The Loner, page 20
They walked down to the stream. They climbed down to the edge of the waterfall. Mark experienced a feeling of stark terror as he followed the others and looked down into the murky depths. It was a sight which inspired awe.
Bob tapped Mark’s shoulder gently. “Few people know it,” he said. “This is Britain’s biggest waterfall. The shaft goes down three hundred and sixty feet. We’ll see the bottom of the waterfall when we do Bar Pot.”
They made their way back to Bar Pot. Mark noticed that Pablo and Dave seemed to be finding something very funny. He asked what the reason for their amusement was.
Pablo laughed. “It’s like this,” he said, “this trip’s bound to be fun. It’s got all the makings of a memorable comedy. There’s always too many people for the Bar Pot meet. So there’ll be congestion on t’ pitches. We’ve got loads of cameras between us. That’s always good for chaos! Then we’ve got one girl to look after, and novices like you! It should be real fun – you’ll see!”
As soon as they returned to the tackle at the bottom of the Bar Pot depression, Bob and Dave got busy unrolling the ladders and threading them down the opening behind the boulder. Mark understood that this was the top of the first pitch. The belays and ladder in place, Mark saw Bob start his descent, cursing the confined space and the ladder which he had to untangle where it had become snagged on rock ledges and projections. After several minutes, he heard Bob’s shout as he reached the bottom.
Paul followed, then Sue, and Dave was the next to tie onto the lifeline. Dave slid gently into the narrow opening, with his feet searching for a rung to stand on. After a few feet the shaft widened; the ladder fell free of the rock, and he was climbing without difficulty, when all of a sudden, Bob called up to him: “Hold it! Just there!”
Dave cursed and groaned as he looked down and saw Bob fumbling for his photographic equipment. “O.K.” he said. “But hurry up, Bob. I don’t want to hang around here all day!”
Unfortunately cave photography has never been a very rapid art. The camera has first to be unpacked from its container and watertight wrapping. Then the flashguns (more than one is usually needed underground) have to be assembled and aimed from the correct angle – good results are rarely achieved by attaching the flashgun to the camera; then the camera and the flashgun have to be synchronised; and finally, the flashgun has to work, for the least amount of dampness could upset its delicate electrical connections.
So Dave remained suspended on the ladder, feeling rather like Tarzan, while Bob organised the camera and Paul held the flash. At last, all was ready and the photo taken.
Mark, carefully lifelined by Pablo, was the next to descend the entrance pitch. He found there was something reassuring in the constriction at the top of the pitch and managed to keep his nerve for the twenty foot or so that was free-hanging. He waited at the bottom until the rest of the party were down, and Pablo led the way on.
There were boulders on the floor of the chamber, where he now found himself, and a hole between these led over a slippery rock (which Pablo referred to as “The Greasy Slab”), into a large sloping cavern, down a scree run, and into another hole.
Then Mark saw the belay and the top of another ladder. He was afraid.
Pablo noticed his hesitation. “You don’t have to go down if you don’t want to,” he said kindly.
“I want to see the Main Chamber.”
“Then you’ll have to go down the pitch.”
“How big is it?”
“About ninety foot.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s a nice pitch. Are you going to go?” “I-I’ve got to.”
Pablo helped him to tie his lifeline, and then carefully took up a very secure position. As Mark stepped on to the ladder, he was aware that Pablo was not the only person to have his hand on the rope.
Bob, Dave, Sue and Paul had been waiting a considerable time at the bottom of the pitch. Bob began to sing “Why are we waiting” at the top of his voice. Then a light appeared at the top of the pitch. There was another delay.
Dave shouted upwards: “What’s keeping you? Is no-one coming down?”
A light appeared over the edge. All of a sudden there was a bloodcurdling shriek, and they knew that Mark was on his way down the ladder.
“It’s Mark screaming blue murder again,” Paul remarked unkindly. “Why ever do we want him underground with us? He’s a danger to himself and a risk for us.”
Bob was less critical. “Don’t be so unkind,” he said. “He’s keen. He can’t help it. This is a tourist trip. There’s nothing hard about what we’re going to do. He’ll be quite safe.”
Mark eventually arrived at the bottom of the pitch, shuddering fearfully. The moment he had untied the rope, he recovered very quickly. By now Bob and the others were beginning to feel cold. So they decided to wait no longer, but to go on ahead to the Main Chamber. They took Mark with them. There was a short passage leading to an enormous shaft. They followed a ledge around this. It was not possible to see the roof of the aven nor the bottom of the dark abyss, which opened below them. Then there were a series of low tunnels, with a dry, compacted, mud floor. At times they were crawling; then they were running with stooped shoulders through tubular phreatic passages. After a while Mark heard, faintly at first, a distant rumble reverberate through the rock. The sound came closer and grew louder. They emerged onto a ledge not far above the Main Chamber floor.
