An aligning of planets meant that I was able to get to Kirkby a bit earlier than possible offering the opportunity for a trip further afield. Unfortunately planetary alignment doesn't seem to affect atmospheric conditions on Earth and with the weather not playing ball we opted for a more local trip that could be completed in slightly damp weather.
We'd been on a Manchester themed Ease gill trip before and really enjoyed it. It's a trip that has a bit of everything, an edited highlights trip to showcase what the system has to offer. With this in mind Mike wanted to reacquaint himself with the navigation so that he could take friends and family in the future.
County laddered we set off downstream from Broadway past a shower bath in full power shower mode. The step up to the right was taken and the usual, "Which way is it to the Manchester bypass?" rigmarole undertaken.
A few years ago I bought a very lightweight caving under suit. Not for trips to warm foreign climes (though it has since come in useful for that), but for ensuring that I don't suffer from severe dehydration as I sweat out litres of water trying to follow Mike through Easegill. As soon as Strava makes it to the subterranean world I'm confident he'll be at the top of the leaderboard for quite a few Ease gill segments. Sadly the suit in question was tucked snuggly away at home in my caving drawer.
A sweaty mess with stingy eyes I arrived in the expanse of the Main line terminus and Mike was off already weaving an optimal route through the boulder strewn chambers of the high level series. We're getting quite good at locating the boulder behind which the Mancunian Way is secreted and the floor of the crawl quickly became reassuringly sandy, we were definitely in the right place.
At the end of crawl, next to the lovingly built clay brick wall, complete with model workman our memories failed us (or at least mine did). Fortunately this route is covered by one of the excellent Braemoor descriptions and we knew we wouldn't be puzzling over the way on for long.
Reassuringly there wasn't a dribble of water going down Easegill aven, an indicator that the return to County should be possible, so we donned our Brooks's Finest (a lot better than Tesco's Finest) slings and HMS krabs to descend the short pitch. Oscillating between passage we remembered and passage we didn't recall, the description kept us true till we arrived at a slot on the left from which the stream ensued. "Just follow the water, the first bit's the worst", said Mike and off I went. After a few metres the roof did rise a bit, but ahead it lowered ominously once more, the foam on the roof doing little to ease my nerves. Well it is quite damp I thought so the water'd be a bit higher and so I pressed on.
Trying to breath just out the corner of my mouth and ignore the foam tickling my nose I tried to keep my breathing steady, the water running down stream towards me now starting to back up and narrow the useable airspace even further. Could I roll onto my back and "ceiling suck"? Just as things started to get silly, the roof began to rise and soon I was able to kneel and get things back under control. With air no longer a concern I now began to worry about how cold I was.
A few years ago I bought a neo fleece. A fantastic invention, your core wrapped in thick neoprene and your limbs unencumbered but kept warm by thick fleece. Perfect for situations such as this. Sadly the suit in question, along with my neoprene boxers, was tucked snuggly away in a bag in the van.
OK, chilly but not freezing and the passage now beginning to open up, a quick stomp would soon have me back to normal. "Al?", was faintly heard from back beyond the aqueous passage. I've known Mike long enough now to read a bit more nuance than just the word might suggest. I didn't think I'd like the next bit. "Wrong way". There was no nuance in this, it was back into the water. Thankfully going downstream there was more airspace as the water wasn't backing up.
The cobbled passage now on my right suddenly came into recollection, Dismal junction. It wasn't pleasant but so much better than the continuation in the main stream. Time for a stomp. Platypus Junction, Toadstool Junction all flew by and we were soon up the little climb from Broadway and at the foot of our ladder. The climb increased my temperature further and Mike had soon tamed the ladder back into a manageable coil.
It's been quite a while since we've hand an underground trip. For Mike and I our last was an unusual trip to Sleets gill and for Tony right back to our Rowten experience. The going back of the clocks signaled that it was time to get regular trips back up and running and a short trip to Long drop seemed to fit the bill.
I was a bit concerned that being on a course I might not even be able to make it and warned the others that I might be a bit late. The people running the course though definitely practice what they preach and made sure that I was let out in good time. My park beyond the where the traffic jams are/cycle the rest plan then played out perfectly and I was actually earlier than normal to Kirkby. The huge advantage of arriving early was even longer to enjoy a brew and superb ginger cake at Mike's.
