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Most of the decisions I have made in my life have been informed ones, based on known elements and facts with little or no impulse at all, I was always of the mindset that I should keep myself out of the shit rather than have to be extricated from it. So it was somewhat of a system shock when one hazy Thursday night some three months ago, I found myself accepting an invitation to what started off sounding like a trip of a lifetime and in the days and weeks that followed ended up feeling like it very well might be the final trip of my entire life.
It all started when Mark Helmore turned fifty, a celebration which I sadly missed (This caused some disapproval), plans were set in motion for a foray to the Diau in France for a serious sounding trip that had various pleasant adjectives associated with it such as "fun", "nice" or the more comforting "deadly" and even "bloody hard" depending on who you asked... and yes, I asked everyone, sometimes twice in an effort to catch them out.
Two weeks on from my invite and I was already trying to worm my way out of it, so much so that at the Mendip caving weekend various kind souls were approaching me and assuring me that I probably wouldn't die, you know who you are!. It was decided at around this time that I would need some form of real SRT training so as not to let everyone down and cause some sort of international incident when (if) I ever made it to France.
Therefore it was decided that I should travel to Yorkshire and learn what real SRT was all about, thus leaving me with one less reason to try and drop out of the France trip and perhaps gain some of the confidence I needed to pull it off. It must have done the trick because I was no longer thinking about how to wrangle out of France, all my mental faculties were now employed in figuring out how to survive this one!
Yorkshire Gnome Training.
The YSS hut was welcome relief after a rather cramped journey in Mark's car, with Bean, Les, Simon and myself all trying to fend off DVT and the occasional spasmic cramp, even more welcome than the YSS was the Helwith bridge next door. This setup raises the bar for club huts in my opinion, having a pub within twenty metres is clearly a plus and it's a wonder some of us got any caving done at all.
I tried not to drink too much as the following morning we were going to attempt a Diccan to Dolly tub exchange trip and as I glanced out of the window I was greeted with the rather sobering sight of rain falling across the courtyard.
Alum, Diccan and The Coffee Shop Incident.
I woke up feeling ill and gradually felt worse as the morning progressed only to inevitably reach a projectile vomiting crescendo when Bean presented me with a plate of breakfast....of course there is no coming back from this kind of thing and my fellow compatriots (bastards) put it down to nerves, anxiety and fear. Whereas I will maintain that it was a dodgy pint in the pub the night before.
When Bean volunteered to cook breakfast I am fairly sure he didn't realise he was going to be judged like a contestant from Master chef and so no sooner had he presented it to us (and I had flushed the first course down the U bend and returned to try again) then the criticisms started flooding in thick and fast, bacon, sausage, beans... nothing was right... Les started up with his tea snobbery and it generally turned into a culinary witch hunt. I was somewhat glad when we all finally piled into the car and headed to a local tea shop to gauge the weather and have a refined cup of tea.
As tea shops go, this one was the embodiment of that all too often imagined and very rarely encountered English stereotype, quaint tables, that sense of quintessential British refinement, quiet well behaved children and jovially arranged cakestands with all manner of homebaked fare, apart from the rain this place was a truly picture perfect little tea shop. Which made what happened next all the more horrific.
I so often hear from my compatriots, that caving is about stories, and in my short time in caving I have heard many, sometimes many times in the telling and yet there are rare occasions when the telling of the story becomes a story in itself and so it was that even as I write this I cast my mind back with somewhat shocked disbelief and recall Simon telling us a story about his travels abroad, involving someone driving a land rover through a river. Whilst we sat around the table listening intently, I was aware that there were other people listening also and so it was as much a shock to them as it was to me when Simon reached the climax of his story and raising his voice as all good story tellers do, treated the Three Peaks coffee shop clientele to the unbelievable "ALL OF THE WOMEN LINE UP ALONG THE BANK, I'M GOING TO F&*K YOU ALL".
I can't really remember what happened next, I recall Mark hiding his head in his hands as I myself attempted desperately to slide off my chair and vanish under the table, a fearful mute silence descended upon this quaint, picturesque corner of the Dales in the aftermath of an incident that they will probably talk about for weeks.
