He climbed down to the full extent of the ladder, only to find himself still in midair, the ladder operating like some gigantic spring and moving up and down, he clinging to it, a most uncomfortable sensation. By slow degrees we eased him up on the life line and landed him exhausted in the Chasm. We tied on more ladder and Chantry undertook the arduous adventure, and again found the bottom still out of reach. Evidently Elizabeth was more difficult than we thought and likely to remain virgin till yet another assault could be organised. There was no more ladder available, and now the business of getting out had to be undertaken. Those were early days and we had not then developed the technique of drawing six hundred feet of rope ladder through the tortuous and difficult exits to the surface. We were raw recruits in those days, unaware of the sorrows of Nettle Pot, sodden ropes, recalcitory ladders, jamming rungs, and the hundred and one trials and tribulations out of which the club tigers of a later date were to be made. Hazy recollections still remain of that famous June 3rd 1934. John Hardy obliged to undress, to get through the Narrows, after spending patient hours in the Chamber. Sydney Turner stuck fast for 20 minutes and bawling for Douglas to descend and pull him through. Bishop, conveniently deaf. George Hyde and Snelgrove tying on ropes on the Flats, Colin Christie patient and efficient, Walter Sissons and Smith doing Herculean work at the surface, while the faithful Dinah chased cows and greeted each emerging explorer. So the day ended and Nettle Pot kept its secrets.
The next assault was fixed for July 21st but in the interval there was little peace. Parties laboured hard at knocking away knobs and protuberances in the passage down. Snelgrove and I, conscience stricken at the big block, which still choked the Chamber, made an effort and at last succeeded in shifting it. At last, Saturday July 21st arrived, and during the afternoon, ladders were placed in position and 250 feet of rope ladder were lowered to the flats and coiled there, a feat which seems rather wonder-ful looking back, besides being very unnecessary. Maurice and I, who had performed this fearsome feat of coiling ladder, prospected the Flats, and reached the Grotto above the Firbeck Hall passage. The party then retired to the Nags Head for supper, a true account of which Douglas Yeomans could possibly supply. Next morning, the party having been evacuated from the pub still intact, the Flats were quickly reached and the Chasm again descended. The ladder stored the day before, was lashed and lowered down Elizabeth, and George Hyde volunteered to make the descent. His naturally bright and sociable disposition, allied to his exceptionally strong arms, fitted him for this feat of strength and his running commentary during descent, landing and ascent, so overwhelmed those present that they were only concerned in hauling him back to a place of safety with all possible dispatch. George was the first to set foot in Elizabeth, and if his report of what he saw there was a little hazy, it is little to be wondered at. He did however, find a further passage leading to yet another descent, so honour was satisfied and we realised that other methods would have to be adopted if exploration of Elizabeth were to continue.
Besides this feat, the fact that two of us pushed the Stalactite Passage to a point some distance up the stream, is only of historical interest. More memorable to those who assisted, was the drawing of tackle and those unfortunates who had remained on the surface, spending a happy hour toiling at the 600 feet of ladder, wafted by the ceaseless flow of profanity from below.
Up to now, our main efforts had been concentrated on Elizabeth, but the passage explored by Chantry and myself on July 21st still awaited investigation. On August 26th John Jenkins and his Birmingham braves arrived in force, and strengthened by this reckless gang of desperadoes, it was decided to make this passage our chief objective. About twenty men were put down to the Flats in record time, the Birmingham men proving themselves to be true Tigers and moving at speed, urged on by our-selves at strategic points. Cannily led by Maurice Chantry and Alan Thrippleton, the rope ladder was dragged by Birmingham efforts to the hole, fixed, and Maurice was able to descend some 60 feet and enter a gallery, which led into a fresh system of passages and drops. The Birmingham braves were now in their element, and pushed the assault with reckless determination. The Matterhorn drop was negotiated and finally the party entered Firbeck Hall, an imposing chamber, difficult of access and fraught with danger. One of their number interposed his head in the path of a falling boulder, but bore his hurt with stoic calm until a doctor at Castleton was able later to stitch him together. Alan led the party back again, and we congrat-ulated ourselves that no more harm had befallen such a cheerful gang of ruffians.
The season was now approaching its end, and the Club was sufficiently exhausted to mutiny at the mere mention of Nettle Pot. The winter was therefore spent in planning a winch to overcome the appalling climb in Elizabeth. Henry Chatburn undertook drastic alterations to the hut, which had seen three years service, and was in parts beginning to show signs of wear. Assisted by Maurer and Chantry, Henry re-laid the floor and increased the floor space, the work being completed by April 7th 1935. In the meantime he and John Hind had designed and built the winch.