With Tony's arrival we were chauffeured onto the moors in the poshest car that Mike and I have been in in a while and the fact that the information screen is stuck in Polish added to the exotic vibe. Leck fell always brings to mind wet and windy changes so the settled, unseasonably warm weather was a very welcome surprise. Mike then led on confidently across the moor and surprisingly soon we were at the fenced enclosure. I'm not quite sure what was going on behind me as we went over the style and began our descent of the shake hole but I think it involved Tony's destruction of one of Mike's prized tackle sacks!
There's been quite a lot going on at the bottom of the shake hole and as well as the usual way on there's now a newer shored shaft and some beautifully landscaped spoil. One of the new raised areas allowed a very civilised final sorting of equipment before we headed into the open cave mouth and the short drop down to the first pitch. The first SRT trip of the year is always a bit of an eye opener and arriving at the bolts I fumbled with all the bits of metal on my harness to find something that I vaguely remembered would help me down the pitch. As for threading it, well luckily Petzl are quite helpful and I followed the nice little graphic etched into my Stop until the rope took on a vaguely familiar shape.
First pitch successfully negotiated I thought it would get easier from this point on but as I approached the top of the second pitch I could just make out a bolt above me
We've just come back from our summer holidays so the weather is now once again gloriously settled and I've still a bit more time on my hands allowing trips further afield from home. This combination meant that a trip to the Eastern Dales to visit a cave requiring dry weather was on the cards.
Sleets Gill seemed to fit the bill and so after some very fine strawberry cake at Mike's (his daughter has obviously inherited her mum's baking genes) we headed towards Littondale. It always feels a little strange donning layers of neoprene on a sunny afternoon in a dry valley, but fortunately the cave entrance lies only a few minutes from the car. It is though uphill and it's worth wandering up the right hand side (river left) of the gill to avoid the obstacle course of barbed and electric fences.
A small bag and walking pole at the entrance signalled that we weren't to be alone in the cave and we bumped into our fellow explorers at the foot of the peculiar scree slope that leads down into the darkness. One had been caving for over 50 years and the last time he'd been here was assisting with the infamous rescue in the early 90s. Where we were sat chatting would have been metres under water on that occasion though.
Mike and I are both fortunate still to be on our first set of knees so we left Phil and Richard to their photo trip and headed towards the main gallery. The Wharfedale sump seemed innocuous enough, a fair length of the dive line lay dry on the beach. Phil had said that on the day of the rescue when the two cavers had entered the water was knee deep at this point. Slightly reassured we carried on into the gallery, ticking off features as we went. The Bottom Connector and Boireau's passage were passed and noting the climb down to the lower levels, the sudden end of the chamber reached.
Backtracking 20 m from the choke we came back to the short climb down and the way on to Hyperthermia and Hydrophobia passages. Initially it was just run of the mill caving until we came to a junction at which water was flowing from a small drain. This was the way on.
Mike contemplating Hydrophobia passage
8-10 minutes can feel like a very long time and while in the past I've contemplated the difference between a 'hands and knees crawl' and a 'flat out crawl', I now fully comprehended the difference. My legs didn't seem to be able to do anything other than bob along behind me, my shoulders doing the lion's share of propelling me forward. It was ag this point I began to realise that something wasn't quite right. I wanted to take a photo of Mike in front of me. My camera was easily accessible at the top of a small tackle sack I was pushing in front of me, but for some reason it was just too much effort and I just kept on crawling. While never tight at all, it was a bit disconcerting that whenever I tried turning my head it seemed to involve putting my face through the water.
Reading the description for the '68 series
Before I had time to dwell on things though, the passage enlarged and we were once again confronted by another bizarre feature, The Ramp. While feature naming can be somewhat obscure and is often the result of in jokes, or needing to have been there at the time, the original explorers had it spot on with this one. If ever there was a need to bring crampons or ice axes into a cave then, forget high altitude abysses in the alps, this is it. While Mike confidentiality remained on his feet, I lay down and made like a worm hoping that one part of my prostrate body would stick long enough to make progress.