Fortunately I am fairly sure that they saw the funny side of it, and they still sold me some Kendal mint cakes and told us that it probably won't rain until later, no harm done then.
I believe Mark said that Simon wasn't coming again.
Saturday, Actual caving!
Diccan to Dolly tubs
It hadn't escaped my attention that people have gotten into serious trouble in this cave due to flooding and so I looked to the greying skies with no small amount of dread as we kitted up, only for it to turn into a near state of panic when the first drops of rain began to fall. However I was somewhat reassured by the advice that this was actually bright and sunny for Yorkshire and the forecast was fine for the day.
I try and exercise my own judgement for any given situation, but being somewhat of a rookie I often find caving to be an exercise in trust, therefore today as with so many days in the past, I found myself trusting the judgement of others who have done this trip countless times in all manner of conditions and I just hoped that they weren't having an off day.
We set off for the cave, with Les, Simon (now possibly banned from all good Tea shops everywhere) and Myself heading in via Diccan with Mark and Bean going in via Dolly tubs, the plan was to meet and exchange at the bottom of Diccan once we had determined that the streamway wasn't going to be a threat.
All was well and soon we were trudging down the streamway and fairly shortly were at the first pitch, Les was doing the rigging and Simon was talking me through it and offering advice and pointers on technique and how I could improve my setup.
I don't think I quite realised how big Diccan pot was, I was more used to the 20 and 30 foot pitches that are typical of the kind of caving I am used to in Mendip, and so when I began the first abseil into a free hanging rebelay, I was vaguely aware that I was slightly more than 20 foot up, which wasn't a problem... yet.
Having Simon up above talking me through various techniques was absolutely invaluable, and with every obstacle I got past, I felt like I was improving, I'd never done a deviation before and for some reason I recalled that people often struggle with them. However I found the first one to be fairly easy and it was only when I encountered the second deviation that I got nervous.
I watched Les put his hood on and descend into the roaring darkness, I remember fumbling around for my own and putting it on, once I was ready I followed suit and began the descent into the unknown and to what would be one of my most memorable moments in SRT so far.
I had descended no more than a few metres before I became aware of a huge force of water following me down the pitch, a welcome deviation pulled me away from most of it, but it still wasn't enough. The noise and force of the water was overwhelming and almost too much to comprehend and I recall experiencing a huge surge of fear and adrenaline as this great wall of water surged down behind me like some unseen leviathan (I was too scared to turn round) and so I gingerly descended, completely consumed by the spray, which subsequently turned my STOP into a GO and so with every bounce I was descending unwelcome amounts of rope. Sometimes I bounced and didn't seem to go anywhere at all, although the rope still went through the descender. I nearly lost my nerve at one point and just locked my stop off, closed my eyes and hung there, spinning around in the force that the water was creating. Once the world had stopped bouncing I descended what was actually only a few more metres until I reached the floor at last, dazed and confused I stumbled over to where Les's light was and sat there to try and reflect on whether I had really just done all that.
After a couple more pitches of varying shapes and sizes my confidence was at an all time high and fairly soon we had met up with Bean and Mark at the bottom of the last pitch in Diccan, and after a brief stop to exchange the usual banter and insults we had parted ways for the second half of the trip.
Quite often I try and explain to my friends why I enjoy caving, and sometimes I even have to try and explain it to myself, but more often than not I find myself failing to make any kind of impact and generally get greeted with accusations of being a sadist and some kind of oddball for enjoying dark horrid holes in the ground. At some point I stopped orating my experiences to non cavers and generally now I just dodge the question with the age old 'enough about me, what about you?' which let's face it, is what most people prefer to talk about anyway.
Some things can't be described adequately enough to do them justice and this is the predicament I face when I attempt to write about what occurred next.
After we had parted ways with Bean and Mark, we climbed our way along a few pots and began walking along a passageway at which point Simon told me to take a look at the floor, which I did, although I considered it a rather odd request. After some more walking and staring at my boots I was told it that I should look upwards which I also did, and I was greeted with one of the most majestic and fantastic sights I have witnessed in my short time caving.
