Tony was gutted. Swanning off to warmer climes had meant that he'd missed out on a trip through the Notts II/Lyle connection, one of his favorite places in the world. Needing to make up for it I scoured guidebooks, Descent and the web and settled on a trip down the newly bolted North by North End Pot to visit the Eastern Front.
We parked up by the water utilities shed and trudged up the lane, heading straight on across the moor on a path when the track turns hard left. The description and sketch map made us think we'd bump straight into it but it's actually slightly off the main path to the left and a proper map and compass or a GPS would make it easier find on a first visit in the dark or clag. In our heads we were also looking for a larger shake hole than we actually found - it is a big hole but it's the depth that's significant rather than its area.
The hole is divided in two by a beautifully sculptured wall of spoil, dividing the old entrance from the newer caged one. The mesh lid might be good at keeping sheep out, but as we were to find out, nothing was going to prevent us from carrying out large amounts of clawing mud at the end of our trip.
Descending the first pitches I was in awe of the diggers industry. Board after board of shuttering held in place by metres upon metres of scaffolding bar. So in awe in fact that I completely missed a vertical scaffolding pole and drilled thread that made up a y-hang and continued blissfully down the pitch until the first deviation. I'm going to hang onto the excuse of being so wowed by the digging that I also completely missed the rift leading off the pitch and continued down the blind shaft. Returning a few metres back up, the rift was as clear as day and I moved up into the breakthrough point.
It was now time to start treading as softly as possible. I hitched the tackle sack directly to my harness and began tiptoeing down the rubble slope trying to keep as much weight as I could on the rope. Passing the large funnel I eeked along a ledge that looked temporary at best and approached the main pitch asking Tony to wait until I was down before approaching the pitch head. The echoes of our voices as we neared the pitch gave us the impression we were about to enter a vast space and the pitch didn't disappoint. At the bottom, I scurried along the taped route to get out of the firing line and shouted up to Tony I was safe.
With all of us reunited we descended the last short pitch and began our journey into the Large/Rift/Low Douk system. This time I'm going to use the excuse of being distracted by pristine formations that caused me to miss the left hand branch of the T junction leading to Large, but fortunately our destination lay to the right in the direction I was funneled by the conservation tape.
The taped route soon brought us to a stunning crystal pool. I don't think I've seen such delicate crystals in a UK cave before and I risked Mike and Tony's wrath for a quick picture.
Just after the crystal pool there is a lovely wallow of porridge like mud to the right but the way on lies down to the left in similar mud but with the added joy of a much lower roof. Squirming along the crawl definitely had me questioning my life choices and trying to move up the slope to escape the mire, questioning my strength training regime.
Coating food stuffs in bread crumbs or nuts is quite enjoyable. Dip the item in a gloopy substance and then roll it in the dry. When you're the item in question though it's not so great and moving from the porridge to sandy crawls left me coated in yet another restricting layer.
The Eastern Front is well worth paying yours dues for. Released from the restricting quagmire you find yourself in immense caverns with stunning formations. The calcite floors are particularly special. I'm grateful to the original explorers for their foresight in taping and I hope these precautions mean preservation of these wonders for generations to come.
The photo opportunities were myriad but I'm very aware of my models' need to keep moving and so I chose a double stalactite and associated stalagmite for my one shot before we began to retrace our steps.
While Tony derigged, I tried to capture a shot of Mike on the big pitch (he is there honest!) before attempting to follow his ascent. My jammers were having a 'mare on the muddy rope, not jamming when I wanted them to and lodging solidly when I wanted to remove them.
Finally at the top of the pitch I moved gingerly away until I was past the watershed between the main pitch and the parallel large funnel before shouting rope free to Tony. Reaching up to unclip I must have put a little bit of extra pressure on the boulder ledge below me and I felt rocks moving under my feet. Releasing the pressure on them caused their tenuous grip on the mud to fail and they began their descent down the funnel, the bangs of their collisions echoing around the aven. It was to my huge relief that Tony responded to my call about his welfare.
We all reunited at the top of the slope, all happier to be back on terrace firma and off, 'the tottering pile of choss', as Tony put it. I grabbed a tackle sack, amazed by the extra weight due to the mud on the rope and headed back through the connecting pitch. Fortunately Mike was close behind and he udged the bags through after me, without him I wouldn't have been going anywhere very quickly.
The dug pitches passed without incident and we emerged into the night a few pounds heavier and looking like we'd spent the evening in a spa. Mike spread a blanket over the inside of the car to keep off any mud we hadn't managed to keep on our oversuits and a glance at the car clock showed it had been a proper trip, it was only just still Thursday.
This is the second week in a row we haven't made it to the pub! Need to plan more carefully in the future.