The top of The Ramp saw the first formations we had seen in the system and jolly fine they were, their pristine white a stark contrast to the water washed mud below. The descent of the slope was significantly easier than the ascent, the only thing required being to moderate your speed.
Mike at the top of the aptly named Ramp
Reacquainted with our bags which we'd left at the foot of the slope Mike read the next part of the description. It was time to don our hoods and have our masks at the ready. The black book describes the following sump as "an easy, 4 1/2 m long, free dive". In Rowten we'd dived a sump nearly twice as long so surely this couldn't be a problem, especially with it's reputed gin clear water.
I began my 'sump routine'. Helmet off, spit twice in each half of my mask, wipe, splash my face with water, mask on, then breath in through my nose to check the seal. Happy with my mask, helmet back on, turn on my secondary light and then head into the water. Content, I resurfaced, took a couple of breaths and dived. For the second time on the trip things didn't seem quite right. The Rowten sumps have a simple, almost tube like, geometry. You just pull on the rope and and through you go. There almost seemed too much to see here as you navigated through the flooded passage. The friction between the roof and my positively buoyant body wasn't helping either. There it was though, the exit mirror. I tried smashing through but was held back. Fortunately my head made it through into the thick air but the rest of my body was now held. Somehow a loop of rope had formed round my ankle. It took a good few seconds before I had the presence of mind to slip back down into the water, allowing the loop to slacken and for me to free myself. Released and relieved I fumbled to get out my camera to record Mike's traverse of the sump. On surfacing Mike too questioned the definition of an 'easy' sump before continuing through the neck deep water.
The ducks beyond the sump
With the unlaminated description having been left prior to the sump we were now reliant on our memories. I was pretty sure that we needed the right fork, but after a couple of muddy puddles it choked. Right, we knew that there was another duck involved so we tried the left fork. Not to happy about this 'duck', Mike tried a muddy slope. Nope. It was back to the 'duck'. The water now muddied by our suits that had been used as brake pads on The Ramp, I felt forward with my feet. There was absolutely no way I was pressing on down here. Befuddled we returned back through the sump. On rereading the description it transpired that the way on had been a low airspace duck through one of the muddy puddles.
Ordinarily I'm sure we'd have made the 2 minute return through the sump and carried on but, without any discussion we headed back towards Hydrophobia. At its start Mike asked if I was OK to carry on. I replied, 'what if I'm not'. I didn't catch his reply and once again we were flat out crawling.
At the end of the crawl Mike was sat with the description. He began reading, stopped and then tried again in a more upbeat voice. I think we've caved enough together now that there doesn't need to be any protracted discussion, indeed there doesn't need to be any discussion at all, Hyperthermia passage was going to be saved for another day, we were heading out. It was only at this point that the C word was mentioned. We were both cold. Despite our neoprene we were losing heat to the surprisingly cool water. No wonder I hadn't felt like taking my camera out, let alone return through the sump or continue to Hyperthermia, I could barely feel my wool and neoprene clad toes and hypothermia was much more in mind.
Both Mike and I have ascended our fair share of scree slopes in our time. We don't though normally go up them laying on our fronts, to exit Sleets Gill there's no other option. Nearing the top of the slope light became visible. As well as the light from the entrance Phil and Richard's head lamps were also shining. We asked how they'd got on and then about the rescue. If you watch the fantastic Sid Perou film (here) and are utterly blown away by the skill of the rescuers, go and visit the passage and your reverance will be taken to new levels. Half an hour to traverse 250 m, the rescued never having dived before. I'm told it was joked that one of them burnt through nearly a full tank of air. They'd have had to have staged multiple tanks for me.
Despite being overcast, the warmth from the sun was unmistakable and I felt life coming back to my toes as, aside from some frisky bullocks, we made our way back to the car more easily than on the approach.
It's not often we're lost for words but it had been an odd trip. Not only are there a number of unusual physical features in the system, but the surprisingly cold water had definitely affected my impressions. As we rewarmed chat began to return and arriving back in Kirkby a visit to The Barn was unquestioned.
I'd like to say it was on purpose but Tony we've left quite a bit to go and look at when we return with you (though possibly after another Warmbac neoprene order).