Now Mark understood Bob’s comparison of the size of the Main Chamber with York Minster. A vast cavern appeared in front of them. The chamber was about five hundred feet long, more than a hundred feet wide, and its height exceeded its width. Apart from the main shaft, there was darkness in every direction. The light from their lamps could not reach the opposite walls. Two waterfalls plunged into the cave. One spouted from a dark unseen hole in the roof, and surged down sheer to the floor. The main waterfall entered through a shaft in the centre of the roof from the fell three hundred and sixty feet above. Daylight poured down the shaft and illuminated the falling Beck. The water did not come down like an ordinary torrent, but burst into spray and fell like rain. The force of the water made turbulence in the air, and the chamber was a very cold and draughty place. The turbulence broke the water into droplets and tossed them around to produce the effects of an aqueous fireworks display. It was possible to imagine catherine wheels, flying saucers, and other bonfire-night favourites flying about the shaft in a watery form. No stream led out of the cavern; the beck sank mysteriously into the stones and pebbles of the floor. The roar of the waterfalls filled the cave.
Mark followed the others as they climbed down from the ledge. They began to walk round the chamber as they waited for the rest of the party. Mark felt an almost religious reverence for the awesome powers of nature which could create such a stupendous marvel.
“It’s fantastic,” he told Bob, when asked what he thought of it.
“That’s right, Mark. Few cavers lose their sense of wonder when they see the Main Chamber – however many times they’ve seen it before.”
Bob began to inspect his photographic equipment again, and as he was doing this, the rest of the party arrived. Bob duly announced his intentions to the assembled group.
“Right, now I’m going to take a picture of the whole cavern,” he said, with greater confidence in his equipment than was deserved.
“Go on, Bob!” Pablo exclaimed. “You’ll never do it. Light from t’flash will never reach far enough.”
“That’s what you think.” Bob had already produced camera and both flashlights, and was now searching deftly for another piece of equipment. At length, he found what he was looking for: two pieces of wood, a hammer and nails, and a bag with some mysterious powder.
“What on Earth have you got there?” Dave asked.
“It’s what you call a home-made flash pan,” Bob replied with a wide grin. He hammered the two pieces of wood together and held it up triumphantly. The object he had made looked like a builder’s mortar board. “It’s the old-fashioned idea of flash photography,” he added. “The first photographers used them a hundred years ago. All you do is put magnesium powder on top, set it alight, and the flare should be bright enough to light up whole chamber. Now, who’s going to volunteer to hold this?”
There was a deafening silence. Then Pablo volunteered. “Typical students!” he declared with a laugh. “Think you’re hardened cavers, don’t you? So you go soft when it comes to handling a little powder. Here, give me the flash pan.”
It seemed to take Bob ages to get his camera mounted on a tripod, and Dave and Paul in the right positions with flashguns, while Pablo stood still and shivered while holding the magnesium flare. There were groans and laughter as they complained about the cold and the water from the two waterfalls, which were moistening their clothes, and urged Bob to get on with the picture.
At last they were ready. Bob called out One – Two – Three,” and Pablo set a lighted match to the magnesium powder. The shutter clicked open. For once, the two flashguns fired properly. There was a blinding flash from the magnesium powder. For a moment the entire vaulted structure of the great cavern was illuminated – hundreds of thousands of tons of rock supported on a massive system of gigantic, natural Gothic arches. Then it was dark again.
Bob allowed the shutter to close. Dave and the others converged on Bob to congratulate him and return his equipment. But the flash pan lay on the ground, discarded like a useless piece of debris. Pablo was clutching his wrist and his face was creased in pain. When they came closer to him, they saw that the back of his hand was raw and blistered. It had started bleeding.
“Some of the powder fell on the back of my hand,” he explained without emotion. “When the flash went off, there were sparks, and they set it off.”
Dave asked if it hurt,
“I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me.”
“We’d better get you out quick,” Bob said.
“There’s no need to panic or hurry. I’m telling you – I’m all right.”
The burn was indeed a nasty one. Mark was surprised to find that, in spite of it, Pablo refused any help and did more than his share of work in the hauling party which brought Mark back up the big pitch.
Mark climbed the entrance pitch without assistance, except for a tightish lifeline.
As they set off down the hill, Bob asked Mark if he wished to carry on caving. But by now the caves had made such a great impression on him, and the frolics and courage of certain individual members had elevated them to such a heroic stature in his own mind, that he was more determined than ever to stay with the club.
“Caves are fantastic,” he said. “I-I want to see more.”
Mark continued down the path alone, as Bob hung back to speak to Pablo.
“How’s the hand?” he asked.
“Tis raw, Bob – but don’t mind me. That picture had better turn out well, though. I’ll kill you if this pain is for nowt!”
Bob assured his friend that the photograph would be excellent.
“It was a good trip,” Pablo continued. “Apart from my raw hand – which doesn’t really matter – there’s only one thing about it which concerns me.”
“What’s that, Pablo?”
“It’s that friend of yours – Mark Flitley. I don’t mind hauling him up pitches, Bob, but he could become a danger to us all, if he comes on many meets.”
Bob did not share Pablo’s concern. “Mark’s all right,” he said. “You’ll see! He’s not a friend really – just someone I know from school and college. He’ll either improve and make himself useful, or get pissed off – like everyone else who finds potholing too hard.”
