The Loner, page 41
“Perhaps the planning authority is right, Bob.”
Bob exploded at this mildly put suggestion. “Right? How can it be right?” he retorted angrily. “Think of the damage to the countryside that can never be restored. Think of the people who make a living out of the tourist trade of the Three Peaks, and the impact the quarries could eventually have on their jobs. And what about the caves? How long will it be before they’re affected?”
“You sound very bitter,” Dave said.
It was true. Bob was not in his happiest mood. He was trying not to think about Susan.
They reached the plateau, where the long peak of Pen-y-Ghent rose like a ship on a gently undulating sea of limestone fell. They passed a dry stone shooting hut, and followed the bottom of a shallow valley to a large hole. The shape of the hole superficially resembled the hull of a boat, and a waterfall poured out of the rock half way down one of the cliffs inside the hole. Mark learnt from his friends that this natural wonder was called Hull Pot.
Then they crossed a style, and headed up another still shallower valley towards the peak of Pen-y-Ghent. They found the entrance of High Hull Pot not far beyond the style. A stream gurgled gently downhill, and disappeared into a narrow slot under a low depression with a small grassy dome behind it. They left their ladders and rope in this natural sink, and walked upstream to a place where there was a channel leading away in another direction. Here they built a dam out of stones and grass sods, until the whole stream was diverted down the channel, and less than a trickle of water continued down the bed of the beck.
After this they returned to the sink. Dave and Bob unrolled the ladder, and fed it into the slot where the stream had disappeared, while Mark uncoiled the longest rope. At last all was ready.
“Are you sure you won’t come underground, Dave?” Bob asked.
“Not this time, Bob. I’ll stay at the top of the pitch. If you need help, just give five short blasts on the whistle, and I’ll follow you down.”
“Right.” Bob turned to Mark. “There are two ways of doing this,” he said slowly. “You want to practise ladder-climbing, don’t you?”
Mark nodded.
“Right then, either Dave and I can give you a strong line, and haul you up pitch when you get tired; or else we can agree now that, however tired you feel, however much you shout, you’ll climb without help. We won’t let you fall, but you’ll have to do the climbing yourself. Now which is it to be Mark?”
“W-what do you think?” Mark asked indecisively, peering nervously into the void below.
“Bob, it isn’t fair to ask him to make such a choice,” Dave protested. “How can he tell now, how he’s going to feel on his way out?”
Dave’s protests were ignored by both of the others.
“I think you can climb all the pitches in this cave, Mark. I wouldn’t have thought so before Simpson’s, but I do now. I’d like you to prove it.”
Mark drew a deep breath. “All right. Don’t pull me up. Make me climb,” he replied at last.
“Good lad!” said Bob, evidently satisfied his friend had made the right decision. “Now this is how we’ll do the trip. There’s nothing to the pot really. All it is is a big shaft, a short crawl, and a final pitch with an awkward take-off and water going down it. Entrance pitch is about a hundred and thirty feet, but there’s a big ledge at about seventy feet. I’ll stop there. When you hear a single blast from my whistle, please lower the tackle for the final pitch – I wouldn’t want it to get caught on the ledge, while I get cold waiting at the bottom. I’ll ladder the last pitch while you come down the entrance shaft.”
Mark nodded as Bob fastened his lifeline, and slid through the narrow opening onto the ladder. Bob’s whistle was heard soon afterwards, and Mark lowered the tackle down to him on the other end of the lifeline. Then Bob’s whistle signalled his readiness to climb the rest of the pitch, and in no time at all, it was Mark’s turn.
He tied a bowline into the lifeline with trembling fingers. His face was pale as he started climbing, and he felt slightly ill.
The narrow opening was a window into an enormous shaft. He looked down, and could dimly discern the reflection of daylight on the ledge far below him. He could hear the roar of a waterfall, which grew louder the lower he went.
The ladder was hanging free of the cave walls. He had nowhere to rest his arms. They began to ache. He looked down again; he was already nearly half way to the ledge. Then a new cause for alarm presented itself; the ledge was certainly a big one, a rock platform with a width of about fifteen feet from the bottom of the pitch to the lip above the continuation of the shaft. The ladder continued over the lip of the ledge, and its weight drew the upper section, which Mark was climbing on, at an angle, so that it did not hang straight. The ladder began to swing. Mark wondered how long it would be before he found himself climbing underneath the ladder. He fought to stop the rotation. It was no good – his efforts were useless. The lower he got the less vertical the ladder hung. He swung round. Now he was climbing underneath the ladder. His arms had got tired holding his weight on the upper vertical section of ladder; they got twice as tired as he clung onto the underside of the rungs. He wondered vaguely how long he could keep it up. Then, all of a sudden, he was on the ledge and safe once more.
