Oh shi

[langcliffe]

I've done that through the Rowten sumps. It stayed on for the first two sumps and fell off mid-way through the long one. I surfaced in the sump pool (Rowten side) in darkness, but dipping my head underwater was able to see my helmet and light glowing on the sump floor, so was able to dive back through and pick it up. I'll never make that mistake again!

I remember a vaguely similar incident in the Rowten upstream free-dive, which is a dive between two air spaces in a very wide flooded bedding. My head hit a flake, and I lost both my helmet and the line. In those days the light was attached to a lead acid cell strapped to the belt, and as I swam up and down this wide bedding looking for airspace, a bemused Mike Wooding eventually managed to reach in and grab the light cable as I passed him for the fourth time.

 

[hannahb]

A friend of mine lost his helmet down Slit Pot in a similar way. He had undone the chin strap to lend someone his whistle for the ladder descent. He leaned out over the pitch head to help that person some time later (the whole trip had sort of gone wrong), and it fell off. The light and helmet (Duo & Ecrin rock) both survived and the light was still switched on at the bottom (the helmet was retired). It gave our friend at the bottom of the pitch the horrible experience of thinking his friend was falling down the pitch.

 

[Greybeard]

For many years now, whenever I am wearing SRT gear, I attach my helmet to my Torse, probably because I'm a 'tight' Yorkshireman but also because I have my spare light attached to my helmet . I attach a mini krab to the torse at shoulder level and a 4mm cord to the helmet with a bit of slack. If it comes off it will only dangle then.

 

[Mark Wright]

The unfastened helmet chinstrap reminds me of a Berger trip some years ago. I got back to Camp 1 after a trip to the bottom and unfastened my chinstrap and proceeded to lay down on Tony Revell’s bivibag for a rest.

After a couple of minutes there was an unusual burning smell. My helmet had slipped backwards and my carbide lamp had set fire to the bivibag.

It didn’t go down very well with Tony and cost me a bloody fortune to replace it for him.

 

[langcliffe]

I had one such moment thirty years ago, when getting to know the Ease Gill system. The only way of really getting to know a complex system is by spending hours down there on one's own with a survey and a lot of patience. On this occasion I was getting to know the area around the bottom of Pool Sink - the lower reaches of The Borehole, Green and Smelly Ok assage, and Spiral Staircase Passage, which wasn't then connected to Wretched Rabbit.

I pulled down the first pitch in Pool Sink in a nice relaxed state of mind. Rather too relaxed, because I suddenly realised as I was pulling down the rope that I wasn't at the bottom, but on a ledge

My first reaction was to look around for someone to blame. My second was to jump up and down trying to reach the end of the rope some 5 metres above me. Finally, I had the gumption to look at the problem more closely, and realised that it was an easy climb down to the stream.

I was once told that the the advantage of solo caving is that there is nobody to see your cock-ups!

 

[pwhole]

On the day of our club Xmas dinner a few years ago, me and Scud went for a quick trip down JH at lunchtime, on a ridiculously windy day. Once he'd set off down the entrance shaft rope, I got inside the shaft top to get out of the wind - at that point I noticed my light wasn't working, so I took off my helmet to have a look - at which point the wind blew the steel lid over, and it hit me on my head, with the reinforcing rib welded beneath cutting a neat slot in my skull, and nearly knocking me out. I don't have a great deal of hair, so no padding to speak of, other than a merino Buff. Blood was pouring out immediately, and my squeals obviously alerted Scud, who immediately started re-climbing the rope to get me to some sort of treatment.

Luckily one of our members is a doctor, and thankfully was already at the Chapel for the meal, and she announced that she could actually do for me there just what the hospital would do, but obviously miles and hours away - adhesive tape, as they certainly couldn't stitch it. And she did - totally sorted it, with another re-do a few hours later to 'keep it neat', as she said. As in, not looking like I'd just had brain-surgery. Apart from the cartoon-sized lump on my head, it actually healed quite quickly, and now I just have a very cool scar. I don't know how I didn't get a fractured skull, other than I must have a very hard head. But as a result we finally got a restraint hook fitted on that bloody lid.