The Easter meet, April 20th 1935, stands out as one of the most miserable and abortive expeditions ever attempted at Nettle Pot. A violent thunderstorm raged on the Saturday afternoon, and the shaft soon resembled a shower bath. It was all but impossible to keep a candle alight. It was bitterly cold and all were literally soaked to the skin. We shivered on the mud flats and only an academic discussion on rose petals restrained our tongues from more pungent observations. The winch, which was being lowered in parts, stuck in the shaft, and finally we lost all contact with the surface. One of us eventually climbed the dripping Bottle, and we emerged to willing friends who stripped us naked, rubbed us with towels, and poured whisky down our throats. Next day, it was still wet but work was continued. The winch was eventually lowered and John Hind and Henry Chatburn set to work assembling it in the dripping depths of the Chasm. There, in the flickering light of candles, casting strange shadows on the tortured walls, resounded the clang of their hammers while the helmeted figures bent to their task like inquisitors in some medieval dungeon. The rest of us dragged our weary way to Firbeck Hall and attempted to explore in a desultory fashion.
Chatburn and Hind joined us later and managed to reach the bottom of the drop at the start of the Passage, but I do not recollect that anyone else had enthusiasm enough to follow them. They reported a further drop, as yet unexplored. The next day, Monday, found us with still less enthusiasm; indeed the ordeal of putting on sodden clothes and entering the still dripping depths, was enough to cool any ardour. The shaft was wired and a little work was done at the foot of the Bottle, clearing the passage from Bottle to Lip (a typical D.P.C. connection), a passage which hitherto had been perforcedly performed in the prone position. Thanks to these efforts, it was now possible to move in a stooping position, a great advantage when falling stones rendered speed a necessity. The telephone had yet to function. The day degenerated into an orgy of profanity as the ladders were drawn and proceed-ings brought to a close.
Whitsuntide drew near with fairer prospects, though mutiny was in the air and only the Club Tigers could be induced to appear. Paul Maurer was away, so we were denied the hot soup, which his dexterous handling of the primus had produced for us at Easter. Walter Sissons, Chantry, Chatburn, Thrippleton, Grainger and myself, turned out on the Saturday and lowered the ladders. On Sunday, we were reinforced by Walter Smith, John Hind, George Hyde and a stalwart visitor. The ladder was lowered down Elizabeth and attached to the winch, and we floated down like fairies to the bottom, scarcely bothering to place foot in rung, a tremendous saving of energy. Only George Hyde had been there before and a more detailed examination yielded some results. Henry, Alan and I climbed a rock slope and surmounted the chockstone, leading into a second narrow chamber, receiving a nasty fright en route when a large stone fell out of the roof and crashed between Henry and myself. Maurice had a look at the Rat Hole found on the previous visit by George, but drew back when the floor ran in and crashed into the unknown depths below. We decided further work was necessary before we could safely venture forward, and discreetly floated upwards to our friends, 170 feet above. The winch at all events had proved its worth, and another time a ladder would not be necessary. Monday found us with Walter Sissons, Chatburn, Grainger, Chantry, Thrippleton and myself to draw the ladders. Necessity being the mother of invention, we improvised a hitch with the winch to ease the stern effort of lifting the 200 feet ladder out of Elizabeth, till the tangle of ropes and ladders in the Chasm defied description and made us all roar with laughter. We ate our lunch in the comfort of the little Tackle cave, and rested ourselves for the ordeal of getting the gear to the surface. Henry went up and joined Walter on the surface, and these two supermen set to work in grim earnest to lift, assisted by ourselves, set at strategic points in the shaft. The never ending succession of ladders disappeared slowly up-wards, now catching and having to be lowered and eased, jerking and grinding against the narrow walls, to the shouts, curses and instructions of the weary men. We came out at last into the June evening, with a sigh of relief.
The hills, range after range lie before us as we strip off the sodden overalls and wet clothes beneath. The air is warm after the damp caverns below, and we dress leisurely, savouring the flutter of the wind about our tired bodies. Pipes and cigarettes are aglow and we linger by the hut, chipping the surface gang as they stow away the last ladders and coil the muddied ropes. We turn towards Mam Tor and the promise of tea. To our left stretches the long line of Rushup Edge, in front the battlemented mound of Mam Tor, dying away on the right in the ridge of Back Tor and Lose Hill, while behind it looms the mass of Kinder, grimly stark in the dying day. To the north west, Win Hill looks like a trifling hillock set on a level range, while behind, Derwent Edge stands like a great fortress frowning over the miles between. North east, the valley runs grandly into the distance, carrying the water whose source we so vainly search for beneath these bare lime-stone uplands. We linger a moment as the hut is closed, then shouldering our sacks, stumble downwards across the fields, leaving Nettle Pot and her secrets locked in the deep bosom of the great limestone hills."