O.
Within a very short space of time, over two hundred people
were involved including the police, three fire brigades, local farmers, local
art college girls – and even Bob Cross. Fred borrowed a spade from a local farmer and managed to break it after
three digs into the shallow peat. C. R
O. knocked up a hardware store in Skipton and requisitioned all his
spades. Those who had no spades dug with
their bare hands, and in two hours there was a channel nearly two hundred yards
long, diverting nearly all the water into Hagg Pot. Higher up on the moor, a further channel was
dug. Three large pumps were brought into
the valley ready to pump the bottom sumps dry if possible and if
necessary. The weather was now changing
rapidly, and the forecast was for further heavy rain by 10 p.m.
The rescue team was naturally anxious that we should be out
as soon as possible, so up went Bernard first. He had great difficulty getting through the top of the pitch which is
narrow if you climb straight up instead of squeezing sideways. It took him several minutes to negotiate
it. At the Slot, he again had difficulty
and was fully ten minutes getting though. In the chamber above the slot, we opened some very welcome flasks of hot
soup. From then on, the going was
uneventful and slow, but good humoured. We chatted about other rescues and similar mundane subjects – one of the
rescue team had been stuck in Langcliffe last year.
We emerged to electric lights, T.V. cameras, flashbulbs, hot
stew, dozens of expectant and relieved faces and a thermometer. Bucket was 2 degrees below normal, Ian and I
were 4 degrees down and Bernard’s temperature was 87.6 degrees F!
We were whisked off fairly rapidly to just bearable hot
baths. Ian was bathed by two attractive
young ladies but even this did not make his temperature rise above 960. Bernard flaked out in his bath, and the
doctor had his temperature back to normal within minutes. Ian’s feet remained numb for three weeks
afterwards, but this was the only noticeable after effect that any of us
suffered.
The following weekend, Bucket and I returned to remove our
tackle from the system. This trip was
fairly uneventful except that I became stuck in two separate places including
the slot, in my haste. Eldon were down
later on and helped us pass tackle through the slot. Passing tackle up long pitches and along
straight sections of passage (which are few in Langstroth) was achieved by
attaching it to the centre of a lifeline. This can save considerable time, especially when there are only two of
you and mounds of tackle.
We emerged, immersed in mud, this time to beautiful sunshine
and leaped very rapidly down the hillside and straight into the Warfe – a
deliciously stupid experience, causing much consternation and wonder amongst
the holidaymakers.
The Coolite
Roger Wing writes ‘please find enclosed item from the
Industrial Equipment News for November 1973. I am sure such an item would prove very useful in certain emergency
situations underground. Perhaps the
Consumer Enquiries Department of the B.B. could test the item in question and
publish its findings.’
The item is the COOLITE emergency snap-light. Obtainable from FONADEK INTERNATIONAL LTD,
FONADEK HOUSE, ALBAMY RD. BIRMINGHAM B17 9JS, and the directions read as
follows:-
Bend the Coolite tube sufficiently to break the inner
ampoule and, as soon as the two chemicals inside come into contact with each
other, there is emergency lighting for at least three hours. It acts as a cool, safe, non-toxic light that
can be held in the hand or placed anywhere indoors or out. The light has a shelf life of four years or
more. Price 44p.
I have written to the firm in question, pointing out that we
are a caving club, and asking for a sample. If this approach fails, we might even have to buy one. In any case, we WILL test one and let members
know shortly what conclusions we come to. Chris Harvey had a similar device on Mendip some months ago, but whether
it was the same make as this one, is something I will try to find out, as
Chris’s experience might also come in useful. (Editor)
Monthly Crossword Number 39.
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Across:
1. Cave found in northern spot.
(3)
4. Initially us. (1,1,1)
7. Pore over this caving aid. (4)
9. Swildons grotto. (3)
11.
will do it to excess. (2)
13. Present era. (1,1)
14. Mendip cave opened by 24 ac. (6)
15. Short thanks. (2)
17. Initial example. (1,1)
19. Wash ore. (6)
20. Myself. (2)
21. Outward cave direction. (2)
22. Sum. (3)
24. Discoverers of 14 ac. (1,1,1,1)
27. Later part of Swildons. (3)
Down
2. Green on Market. (3)
3. Not from this. (2)
4. Exist. (2)
5. Little company perhaps? (5)
6. Uneven? (3)
8. Did pry locally. (6)
10. Mendip caving trips are usually this. (4)
(3)
12. Class E climbs (6)
16. Are cavers sometimes this in a cave? (4)
18. Way on through a ruckle perhaps. (3)
20. Route aid (3)
21. Employ (3)
23. This a cave for a trip. (2)
24. Compass direction. (1,1)
25. First bit of Cuthberts? (2)
Solution to Last Months Crossword
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