 

[Fulk]

Here's my favourite Oh shi* moment (well, my favourite caving one . . . I think the nearly-falling-out-of-the-back-of-a-high-speed-train one beats it, but it's got nothing to do with caving):

Many years ago I was exploring a resurgence cave in Northern Spain, from which came a substantial stream of very cold water. After about 200 metres there was a sump, but in one wall of the cave just before the sump there was a roughly circular hole maybe 1.2 m in diameter that was emitting a strong, cold draught, which led us to believe that it should be the start of a sump bypass. This proved to be the case, but it involved a lot of grovelling. Anyway, eventually we reached the continuing stream, which at this point was a canal that led to a lake, on the far side of which was a superb vadose canyon heading into the heart of the mountain. At his juncture we decided to call it a day.

The next day we returned with a bigger party to continue the exploration; I’d got it into my head that the first sump was probably quite short, so I took along a diving mask to see if I could dive it. Sure enough, when I stuck my head under the water (did I mention that it was very cold?) I could see an air surface a short distance ahead, so I ducked under and found myself at the start of the aforementioned canal. So there you had it – a choice between a ~1‑metre dive and about 100 m of grovelling, which constituted a sump bypass. In point of fact, since you were up to your chest in water before you’d even left daylight, and you had to swim along the canal and across the lake anyway, there wasn’t much point in doing the bypass.

So we followed this magnificent vadose canyon upstream until we reached the inevitable sump . . . at which point, I decided in a moment of madness that having passed one sump, I could pass another. This one, however, was quite different; the passage here was about 3 m wide, the roof shelving down into the (very cold) water. Still, in I went, and again I could see the glint of a water surface some distance ahead, so I swam into what turned out to be an air-bell after maybe 2½m. At this point I decided this was getting a bit silly, and decided to return . . . but now we reach the ‘Oh shit’ moment – I couldn’t get back. What had happened was that I’d followed the sloping roof of the cave down into the sump, but when trying to dive back down to get beyond the lip (see diagram) I couldn’t overcome the buoyancy of my wet-suit combined with lungs full of air to get down deep enough to pass the lip. So there I was, treading this (vey cold) water, thinking, ‘What now’. Bizarrely, I remember that I tried to compute the volume of this air-bell and find out (based upon some notion of breathing 1 cubic foot of air per minute) how long I had to live; the answer? – not long.

I thought of various strategies, including stripping off my wet-suit and leaving it there to return later (or send someone else back) with a rope to drag it out. Eventually I hit on the idea of breathing out before diving, in order to reduce my buoyancy. So ‘taking a deep breath’ – or, rather, exactly the opposite – I tried again, and this time succeeded in getting below the lip, to arrive back in the ‘final chamber’ gasping for breath, freezing cold and shitting myself.

 

[hannahb]

Please tell us the train story!!!

 

[spelfish]

If the train story beats your free dive, it NEEDS to be told!

 

[Fulk]

How could I ignore such cris de coeur . . . here we go:

Deep in the mists of antiquity I went on holiday to Cornwall with the woman who was to become my first wife and her two daughters, taking the train from Oxenholme to Padstow.

The day we came back home was hot, sticky and sultry, the train was over-crowded and there was no air-conditioning, so conditions on board were a bit dismal.

After an hour or two I said to the girls, 'Let's go and find the buffet-car and get something to drink'. So we set off along the train. Now the train was an old-fashioned corridor one; if there are any youngsters out there who do not know what this means, well, the carriages had a corridor down one side, with compartments for 10 or 12 people, as opposed to the open-plan set-up on modern trains. Oh, and the doors between the carriages were made of wood – an important element in the story as wood is, of course, opaque.

So we set off walking along the corridors – or, rather, pushing our way through the throngs:

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, glance out of the window to see that we're running parallel to a motorway and easily overtaking everything going in our direction, so we must have been bombing along at 90–100 mph, open the door, step into the . . . 'F**K ME' – I'm hanging out of the back of the train!!!!!

How I didn't fall out with inevitable consequences I don't know, but I (obviously) managed to pull myself back on board. When I'd stopped shaking, I said to Rachel, the elder of the girls, 'You stay here to warn others and I'll take Abi back to her mum and go and find the guard'.