With our trip though the sumps complete it was time to remove the remaining ropes from Rowten. Last time I'd been through I'd set things up so that we wouldn't have to go down the main pitch, just haul the rope from above. Mike though had come up with a much better plan. A descent of the gully route to the bottom of the main pitch and then one of us could derig the Eyehole route while the other derigged out of the gully. For one of us at least this should give a great Rowten round.
Driving down the Kingsdale road I was about to pull into the Valley entrance parking, Mike then reminding me that we wouldn't be going through the sumps today! Parked in the right place, we once again headed up to the Turbary road with a surprising weight of rope to rig the Gully route. Mike went to check that the sheep still hadn't nibbled through our ropes on the eyehole route and then began rigging the gully.
A leafy scramble leads down into the open pot before the first real pitch. I have to admit I love daylight, open air caving and I'm sure a botanist would have a field day with some of the plants growing from the cliff walls.
At the bottom of the gully we crossed the stream on possibly the slippiest, algae covered rock I've ever had the misfortune to find myself on. I was glad of the security of the rope and much happier once I'd crossed and we were back on dry, grippy limestone.
The chasm then began to narrow, allowing progress to be made by bridging. With day light still filtering through from above, the rift once again opened to the shaft down which our main pitch rope was hanging. A few interesting rebelays, a final long pitch and we were back at the bottom of the rope we'd left last week.
Mike had done a grand job of the rigging, allowing me to get a couple of snaps, so I felt he deserved to be able to complete the round. Meanwhile I began back up the way we had come. While I loved derigging the main shaft, the following traverses started to grate with increasingly full tackle sacks and by the time I arrived at the last pitch I was relieved to see Mike coming back down to help me having cleared his route. The resulting pile of tackle sacks was a little intimidating but fortunately it was downhill all the way to the van.
Over a pint in the Barn we reflected on our recent trips to Rowten. In very high water a hybrid eyehole/gully route offers an awesome trip. In low water the gully/eyehole round is superb and then of course there's the through trip too!
Through work I've recently been acquainted with a superb fellow called John who's a proper caver - he's a rescue team member and everything! Having heard about our recent trip through Rowten he mentioned that it's a trip he'd like to do. Well the weather's still holding, we'd ropes that needed retrieving and handily it was a bank holiday; a rare Monday night trip was on the cards.
It was lovely walking up onto the moor with just a single short rope and our masks between us, unencumbered by heavy tackle sacks. It was great too arriving at a pre rigged entrance and despite the presence of myriad sheep, it seems that they don't like nibbling at caving ropes. With the ropes already in place we were at the bottom of the main pitch in no time. Unlike last week though sunlight still lit the upper part of the main shaft in a a spectacular display.
The main pitch rope was unclipped from the bolt at the bottom and the bag clipped as high as possible on it so we can hopefully retrieve it from above in the near future. From this point on we rerigged the pitches so that we could pull through, removing the need for a visit to the lower reaches to remove ropes.
For the second time this week I stood in the sump pool and repeated my pre dive preparations. I like to keep things the same, the only difference being that I was going to use a rope to pull through the bags and the tackle sack containing my harness and pitch ropes wasn't in a dry bag so was negatively buoyant.
I thought I might be more aware of my surroundings on this trip through, but once again it was just pull on the rope until it broke through the surface of the water. I don't know if it was the negative buoyancy or the thicker rope, but it was definitely easier to pull the bags through than previously. Once they were through it was then on again through the 4m sump to the bell where I'd said we'd regroup. Bags retrieved, John followed shortly afterwards.
Last trip I had the privilege to see Tony's face as he came through the sumps for the first time and I wasn't disappointed at John's reaction either. It's hard to put into words: is it making the trip from one cave to another, arriving somewhere new, doing something you didn't know that you'd be able to do, the relief of breathing air again? For me it's a mixture of all these emotions and popping out of the pipe they come flooding back again, with the addition of how surreal it feels to see the car a few seconds away.
I can't remember when this challenge was parked inconsiderately in the driveway of my
consciousness and left for me to deal with. I do remember clearly though when late into
Alistair's birthday celebration last August, he took me aside with two glasses of those
fantastic whiskies he collects and looked at me intently. 'Slow is calm, and calm is fast' he
said deliberately, and held my gaze. Oh boy, I suppose it's time.
