12th January 2019 - The morning after two nights before

Given our caving season and the times we're able to cave, we don't often go caving in daylight.

A sunlight visit to regular haunts therefore feels quite strange.  I didn't realise quite how windy the road up to Leck fell is nor that there's not actually a lot to see on the moors when you get there anyway, as they are covered in dense fog.

Once again it was back to counting steps to judge the 500m along the wall before a ninety degree right hand turn and a further hundred metres. Fortunately, dead ahead was not only the pot, but also our rope, still tied around the fence post.

I;m not sure whether it was being on my own, or that in the daylight you can see the depth of the pot, but I felt quite nervous as I set off towards the edge.  Calm was restored as the usual routine of passing rebelays kicked in and it seemed like no time at all before I was looking over the final pitch into the main chamber.

Having forgotten to tie the bag onto the end of the pitch rope meant descending the last pitch to collect it, before up, up, up towards daylight.

On reaching the surface it was nice to find that the fog had been blown away by the wind and the van (and now multitude of other vehicles) were clearly visible.  Despite the weight of the tackle sacks, the view made it a terrific stomp back across the moor to the van and gave time to reflect on Thursday's amazing trip.

10th January 2019 - The Iron Way

Satellite picture - Google. Surveys - New Northern Caves Guide

The via ferrata of the Dolomites were created using iron melded with rock in order to allow safe passage for troops through hazardous mountain terrain.  Diggers in the Dales have too being using iron (well probably steel) to shore up their digs, allowing tourists to venture safely in places previously inaccessible.  The trip from Death's Head Hole to the Iron Kiln Hole entrance of Notts II, makes use of three stunning pieces of engineering.  Tony takes up the tale...  

This was the piecing together of the two known ends and the unknown middle bit. Conditions were right and the moment had to be seized; cold symptoms were suppressed with a slug of Day Nurse. At the bottom of the big pitch in Death’s Head, Alistair noted the traverse line of bolts that would have avoided the precarious rubble where we landed. We stuck with what we knew for speed, and trod carefully down to the ‘Y' hang leading to the main chamber. Arriving at the bottom of the more recently excavated shaft, we set off towards the final descent into the streamway. Once down, drysuits were unpacked and put on over caving suits.

We set off on the walk upstream, and it wasn’t long before we were wading into deeper water, eventually up to our necks, with the roof not far above. There was soft collapsing sand underfoot, and we made for the shallower sides of the winding passage to keep our heads above the surface. Tell-tale fragments of grass stuck to the scallops above, although no reminder was necessary that there are times when visits to this site are not possible. Our movements caused gentle waves that made an unearthly ‘gloop’ sound as they hit the sides.After a couple of hundred metres the passage became increasingly more shallow and the roof got higher. We strode on until we arrived at a narrow inlet on the left. ‘Groundsheet Junction,' Alistair announced with a grin. It was almost exactly two years since we had reached this point via Lost John’s, and I wouldn’t have recognised it. I was heartened again by Alistair's route awareness and very reliable memory. Another 150m and we were at the start of the ascent into Lyle Cavern.

After the scramble up we stopped to take in the atmosphere and spectacle of this large chamber. There at the back was the in situ rope and our climb to the very beautiful Helictite Rift. We removed our drysuits and geared up for the ascent. Once up, we continued along the rift to the distinctive free-standing flake that marks the beginning of the 140m crawl - the last challenge of the evening.This was our third trip through this impressive excavation. I’d like to restate our admiration for the endeavour and commitment that created it. At times I find this contorted, corkscrew crawl bewildering. Pushing my tackle bag ahead, I got confused. ‘Alistair? Alistair?…ALISTAIR!' Nothing. 'It has to be this way.' I followed my bag headfirst down a drop and turned my head at the bottom to look along the horizontal tube. There was the reassuring loom from the headtorch of my speedier fellow earthworm. The route becomes easier as you get towards the exit, not withstanding a couple of wet crawls that allow the muddy water to finally find its way into your underwear. Emerging into the welcoming space of Sir Digby Spode’s Inlet, we had a congratulatory hug. What a journey!

After the precarious downclimb into the streamway, we splashed and tramped along to the Notts II inlet and made the final climb up out of the pot, burdened somewhat by the tackle bags. The evening still allowed time for a beer in The Royal Hotel in Kirkby, where we reflected on a very satisfying journey, a trip through richly varied and sensational caving terrain.