He studied the underground terrain. Above him, the shaft tapered upwards towards the light shining through the narrow entrance. The rock platform he was standing on faced outwards into the darkness below. The diverted stream surged out of an opening onto and across the ledge, and spurted across the lip where the ladder was hanging.
Mark stepped gingerly onto the ladder, and his whistle signalled his intention to climb down. The full force of the water hit him as he stepped below the lip, knocking him sideways. He remembered the Wet Pitch in the Lost John’s system, gritted his teeth and tried not to panic. The force of the water was driving him to one side. The ladder was turning. The water cascaded into his face, stinging his eyes; he could hardly see. He made a last desperate effort to control his fear. Then, quite suddenly, the torrent was shooting into space above his head, a spout of spray shattering into a heavy rain beyond the ladder. He had passed through the waterfall, and now the ladder rested comfortably against the cave wall. He could rest his arms and even relax. Did Bob say the lower part of the shaft was sixty feet, he wondered. After passing the water spout, Mark found it all easy going.
Bob was waiting for him when he reached the bottom. Mark untied the line.
Bob blew his whistle and asked Mark if he was all right,
Mark smiled weakly and nodded. He tried to look as if the pitch had presented no problem.
“Good!” Bob was pleased. He pointed to a low and narrow opening which was the way forward. You see this passage?” he asked.
Mark nodded, hardly able to speak.
“The last pitch is at the end of that crawl. It’s quite a nice pitch really. Nothing difficult about it. I’ve laddered it out of the water. So you’ll have to traverse out onto the ladder. It’s not very far. A dead easy climb! When you reach the ladder, you’ll find a krab fastened onto a sling. Put your lifeline through that before you climb down. Are you right then?”
Mark nodded again. It was all he could do to indicate assent, as his tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth.
“I’ll climb down on the other end of the rope,” Bob continued, without appearing to notice Mark’s anxiety. “So, when you get down to the bottom, take in the rope until I’m at the top of the ladder. Then lifeline me down.”
Mark tied onto the rope, and set off along the tunnel on his hands and knees. The passage drained the water from the bottom of the entrance pitch, and the stream was a substantial one Once at the end, he looked out into another enormous black void. The stream poured over the lip of a pitch and disappeared into the uninviting darkness below. The left-hand wall of the cavern followed the line of the crawl. There, at about the same level as the passage, and about ten feet beyond the top of the pitch, the ladder hung over the abyss.
Mark scrutinised the wall between himself and the ladder. There was no shortage of handholds and footholds. He took an anxious step onto a rocky projection. The foothold was firm and secure. He took another step, and he was nearly half way. He looked back and started to tremble. He saw that the fulcrum of the lifeline was the edge of the pitch: if he fell, he would most likely swing like a pendulum and crash into the rock under the waterfall, where he would be dangerously exposed, and possibly drowned. Should he turn back? It was almost as far to go back, as it was to go forwards onto the ladder. What had he to remember about climbing? One move at a time; keep at least three limbs on secure holds; never release more than one hold at a time. He took another step. The ladder was nearer now. His hands were trembling. He was terrified. He looked back again and wondered why he had to be afraid, while Bob and the others had nerves of steel. Why hadn’t he the confidence to step out over the pitch and rig the ladder without a lifeline – as Bob evidently had. He was still shaking like a leaf when he opened the gate of the karabiner. His fear almost prevented him from threading the lifeline through the krab. Then, quite suddenly, it was done. He was safe. The shaking subsided. He blew on the whistle. The ladder hung free of the wall, but after the terror of the traverse, the descent was not difficult.
Bob followed him on the other end of the lifeline. “Well, Mark, we’re at the bottom now. What do you think of it?” he asked.
Mark looked round the boulder strewn chamber. There was nothing special about it; he had seen many like it which were more impressive. “Not much,” was Mark’s reply.
“Ah, but it’s great for ladder practice, and it’s your turn to lead the way back! But before we do that, let’s have a look round.”