Far above me in stark contrast to the grey skies and rain of earlier, great sunbeams pierced through the darkness, like a celestial window far above me, it was a sight that I will never forget and to be taken almost instantaneously from the wet and dark sensory deprivation that is caving and thrown blinking and squinting into a glorious cascade of scintillating light and verdant scenery is an experience that surely can only be fathomable by people who have done it and one that I will take to my grave.
So it was that we entered the vast and surreal Alum pot, and it was only when I began what was perhaps the longest prussik I have ever done, that I realised just how large it all was. Such realisations are best left for when you aren't on a rope, especially when you aren't good at prusikking and are also not great at heights, and yet I couldn't help but look around me at about 30 metres up and feel that I had a view that money simply couldn't buy. Down below me was the cold darkness I had just previously emerged from and above me was this glorious blazing sun, like being suspended between heaven and hell. When I finally got myself up on to the ledge, I laid in silence for a long time and listened to the bird song that seemed to resonate throughout the entire place, I'd conquered quite a few fears and concerns to get to this point and this was my reward, something you can't jump off a tour bus and tick off a list, nor was it a place that a photo could really do justice, a kind of personal experience that can be shared with like minded mates, maybe that is what caving is?.
Soon we had climbed the greasy slab and were making our way up the final pitches in the Dolly tubs, with one final look out into the pot I made the final ascent and waited up top for Simon to derig. Les went on ahead to help Mark and Bean, although they clearly didn't need help because Bean turned up just as Simon finished ascending the final pitch. No sooner has Simon got off the rope then the most incredible noise greeted us, an absolute assault of rumbling and crashing, as if a train had passed inches away from us. We weren't sure what was going on and so we made haste and got ourselves out.
When we emerged topside we were greeted by the most immense thunderstorm, it was absolutely roaring down and a complete contrast to the glorious sun we had witnessed within Alum mere minutes before. It was as if it had given us it's best show whilst inside and upon leaving demonstrated its worst, a stark and rapid contrast that I will not forget in a hurry.
We'd timed it just right and as we trudged back in the rain I knew that this would be one of the trips that I would always remember.
That night in the pub I was somewhat horrified when upon downing a celebratory beer as a mark of surviving the day I was gifted with the knowledge that tomorrow was a Swinsto pull through trip and I would almost certainly die, cue everyone in the pub chanting 'Gnomie's gonna die, Gnomies gonna die' as you can imagine I was somewhat nonplussed at this turn of events and went back to the bunk and ate an entire pack of pringles in the feverish manner of one who is condemned and no longer concerned with calorific content.
Sunday
Swinsto pull through
At some point in the night Bean rolled in completely hammered and trampled around the hut kicking open doors in an attempt to find the toilet, which I am told is a marked improvement on previous years when the toilet didn't even get a look in.
It was shocking then, when a sober and alert looking Bean woke me up to tell me he had already cooked breakfast and I needed to get a move on, unable to fathom how someone could make such a complete recovery I ate my breakfast in silence, careful not to vomit this time, for fear of unending pisstakes. In another room nearby I was vaguely aware of someone chanting 'Gnomies gonna die'.
It was somewhat drizzling as we pulled up to the layby at Swinsto, any doubts I had about going into this cave and sitting on a ledge for twelve hours while we waited for the water levels to drop were soon abated by the presence of a scout party who were also going into the cave. Although it turned out they weren't doing the same trip as me, which made me slightly nervous again. Some helpful soul explained that the raging river before me was usually quite dry, cheers!
After some rather unwelcome walking to the cave entrance in full kit, I started to have my doubts about it all, as the first thing I was faced with was a crawl in about a foot of water, in fact it wasn't just the first thing i was faced with... it was the next thing too and the thing after that and it went on and bloody on for about fifteen minutes. It was all I could do to stay calm as my cold calculating mind tried to work out optimum fill times for small crawly passages in active inlets. I had no answers and just as I was getting rather unhappy with the whole thing, we reached the first pitch.
I was damn glad of some headroom, even if it was the kind that required you to be suspended over a black hole on a piece of binder twine (it turns out that some 9mil rope has been sneaked into tackle bags for this trip, much to Les's displeasure) and as soon as I was down the first pitch I was buzzing and ready for more, soon we were dropping pitch after pitch and I was really enjoying myself, all the while the water followed us down, this felt very much like a more vertical and sporting version of Swildons.