So I pushed my way to the front of the train, where the guard was presiding over a scene of chaos, his van full of passengers, luggage, bikes, dogs etc. I said to the guard, who was reading his paper, 'Excuse me; I've been looking for the buffet-car' and he replied, with an air of great satisfaction, 'Well, there isn't one' and went back to his paper. 'EXCUSE ME', I said, and he looked up to give me a baleful glare. 'I know there isn't one; but when I reached the end of your f**king train, I opened the door and bloody nearly fell out' (or words to that effect). Well, I've never seen such a change come over anyone as quickly as the change that came over him. As he set off down the corridor, I said, 'I will, of course, inform the appropriate authorities when I reach my destination' in the haughtiest voice I could manage. In fact, I'd no intention of grassing him up; I figured he'd never do it again, and if I did grass him up he would, at the very least, be on a very serious disciplinary charge – that is, if he still had a job. But I bet that, for the next month or two, he crapped himself every time a superior spoke to him or his phone rang!

 

[hannahb]

Oh my days

 

[Tritim230]

How could I ignore such cris de coeur . . . here we go:

Deep in the mists of antiquity I went on holiday to Cornwall with the woman who was to become my first wife and her two daughters, taking the train from Oxenholme to Padstow.

The day we came back home was hot, sticky and sultry, the train was over-crowded and there was no air-conditioning, so conditions on board were a bit dismal.

After an hour or two I said to the girls, 'Let's go and find the buffet-car and get something to drink'. So we set off along the train. Now the train was an old-fashioned corridor one; if there are any youngsters out there who do not know what this means, well, the carriages had a corridor down one side, with compartments for 10 or 12 people, as opposed to the open-plan set-up on modern trains. Oh, and the doors between the carriages were made of wood – an important element in the story as wood is, of course, opaque.

So we set off walking along the corridors – or, rather, pushing our way through the throngs:

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, open the door, step into the next carriage;

Push, push, push, glance out of the window to see that we're running parallel to a motorway and easily overtaking everything going in our direction, so we must have been bombing along at 90–100 mph, open the door, step into the . . . 'F**K ME' – I'm hanging out of the back of the train!!!!!

How I didn't fall out with inevitable consequences I don't know, but I (obviously) managed to pull myself back on board. When I'd stopped shaking, I said to Rachel, the elder of the girls, 'You stay here to warn others and I'll take Abi back to her mum and go and find the guard'.

So I pushed my way to the front of the train, where the guard was presiding over a scene of chaos, his van full of passengers, luggage, bikes, dogs etc. I said to the guard, who was reading his paper, 'Excuse me; I've been looking for the buffet-car' and he replied, with an air of great satisfaction, 'Well, there isn't one' and went back to his paper. 'EXCUSE ME', I said, and he looked up to give me a baleful glare. 'I know there isn't one; but when I reached the end of your f**king train, I opened the door and bloody nearly fell out' (or words to that effect). Well, I've never seen such a change come over anyone as quickly as the change that came over him. As he set off down the corridor, I said, 'I will, of course, inform the appropriate authorities when I reach my destination' in the haughtiest voice I could manage. In fact, I'd no intention of grassing him up; I figured he'd never do it again, and if I did grass him up he would, at the very least, be on a very serious disciplinary charge – that is, if he still had a job. But I bet that, for the next month or two, he crapped himself every time a superior spoke to him or his phone rang!

Sounds like 2 lives down, I hope you've got a few more left ....

 

[Alex]

Stood on what you thought was a solid floor, as it and all the rocks around you fall down a hole as well as 2 20 ten boulders shifting nearby. P.s. Stay out of aka/triple creek!

 

[Fulk]

Yeah, if I was a kitty-cat I'd be down to my last couple!!

 

[Loki]

Stood on what you thought was a solid floor, as it and all the rocks around you fall down a hole as well as 2 20 ten boulders shifting nearby. P.s. Stay out of aka/triple creek!

This reminds me of a tale from Maskhill. Can anyone tell me if it’s true? A team was laddering it sometime in the 80s maybe and were on the pitch before the large waterfall pitch, when the floor vanished between where they were stood and the previous pitch. Leaving them marooned at the top of a ladder on the remaining section of ‘floor’.

 

[langcliffe]

I lost one of my nine lives in Notts Potts whilst we were exploring De Profundis and the Far Chamber Series in about 1970.

Access to the Adamson Series used to require going right to the end of North Inlet, and finding a small tube that led back to the roof of the chamber where the stemples are now. A delicate balancing act across a boulder bridge then led straight into Man Friday Passage at the start of the Adamson Series.