During the winter two of the dynamos in my life wordlessly begin preparations. Why else
would they ask for a dive vest and a neoprene hood when I offer to include them in a kit
order? Come to that, I did put 'diving mask' on my own Christmas list.
You dream up plans for settled dry spells, but that kind of weather becomes a friend whom you've lost touch with, and you can't quite remember their being. Then they show up out of nowhere and you think, 'Oh! I remember you!' The warmth continues and I feel a bit sick when the message arrives. I don't know if I'm still capable of this, or if I have the heart. There are many tasks I should be doing but I can't think of anything else. It can't be that hard? Other people do this, probably fairly regularly. There are no reports of accidents. It's just a psychological challenge to be met with rationality and good preparation. Slow is calm, and calm is fast.
I lay a weighted rope in the lake and standing waist deep in Crummock Water in full caving gear, looking certifiable to Buttermere tourists, I measure 11 metres, turn on both lights and pull myself below and along. I repeat the journey five times, trying to visualise the event and enact composure. On the drive down I do something that I haven't done since sitting bored in secondary school lessons, looking down at my Timex and trying to hold my breath for a minute. It seems a bit harder than it used to be but I can still do it, just.
It's a beautiful evening when we ascend to the Turbary Road, but there is tangible anxiety. Chat is interspersed with heavy silences. As per usual, Mike efficiently rigs us down via the impressive 70m pitch. The moment is getting closer. Rigging is left mockingly in place, should courage fail. All too quickly we arrive into the calmness of death's waiting room, where a yellow hand line runs impassively into the unseen.
'Well this is all a bit serious!' pipes in Mike with a welcome disruption to the tension.
Alistair's characteristic thoroughness is reassuring as he triple confirms that we are in the right place. Neoprene hoods are fitted and masks wetted. Mike pokes his head down for a look into the submerged bedding. We recap on procedure then Alistair disengages from us, takes his breaths and disappears. Cord pays quickly out of Mike's hand until it comes tight; he pushes Alistair's gear bag down under the roof and it vanishes.
It's my turn. I duck into the water for a practice and don't even notice the cold. I peer down the line of the rope but it becomes gloomy after a couple of metres with no encouraging indication of liveable space beyond. I take my breaths and to my surprise, lose myself to the process. I'm off, pulling, pulling, disturbing some small stones and then I quickly sense the end. I emerge into a surreal, small, gold hued dome with the unusual large scalloping that seems to characterise this area of cave. I feel very alone but elated that the longest of the dives is over. I have no desire to hang around and with urgency I pull my bag through, re-stack the cord and commit to the following section. Torpedoing through the surface into the next cross rift I clatter into the wall on the opposite side. How did you say we should do it Alistair? Barrel through at top speed? Right you are!
I pull my bag through again and we wait for Mike. Soon there's a glow, a red helmet
appears and a beaming smile. We're jubilant, the relief in such contrast to the mood of the last two hours. We stomp gaily through to the roof tunnel pitch and on to Valley Entrance to emerge in the stillness, warmth and fading light of an exceptional day. Kirby Lonsdale's Royal Barn then hosts for us the cheeriest of trip appraisals.
Al's ramblings
Once upon a time:
My recollection may be a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure for as long as I've known Tony he's been doing a series of short dives in his native Crummock water. These have always been of the same length 2m, 4m and 8m. Asking about this ritual he told me about the Rowten sumps, a trip he'd love to do in the future.
The future:
In readiness for a wash out summer the weather in the Dales has been dry and stable for weeks now. Mike and I had great conditions for our sump practice (see here), we'd been on a Cantabrian adventure (see here), come back and it still hasn't rained. Conditions are perfect. "What do people think about rigging Rowten on Thursday?" read the text and each of us began to prepare to see if we could make Tony's dream a reality.
As ever trips like this require solid foundations and Sam had once again excelled herself with a lemon tray bake and a bottomless pot of tea. Replete we then headed over to Kingsdale under clear blue skies. Conversation in the car based on how we were going to approach the sumps and the ferrying of our gear. It seemed strange parking at the Valley entrance spot for a Rowten trip and our attire too, neoprene heavy, hinted at a more unusual excursion. I'm aware I probably mention it too much but we're very privileged to live were we live and Kingsdale looked stunning as we climbed up to the Turbary road, a gentle breeze preventing over heating.