Soon we were at split pitch which was fantastic and roaring wet, I descended the first half of the pitch which as its name suggests splits into two, then I quickly crossed through what was a roaring waterfall and carefully shuffled to the start of the second half. Crossing the spray had sapped the life out of me and caused me to stagger around like a drunken idiot which was somewhat worrisome considering I was only in it for a couple of seconds, a very stark reminder of how dangerous prolonged exposure could be.
The second half of the pitch was a bigger descent and by now I was having a blast, I had totally forgotten about the fact that I was going to die, or even that we could all be in for a very long wait on a cold damp ledge while the water levels subsided from a cloudburst that was clearly occurring right at that moment, magic.
A few more fun pitches and a bit of crawling and we had met up with the scouts again, who were slowly making their way out, I believe the leader would have probably preferred to have joined us on our trip rather than his (I know this because he said as much). At the final climb out most people opted to use the handy bit of rope the scouts had rigged on the way in (be prepared, right?) and as I began to prussik out I was somewhat busted as the troupe rounded the corner to find me rotating slowly on their rope, some two or three metres above the ground. I expect they were even more mystified when I asked 'Do you mind if I use your rope?' luckily they didn't or at least pretended that they didn't and it turned out Simon had already asked them earlier but chose not to tell me for some milage.
When we emerged It was at the end of fantastic trip and a triumph over nerves and lack of confidence, by the end of it I was enjoying the heights, the SRT and didn't even mind the crawling.
As we drove home I reflected on what a fantastic trip it had been, and how I had enjoyed caving in a multitude of different ways, from the camaraderie to the shared appreciation of fantastic surroundings, and also for the sport and the adrenalin, it encompasses all of these experiences and countless others.
After coming to terms with the fact that I was alive, I realised that in my old life I hadn't nearly used my credit cards enough, a remedy I was going to put into action as soon as I got home.
Many thanks to Mark Helmore, Bean, Simon and Les for putting on a trip to help me out, the YSS for having such a great hut and the Helwith Bridge Inn for providing a damn good pint.
Now all that remained was for me to survive the Diau, but that is another trip report. (and yes it's bloody well coming soon Mr Helmore!)
It all started when Mark Helmore turned fifty, a celebration which I sadly missed (This caused some disapproval), plans were set in motion for a foray to the Diau in France for a serious sounding trip that had various pleasant adjectives associated with it such as "fun", "nice" or the more comforting "deadly" and even "bloody hard" depending on who you asked... and yes, I asked everyone, sometimes twice in an effort to catch them out.
Two weeks on from my invite and I was already trying to worm my way out of it, so much so that at the Mendip caving weekend various kind souls were approaching me and assuring me that I probably wouldn't die, you know who you are!. It was decided at around this time that I would need some form of real SRT training so as not to let everyone down and cause some sort of international incident when (if) I ever made it to France.
Therefore it was decided that I should travel to Yorkshire and learn what real SRT was all about, thus leaving me with one less reason to try and drop out of the France trip and perhaps gain some of the confidence I needed to pull it off. It must have done the trick because I was no longer thinking about how to wrangle out of France, all my mental faculties were now employed in figuring out how to survive this one!
Yorkshire Gnome Training.
The YSS hut was welcome relief after a rather cramped journey in Mark's car, with Bean, Les, Simon and myself all trying to fend off DVT and the occasional spasmic cramp, even more welcome than the YSS was the Helwith bridge next door. This setup raises the bar for club huts in my opinion, having a pub within twenty metres is clearly a plus and it's a wonder some of us got any caving done at all.
I tried not to drink too much as the following morning we were going to attempt a Diccan to Dolly tub exchange trip and as I glanced out of the window I was greeted with the rather sobering sight of rain falling across the courtyard.
Alum, Diccan and The Coffee Shop Incident.
I woke up feeling ill and gradually felt worse as the morning progressed only to inevitably reach a projectile vomiting crescendo when Bean presented me with a plate of breakfast....of course there is no coming back from this kind of thing and my fellow compatriots (bastards) put it down to nerves, anxiety and fear. Whereas I will maintain that it was a dodgy pint in the pub the night before.