Pablo was not so sure, but decided not to pursue the subject.
“I admire your taste, Bob,” Pablo said, changing the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“That bird of yours – she’s a real looker!”
“Aye Sue – she’s one of the best!”
“She’s the kind you don’t want to get too fond of, Bob. She could be more trouble than she’s worth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s a beauty, Bob – but I’ve heard stories about her and they say nowt good.”
Bob rejoined sharply: “She’s not the first bird I’ve screwed either, Pablo!”
“No, but you’re soft, Bob; you don’t love ‘em and leave ‘em, like I do.”
“You’re a hard man, Pablo. I just couldn’t do that. I can’t bed a bird and just walk away. What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned love affair anyway? It’s O.K. so long as neither of you mean to start anything permanent – that’s where I draw the line.”
“All the same, take care, Bob.”
CHAPTER 14
Dark as a Dungeon
“It’s dark as a dungeon,
And damp as the dew,
Where the dangers are many
And the pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls
And the Sun never shines –
It’s dark as a dungeon,
Way down in the mines.”
Trad.
It was the beginning of the summer term, and Mark reflected it would not be long before his end-of-year degree examinations. The thought of exams filled him with dread and foreboding, particularly as the amount of time he had spent on studying that year had been minimal. He had not shown a lot of promise the previous year either. The College was not like a University, where students were selected from the brightest candidates and failures were few: external candidates did not have the same assurance of success at internally set papers, and in his first year, Mark had only just avoided inclusion in the drop-out statistics.
As if reading his thoughts, a lecturer came up to him. He was a dark middle aged African, who after finishing his education, had preferred to stay on as a teacher in England than to return to his own country as a practising barrister.
“I’ve been wondering about your work for some time, Mark,” he said kindly.
Mark stiffened instinctively, and waited to hear the worst.
“You didn’t do at all well last year,” the lecturer continued. “This year your work has improved. I think you’re going to get your degree. You might even do very well, if you work hard at your revision.”
Mark was taken by surprise. He did not know what to say. He was not used to receiving compliments. He murmured a hurried thank you and found an excuse to go away. He wondered vaguely if the lecturer was serious and had actually meant what he said.
The following Thursday evening, the caving club held their weekly meeting at the Grapes. Mark could see that all the regular members were present. Among others, there were Bob, Pablo, Paul, and Dave. Mark noticed Susan was not there and wondered if there was a reason for her absence.
“Is Sue coming?” he asked Bob.
Bob shook his head, without showing any undue concern. “No,” he said. “She’s caught cold.”
Pablo looked distinctly unhappy. Dave asked if there was anything the matter.
“It’s all right, Dave,” answered the apprentice. “It’s you students that’s the trouble. It’s your exams. Y’see, potholing’s a desperate business when half of club are students: there’s nowt going on in t’ holidays, and as soon as summer arrives, you’re all glued to your books while you get ready for exams!”
“Oh come on, Pablo,” Dave observed patiently. “Isn’t next weekend the annual Easegill trip?”
“The best tourist trip of the year! Big deal! You make me feel like a cowboy, Dave. One day we’ll have a meet down a really hard cave!”
Mark was interested. “What’s Easegill?” he asked. “What’s wrong with it?”
Pablo laughed. “What’s right with it?” he asked.
Bob ignored this unkind remark, and explained: “It’s a huge and massive system. There’s ten miles or more of passage, and formations down there are really grand!”
“And, if you enter by County Pot, it’s a piss easy trip – just the sort that’ll suit you, Mark!”
Bob disagreed “It’s not that easy, Pablo – and you know it isn’t!” Then he turned to Mark. “It’s well worth seeing, Mark. Are you coming with us?”
Mark had still not quite got over the terrors of Gaping Gill, even though that was more than a month ago. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Are there any p-pitches?” he asked nervously.
“Only two short ones. Nothing to worry about really.”
Mark trembled and began to sweat. He frowned and looked as though he was summoning up a most determined effort of willpower. “Yes, I’ll come,” he said. “Can you tell me more about it?”
Bob stroked his chin. “It’s quite some story,” he said slowly. “I reckon Pablo can tell it better than I can.”
Pablo raised his glass and steadily emptied it. “That depends on what you give me,” he hinted, with a mercenary glint in one eye.
Bob grinned and rejoined: “Oh all right, then – I’ll buy you a pint.”
Pablo promptly accepted the offer and duly began his story, when the drinks arrived.
“It’s a long story – but a good one,” he said. “You have to remember that it happened just after War. There were very few potholing clubs then, and those that there were, were usually part of larger organisations – ramblers, climbing clubs, and such like.
“Easegill was well known. In normal weather, stream sinks in pebbles in stream bed on Casterton Fell, disappears completely, and then resurges several miles downstream. There’s a dry stream bed, but water only flows down there in flood conditions.
“No-one knew where t’water went underground, because of the depth of stones and pebbles between surface and rock head. So no-one knew where to dig and find the cave. It was impossible to find a way upstream, because resurgence passage was always flooded. But everybody suspected there was a huge cave system to be discovered.