A stunning evening in the Dales
As Mike began rigging the first pitch I realised that my mind had been entirely on the sumps, I hadn't thought about this part of the trip at all and I needed to get back into a ropework mindset. I'm just glad I wasn't doing the actual rigging.
Mike rigging the first pitch
I love caving at this time of the year. Daylight really adds to some pitches and Rowten is one of them. It's at the fringes where things are exciting, a transition between two states. I love paddling close to rocky shores and running (well probably walking to be honest) along airy ridges. In caves the light, the colours and even the smells all change as you head into the twilight zone and the perpetual dark beyond.
Tony descending the daylight shaft
As we weren't pulling through we'd opted for the eyehole route but, landing on the wide shelf at the edge of daylight we joined the traditional route and crossed the bridge to a narrower ledge on the side of the open pot. Given what we were to be doing later in the trip, it seemed odd that we all avoided the puddle on the ledge even though it would hardly have covered the bottom of our wellies.
The last vestiges of daylight
Trying not to get wet in the puddle
Mike beginning the descent into darkness
A very short pitch took us from the ledge to a small alcove and another y-hang. From here it's once again just a few feet down before we could swing into the top of a bottomless rift. A handful of bolts further on lies a final y-hang from which the rope hung freely down the main, stunning pitch.
In the bottomless rift, Mike rigging the main shaft
From the landing it's probably best not to go on too much of a wander, holes between the boulders leading to the stygian abyss. A careful traverse by the right wall though brought us to the more secure surroundings of a streamway that offered a number of terrific little free climbable drops.
Two short pitches interrupted the flow and left us at a point Mike and I had been to a few weeks prior. On our earlier visit no further progress was possible as just round the corner lay a thundering wall of water. Today it was markedly different, a small babbling brook inviting us to follow the water. Before we did so we needed to sort out our gear. Harness were removed and put in dry bags, masks and extra neoprene donned. Thus attired we began the solemn procession to the sump pool.
Rigging the last short pitch
The sumps can be reached by going with the flow but this involves a short duck and once again, ridiculously, I wanted to avoid getting wet so took the dry bypass to the left. At the pool there was no choice but to drop down into it, but by the line it was only knee deep allowing us to make final preparations.
We had three small drybags of gear and the plan was that I'd take a line through with me and pull two bags through, Tony would then follow, again with a line and recover the last bag. This would allow Mike to feed out lines and make sure bags went freely into the sump before coming through.
I went through my usual mask routine. Wet my face to cool it down, spit in my mask, wipe, swill and then put it on. Check it was beneath the edges of my hood and then don my helmet once more. I tried to concentrate on my own preparations but was aware of Mike testing his mask by laying in the water next to me. Once he was done I checked he was happy with the line which I "held" by pushing a knot under my elbow pad, the theory being that it would detach if it were to become snagged. I then turned from the others, calmed by breathing and dived. Pull, pull, pull, check I still had the line, pull, pull, pull and breathe as I broke the surface into the first air bell. Now for the bags. Courtesy of Mike ensuring that the buoyant bags made it under the lip of the sump they came through easily and immediately I entered the second, shorter sump. It was over in a flash and once the bags were through I set to ensuring that there was no free line that could cause problems for the others. Line retrieved I hurried to dig my camera out of the bags to capture the others coming through.
No sooner than I was ready, the line began twitching before Torpedo Tony came through at a rate of knots. With no anchor to deploy he was only stopped by the far side of the air bell. Now just the wait for Mike. The water turned from inky black to an eery green glow and then Mike was through too. Stooping, up to our knees in water it seemed a strange place to be jubilant but there was now uninterrupted air through into the master cave.
I've always enjoyed a stomp down the main drain but today the experience was taken to a new level and their was definitely a skip in each of our steps. Approaching Valley entrance the air began to smell thicker, filled with life and emerging from the pipe into the daylight brought a grin to our faces. As Mike Cooper puts it in his Black book, "[the trip] is likely to represent a memorable high point in their Yorkshire caving career". He's not wrong.