When Bean volunteered to cook breakfast I am fairly sure he didn't realise he was going to be judged like a contestant from Master chef and so no sooner had he presented it to us (and I had flushed the first course down the U bend and returned to try again) then the criticisms started flooding in thick and fast, bacon, sausage, beans... nothing was right... Les started up with his tea snobbery and it generally turned into a culinary witch hunt. I was somewhat glad when we all finally piled into the car and headed to a local tea shop to gauge the weather and have a refined cup of tea.
As tea shops go, this one was the embodiment of that all too often imagined and very rarely encountered English stereotype, quaint tables, that sense of quintessential British refinement, quiet well behaved children and jovially arranged cakestands with all manner of homebaked fare, apart from the rain this place was a truly picture perfect little tea shop. Which made what happened next all the more horrific.
I so often hear from my compatriots, that caving is about stories, and in my short time in caving I have heard many, sometimes many times in the telling and yet there are rare occasions when the telling of the story becomes a story in itself and so it was that even as I write this I cast my mind back with somewhat shocked disbelief and recall Simon telling us a story about his travels abroad, involving someone driving a land rover through a river. Whilst we sat around the table listening intently, I was aware that there were other people listening also and so it was as much a shock to them as it was to me when Simon reached the climax of his story and raising his voice as all good story tellers do, treated the Three Peaks coffee shop clientele to the unbelievable "ALL OF THE WOMEN LINE UP ALONG THE BANK, I'M GOING TO F&*K YOU ALL".
I can't really remember what happened next, I recall Mark hiding his head in his hands as I myself attempted desperately to slide off my chair and vanish under the table, a fearful mute silence descended upon this quaint, picturesque corner of the Dales in the aftermath of an incident that they will probably talk about for weeks.
Fortunately I am fairly sure that they saw the funny side of it, and they still sold me some Kendal mint cakes and told us that it probably won't rain until later, no harm done then.
I believe Mark said that Simon wasn't coming again.
Saturday, Actual caving!
Diccan to Dolly tubs
It hadn't escaped my attention that people have gotten into serious trouble in this cave due to flooding and so I looked to the greying skies with no small amount of dread as we kitted up, only for it to turn into a near state of panic when the first drops of rain began to fall. However I was somewhat reassured by the advice that this was actually bright and sunny for Yorkshire and the forecast was fine for the day.
I try and exercise my own judgement for any given situation, but being somewhat of a rookie I often find caving to be an exercise in trust, therefore today as with so many days in the past, I found myself trusting the judgement of others who have done this trip countless times in all manner of conditions and I just hoped that they weren't having an off day.
We set off for the cave, with Les, Simon (now possibly banned from all good Tea shops everywhere) and Myself heading in via Diccan with Mark and Bean going in via Dolly tubs, the plan was to meet and exchange at the bottom of Diccan once we had determined that the streamway wasn't going to be a threat.
All was well and soon we were trudging down the streamway and fairly shortly were at the first pitch, Les was doing the rigging and Simon was talking me through it and offering advice and pointers on technique and how I could improve my setup.
I don't think I quite realised how big Diccan pot was, I was more used to the 20 and 30 foot pitches that are typical of the kind of caving I am used to in Mendip, and so when I began the first abseil into a free hanging rebelay, I was vaguely aware that I was slightly more than 20 foot up, which wasn't a problem... yet.
Having Simon up above talking me through various techniques was absolutely invaluable, and with every obstacle I got past, I felt like I was improving, I'd never done a deviation before and for some reason I recalled that people often struggle with them. However I found the first one to be fairly easy and it was only when I encountered the second deviation that I got nervous.
I watched Les put his hood on and descend into the roaring darkness, I remember fumbling around for my own and putting it on, once I was ready I followed suit and began the descent into the unknown and to what would be one of my most memorable moments in SRT so far.
