I note that it says in the guide:
Rift Pot takes no significant stream so it is a safe cave in wet weather.
So here's a cautionary tale:
Sunday 9?2?03 Rift Pot (Allotment)
Sunday 9/2 dawned bright and clear after lashings of overnight rain, and it was with some relief that Miranda, Angus and John contemplated their decision to go to a ?safe, dry, all-weather? cave, to wit, Rift Pot ? that is, the ?old? Rift Pot that connects with Long Kin East up on the Allotment. We parked on the road to Crummockdale and set off up the hill to the cave.
Arrived at the cave, John proceeded to rig it, thankfully having decided not to believe Rose?s tale that it was P-anchored; well some of it is, but the
in-situ anchors stop at the bottom of the entrance pitch.
The second (ca. 6 m) pitch proved OK to rig, off old spits, but the third proved somewhat awkward, and eventually we tied the rope round a big rock and abbed off a single spit; over a bad edge there is a rebelay, but unfortunately the rope was not long enough to reach the bottom, in spite of the fact that the pitch was only 6 m or so. Having retreated to the foot of the 2nd pitch, we found that there was enough spare rope to tie onto the third rope and continue the descent.
The next pitch is, effectively, the top (ca. 24 m) section of the last, big pitch that leads down into the bottom of Long Kin East; we had been becoming more and more aware of an ominous rumbling booming up from the depths, which got ever louder as we approached the pitch. The top section proved easy to rig off a nice natural chunk of rock-cum-stal spanning the narrow entrance slot, though a nearby spit was impossible to use as the threads had corroded somewhat. A very easy rebelay about two thirds the way down allowed us to reach the big ledge above the final (ca. 45 m) drop, where the noise of the water pouring down Long Kin East was deafening.
?Our? pitch looked OK apart from one minor problem ? a spout of water that jetted out over the pitch and sprayed down the shaft right where we wanted to be. The rigging was a little bit awkward ? off a block of rock, over some scrappy, slippy loose stuff, and then two awkward-to-reach spits in the far wall. What with one thing and another (chiefly another, in the shape of the water) the rigger was half hoping that these spits, too, would be knackered, thus giving him chance to beat an honourable retreat ? but oh no, the spits (in spite of the fact that one was sticking out a little crookedly) were fine, and gave what appeared to be a good free hang; so far, so good. But about 5 m down the full force of the spout was met. The intrepid rigger was soon piss wet through, and questioning his own sanity, as the water was not only wet (surprise, surprise), but also very, very cold, being as how we?d just reached the end of a cold snap with lots of rain falling on a good covering of snow up on the hills. Down and down, just a bit further ? ?oh, sod it, I can see the floor, might as well go for it rather than bugger about changing over?, and shortly, a very cold, very bedraggled caver reached the bottom, wondering if the other two would be daft enough to follow him; they were, and soon a trio of cold wet cavers were contemplating their own stupidity and mortality, and wondering if it might be better to find somewhere dry to sit and wait for the water levels to go down a bit.
The climb back up proved to be very long, cold, wet and trying, but eventually I reached the top. Rarely have I been so glad to see the top of a pitch, arriving there extremely cold and anxious; it was a huge relief to see first Miranda?s light and then Angus?s light appear a few feet down, and we beat a very hasty retreat, eventually arriving at the
Marton Arms to a much-needed pint (and a crap little fire).
That was not the wettest pitch I?ve ever done (I have ?fond? memories of derigging Flood Entrance Big Pitch after heavy rain, which was wetter but that was in summer and only affected the bottom several metres), but it was probably the most sustained ? all the way from the bottom to a few metres from the top, and very, very cold. With hindsight, it was
probably certainly an error of judgement; still, we lived to tell the tale (and, no doubt, to relive it around a roaring fire in the pub).
The sort of cold where you think you?re prusiking really slowly but in reality you?re going quite fast
. M.
I don't know whether the new bolts follow the line of these old ones, but if they do . . . beware in wet weather!