Unfortunately, the boulder bridge collapsed whilst I was on it, and I surfed with aplomb on a piano-sized boulder down to the floor of the chamber. I'm pleased to say that neither myself nor the boulder suffered harm (the boulder is still where it landed). The demise of the boulder bridge was the reason why we installed the iron signal ladder that Sam replaced with stemples a few years ago.

 

[Lankyman]

I've had a few 'Oh Sh1t' moments both above and below ground (it would almost seem inevitable?). Possibly the most serious was in my late teens waiting my turn to go down the big drop in Alum Pot. It was the early days of SRT and I was using a rack. For those too young to have seen one, it consisted of alloy bars across a steel frame that the rope threaded between. Threaded correctly the rope forced the bars shut. Problem was, I'd carelessly threaded them in exactly the wrong way. If I'd loaded the rope I'd have taken the big ride to oblivion. Fortunately for me a very observant companion at the pitch head spotted what I'd done. It's always made me ponder on the fragility and seemingly randomness in life and how much our happiness (or very existence) can turn on a sixpence.

 

[hannahb]

I was never able to reliably thread the rack the right way round in training, so I never used it underground. I've threaded my Stop wrong once or twice on a long trip in Spain when I had got into a rhythm and stopped concentrating. Had my cowstails in both times, thank goodness.

 

[caving_fox]

Fortunately for me a very observant companion at the pitch head spotted what I'd done. It's always made me ponder on the fragility and seemingly randomness in life and how much our happiness (or very existence) can turn on a sixpence.

Just before a gentle club trip somewhere to W Kingsdale, standing about on the road faffing before we set off I spotted that one of our newer (but by no means inexperienced) members had their cows' tail krabs connected with a single overhand knot rather than barrel/fig8. If they didn't fall on it, it probably would have held, I doubt there'd have been free-rebelays or anything that required weighting it... but I'm very glad they didn't need to find out the oh Shi way.

 

[JAshley73]

While not underground, this happened earlier this year when practicing SRT.

A nearby park has a 40-50 foot waterfall. Lovely place. Wanting some SRT practice, I visited with the family, and rigged a rope to a nearby tree. There is a very large overhang, and rappelling past this ledge is extremely uncomfortable. When leaning back over the ledge, you're seemingly upside-down before the rope touches the ledge and you're finally hanging free, ready to rappel. After that, it was a nice easy rappel & climb up, but the story continues...

Always eager to overcome a challenge, I do some research and discover a nice 6-step webbing ladder, that I thought, surely would make navigating such a nasty overhang much easier. $66 and a few days later, I'm ready to conquer this tough ledge once again!



So we make another trip, rig & pad the rope, but this time with the webbing-ladder on a 2nd rope.

I start to climb down the webbing ladder, when suddenly, my weight shifts, and everything swings to the right. Somehow - I think my side/shoulder must have hit the rock first as everything was swinging to the right - I ended up with my rappel rack on top of, and pinning my right arm against the ledge.

Now I'm panicked, but I managed to "freeze" for a moment, and started to assess and plan to get "un-stuck." My own bodyweight hanging from the rope, was obviously pulling on the rack, which was keeping my right arm pinned down against the rock. And since this ledge had a severe overhang, there was nothing for my feet to touch. I couldn't use my feet to push away from the ledge to free my right arm. I was hanging there, stuck...

I kept repeating to myself - "Don't let go of the rope, and we can probably figure this out... After all, if I have to, I can call the Fire Department - they're not far away..." Had I let go of the rope, or even tried to slowly rappel off the ledge, the rack would have ripped my arm to shreds, probably down to the bone, and then what...?

As I started to regain my wits, I had my wife come and move the webbing ladder over, hoping that I could use my feet in some manner. I still don't understand exactly how I freed myself. I just know that it was some manner of, "attach this ascender to the rope, shift this body part, move this thing, shift again, move this ascender here," and on & on & on, until I was able to lift the rope just enough, to get my right arm out.

I had some minor bruises & swelling for a few days, and one terribly bruised ego. Thankfully, no broken bones.

I hope that remains the biggest "Oh Shit" moment for the rest of my caving life...





Pictures from another visit, showing the overhang at the edge.