I had descended no more than a few metres before I became aware of a huge force of water following me down the pitch, a welcome deviation pulled me away from most of it, but it still wasn't enough. The noise and force of the water was overwhelming and almost too much to comprehend and I recall experiencing a huge surge of fear and adrenaline as this great wall of water surged down behind me like some unseen leviathan (I was too scared to turn round) and so I gingerly descended, completely consumed by the spray, which subsequently turned my STOP into a GO and so with every bounce I was descending unwelcome amounts of rope. Sometimes I bounced and didn't seem to go anywhere at all, although the rope still went through the descender. I nearly lost my nerve at one point and just locked my stop off, closed my eyes and hung there, spinning around in the force that the water was creating. Once the world had stopped bouncing I descended what was actually only a few more metres until I reached the floor at last, dazed and confused I stumbled over to where Les's light was and sat there to try and reflect on whether I had really just done all that.
After a couple more pitches of varying shapes and sizes my confidence was at an all time high and fairly soon we had met up with Bean and Mark at the bottom of the last pitch in Diccan, and after a brief stop to exchange the usual banter and insults we had parted ways for the second half of the trip.
Quite often I try and explain to my friends why I enjoy caving, and sometimes I even have to try and explain it to myself, but more often than not I find myself failing to make any kind of impact and generally get greeted with accusations of being a sadist and some kind of oddball for enjoying dark horrid holes in the ground. At some point I stopped orating my experiences to non cavers and generally now I just dodge the question with the age old 'enough about me, what about you?' which let's face it, is what most people prefer to talk about anyway.
Some things can't be described adequately enough to do them justice and this is the predicament I face when I attempt to write about what occurred next.
After we had parted ways with Bean and Mark, we climbed our way along a few pots and began walking along a passageway at which point Simon told me to take a look at the floor, which I did, although I considered it a rather odd request. After some more walking and staring at my boots I was told it that I should look upwards which I also did, and I was greeted with one of the most majestic and fantastic sights I have witnessed in my short time caving.
Far above me in stark contrast to the grey skies and rain of earlier, great sunbeams pierced through the darkness, like a celestial window far above me, it was a sight that I will never forget and to be taken almost instantaneously from the wet and dark sensory deprivation that is caving and thrown blinking and squinting into a glorious cascade of scintillating light and verdant scenery is an experience that surely can only be fathomable by people who have done it and one that I will take to my grave.
So it was that we entered the vast and surreal Alum pot, and it was only when I began what was perhaps the longest prussik I have ever done, that I realised just how large it all was. Such realisations are best left for when you aren't on a rope, especially when you aren't good at prusikking and are also not great at heights, and yet I couldn't help but look around me at about 30 metres up and feel that I had a view that money simply couldn't buy. Down below me was the cold darkness I had just previously emerged from and above me was this glorious blazing sun, like being suspended between heaven and hell. When I finally got myself up on to the ledge, I laid in silence for a long time and listened to the bird song that seemed to resonate throughout the entire place, I'd conquered quite a few fears and concerns to get to this point and this was my reward, something you can't jump off a tour bus and tick off a list, nor was it a place that a photo could really do justice, a kind of personal experience that can be shared with like minded mates, maybe that is what caving is?.
Soon we had climbed the greasy slab and were making our way up the final pitches in the Dolly tubs, with one final look out into the pot I made the final ascent and waited up top for Simon to derig. Les went on ahead to help Mark and Bean, although they clearly didn't need help because Bean turned up just as Simon finished ascending the final pitch. No sooner has Simon got off the rope then the most incredible noise greeted us, an absolute assault of rumbling and crashing, as if a train had passed inches away from us. We weren't sure what was going on and so we made haste and got ourselves out.
When we emerged topside we were greeted by the most immense thunderstorm, it was absolutely roaring down and a complete contrast to the glorious sun we had witnessed within Alum mere minutes before. It was as if it had given us it's best show whilst inside and upon leaving demonstrated its worst, a stark and rapid contrast that I will not forget in a hurry.
We'd timed it just right and as we trudged back in the rain I knew that this would be one of the trips that I would always remember.
That night in the pub I was somewhat horrified when upon downing a celebratory beer as a mark of surviving the day I was gifted with the knowledge that tomorrow was a Swinsto pull through trip and I would almost certainly die, cue everyone in the pub chanting 'Gnomie's gonna die, Gnomies gonna die' as you can imagine I was somewhat nonplussed at this turn of events and went back to the bunk and ate an entire pack of pringles in the feverish manner of one who is condemned and no longer concerned with calorific content.