13th December 2018 - An unexpected journey

Dick beginning to rig in the biting wind

It's been wet so the plan was to rig Death's Head, a new cave for Tony and I, before negotiating the dug connection to the Lost John's master cave and then turn round once we saw what we presumed would be a raging torrent heading towards the sump.

For the second week in a row we found ourselves parked next to other cavers, it's definitely becoming a very popular sport!  We changed under clear skies and in a biting wind, before heavily laden with a 100m rope, set off across the moor in the trail of all the other cavers. 

Despite the crowds, we had Death's Head to ourselves and Dick was soon rigging from a post in the encircling fence.  We're not sure if the pin from a bolt, hammered into the top of the post signified a survey station, or a specially reinforced belay fence post, but it certainly seemed less rickety than the others. Fortunately it's just steep ground down to the belay tree below, rather than a vertical drop, so it wasn't going to be taking that much weight.

Down the rabbit hole...

Dick soon had a sling round the tree and set of down to the first rebelay.  Joining Tony at the tree I was glad to be out of the wind. Putting my gloves back on after taking photos had left me with sickening hot aches, though I was glad that blood was returning to my fingers again.

Meeting up with Tony again at the rebelay we both looked skyward as the wind rushing over the top of the pot emulated someone blowing over an enormous milk bottle, producing an eery, resonating howl.

As rebelay followed rebelay, I realised it had been a long time since we'd done a cave with 'big' pitches. I'd love to do this pot again in the light as I'm sure much of its glory was hidden in the shadows.  The howls of wind noise from above was now replaced with hollers of delight from Dick below as he dropped the final pitch and landed on the boulder slope floor of the main chamber.

While I could see the other two below me, my attention was grabbed by the huge jammed boulder that acts as the take off for the final pitch. Sometimes it's best not to think too much about these things.

The main chamber is an incredible place and the dug shaft at it's base an amazing piece of engineering,  completed in just 7 weeks. This must have been a much more comfortable place for the diggers after their travails in the link between Notts II and Lyle Caverns. A lone bat had decided it was a nice place to spend the winter too.

The clever mammals know how to avoid all the brexit twaddle

Tony soon had a rope down the scaffolded shaft and Dick swiftly followed.  In readiness for the squirminess I believed to be ahead I stopped at the bottom of the pitch to take off my SRT gear, the other's voices disappearing down the continuation crawl.  The crawls and short squeezes completed a handlined climb dropped us into a beautiful piece of streamway and suddenly we were there at a short, rigged pitch down into a gently running stream.

Tony on the dig pitch

Tony with his gear still on was soon down into the Lost John's master cave with Dick not far behind. Kindly Tony passed his harness up and I was able to join them as they returned from upstream, where they had turned round at a deep pool. The stomp was now on down to the sump. Despite both Tony and I having been to the bottom of the Lost John's pitches and down to Groundsheet junction, we'd never actually been to the sump, so it was great to be there, especially as we hadn't been expecting to be able to make it down into the streamway.

In spite of the increasing weight of rope below and the worrying rubbing of the rope above as I removed a deviation, I felt really pleased that we'd all made it down to the sump, an added bonus to an already great trip. Shouts of, "Hurry up, we're freezing.", signalled my proximity to the tree and I hauled the now burgeoning tackle sack up the steep slope above, rope spilling from it as it was dumped finally on horizontal ground.

It was then back into the long line of everyone making their way back across the moor to the cars, headlights acting as a homing beacon to weary cavers. Though the moors had been crowded, we were the only customers in the welcoming Whoop Hall, though we hope they did have at least one other guest, a large gentleman in a rabbit onesy passing the bar causing me to lose track of the conversation on a couple of occasions.  

A few years ago the barman had complained that no one had mid week work's Christmas do's anymore and though he didn't raise it again, it certainly felt that things were even quieter this year. Changed social attitudes to drink driving (which I'm definitely not complaining about); cheap supermarket drink (which I definitely appreciate); a decade of austerity?  Whatever the reason I hope that there are enough people stopping in each week to keep country pubs like this one open, it would be a sad end to the night without half an hour of chat round a warming fire.