Sunday
Swinsto pull through
At some point in the night Bean rolled in completely hammered and trampled around the hut kicking open doors in an attempt to find the toilet, which I am told is a marked improvement on previous years when the toilet didn't even get a look in.
It was shocking then, when a sober and alert looking Bean woke me up to tell me he had already cooked breakfast and I needed to get a move on, unable to fathom how someone could make such a complete recovery I ate my breakfast in silence, careful not to vomit this time, for fear of unending pisstakes. In another room nearby I was vaguely aware of someone chanting 'Gnomies gonna die'.
It was somewhat drizzling as we pulled up to the layby at Swinsto, any doubts I had about going into this cave and sitting on a ledge for twelve hours while we waited for the water levels to drop were soon abated by the presence of a scout party who were also going into the cave. Although it turned out they weren't doing the same trip as me, which made me slightly nervous again. Some helpful soul explained that the raging river before me was usually quite dry, cheers!
After some rather unwelcome walking to the cave entrance in full kit, I started to have my doubts about it all, as the first thing I was faced with was a crawl in about a foot of water, in fact it wasn't just the first thing i was faced with... it was the next thing too and the thing after that and it went on and bloody on for about fifteen minutes. It was all I could do to stay calm as my cold calculating mind tried to work out optimum fill times for small crawly passages in active inlets. I had no answers and just as I was getting rather unhappy with the whole thing, we reached the first pitch.
I was damn glad of some headroom, even if it was the kind that required you to be suspended over a black hole on a piece of binder twine (it turns out that some 9mil rope has been sneaked into tackle bags for this trip, much to Les's displeasure) and as soon as I was down the first pitch I was buzzing and ready for more, soon we were dropping pitch after pitch and I was really enjoying myself, all the while the water followed us down, this felt very much like a more vertical and sporting version of Swildons.
Soon we were at split pitch which was fantastic and roaring wet, I descended the first half of the pitch which as its name suggests splits into two, then I quickly crossed through what was a roaring waterfall and carefully shuffled to the start of the second half. Crossing the spray had sapped the life out of me and caused me to stagger around like a drunken idiot which was somewhat worrisome considering I was only in it for a couple of seconds, a very stark reminder of how dangerous prolonged exposure could be.
The second half of the pitch was a bigger descent and by now I was having a blast, I had totally forgotten about the fact that I was going to die, or even that we could all be in for a very long wait on a cold damp ledge while the water levels subsided from a cloudburst that was clearly occurring right at that moment, magic.
A few more fun pitches and a bit of crawling and we had met up with the scouts again, who were slowly making their way out, I believe the leader would have probably preferred to have joined us on our trip rather than his (I know this because he said as much). At the final climb out most people opted to use the handy bit of rope the scouts had rigged on the way in (be prepared, right?) and as I began to prussik out I was somewhat busted as the troupe rounded the corner to find me rotating slowly on their rope, some two or three metres above the ground. I expect they were even more mystified when I asked 'Do you mind if I use your rope?' luckily they didn't or at least pretended that they didn't and it turned out Simon had already asked them earlier but chose not to tell me for some milage.
When we emerged It was at the end of fantastic trip and a triumph over nerves and lack of confidence, by the end of it I was enjoying the heights, the SRT and didn't even mind the crawling.
As we drove home I reflected on what a fantastic trip it had been, and how I had enjoyed caving in a multitude of different ways, from the camaraderie to the shared appreciation of fantastic surroundings, and also for the sport and the adrenalin, it encompasses all of these experiences and countless others.
After coming to terms with the fact that I was alive, I realised that in my old life I hadn't nearly used my credit cards enough, a remedy I was going to put into action as soon as I got home.
Many thanks to Mark Helmore, Bean, Simon and Les for putting on a trip to help me out, the YSS for having such a great hut and the Helwith Bridge Inn for providing a damn good pint.
Now all that remained was for me to survive the Diau, but that is another trip report. (and yes it's bloody well coming soon Mr Helmore!)