Bob shared some Kendal mint cake with Mark, as they searched, as cavers do, for a possible way on which other cavers might have missed. There was none; the stream simply disappeared into the stones which were strewn over the floor of the cavern.
They returned to the ladder.
“Right, lad, tie on.” Bob adjusted the two ends of the lifeline, and handed one end to Mark. “Go on up,” he advised. “When you get to top, take your end to bottom of big pitch, and lifeline me from there.
Bob took in the slack rope in the doubled lifeline, which hung from the karabiner suspended above the ladder. Soon Mark was climbing. It was a long and slow climb with frequent rests, but he reached the top without help. Bob allowed the lifeline to go slack, as he watched Mark’s light move cautiously forward from the top of the ladder to the head of the pitch, and the waterfall issuing from it.
Then it was Mark’s turn to lifeline Bob. Bob found he had to go slowly to match the speed of the lifeline. He joined Mark under the big pitch a short while afterwards. “Thanks for the line,” he said. “Now what did I tell you about ladder climbing? You did it just as I said you would! Sixty foot, and free-hanging too. And there was a bit of a traverse to make it more sporting. You managed that too!”
Mark made no reply. He just stared up the shaft of the big pitch. He showed no sign of either enthusiasm or confidence. He looked drained of energy. Bob decided the best way to help his friend was to give him time to rest.
“I’m going up now,” he said. “When I get to the ledge, I’ll ask Dave to send most of the rope down, so that I can throw one end down to you. Dave will lifeline me from top while you tie on. ”
Mark nodded. He looked dazed.
“There’s just one thing you must remember to do,” Bob continued.
Mark nodded again,
“When you get to the ledge, pull the ladder from the bottom up after you. The ladder will hang vertically then, and it’ll be easier for you to climb – probably make it easier to get the ladder up too and prevent it from snagging at the bottom.”
Mark nodded a third time. Bob whistled, and Dave was soon lifelining him up to the ledge. Bob reached the ledge, and a few minutes later, the rope arrived.
It did not take very long for Bob to complete his ascent of the entrance shaft. Mark whistled and started to climb.
The climb up to the ledge was not impossible. The ladder hung against the smooth rock wall of the shaft. So Mark was able to rest against the wall when he felt tired. He was feeling weary, when he was almost at the ledge. Then the icy cold wet blast of the spout hit him, and he climbed the last few feet faster than any other part of the ladder.
Once on the ledge, he resolved to rest. He sat down and waited for five minutes. He wondered whether to pull up the ladder from the bottom of the pitch. If he had done so, as Bob had suggested, the top section of the ladder would have hung straight. But his arms felt tired, and he preferred to save his strength for the final effort.
At last, he blew his whistle, and took hold of the ladder. He pulled it until it was hanging straight, and started climbing. For the first few feet there was no problem. Then the weight of the ladder below the ledge began to tug the upper part backwards. Mark fought to stay vertical; fought to stay on top of the slanting ladder. But it was no use. The wire ladder twisted. Now he was climbing underneath the ladder. The strain on his arms was excruciating. He tried to keep at bay the panic which was rapidly engulfing him. He cried out.
When Bob Smith emerged onto the surface from the window at the top of the pitch, he found Dave Wise settled in a position which was no less comfortable for lifelining than for Sun bathing. His wetsuit was unzipped, and he had obviously enjoyed his easy watch on the surface as Bob had, his energetic trip underground.
“Have a good trip, Bob?”
“Just great!” He untied his lifeline, while Dave prepared the rope for life lining Mark.
“Are you going on the trip down Primrose next week?” Dave asked, in order to pass the time while they waited for Mark to start climbing.
“Oh, aye. How many of us will be going, Dave?”
“It looks like just yourself and Pablo. The others have all chickened out – either it’s too far or it’s too hard!”
Bob took off his helmet and scratched his long hair thoughtfully. “What’s so special about Primrose?” he asked.
“It’s the squeeze.”
“Mm... No-one seemed to mind the squeeze down Simpson’s,”
“There’s just no comparison, Bob. The squeeze down Simpson’s is horizontal. You just pull yourself through. Primrose is a downwards squeeze, and very slippery; like a lobster pot – simple to get into, desperate to get out!”
Bob smiled slowly, as if to show he was not taken in by his friend’s exaggeration. “We need tackle for three pitches,” he said. “We’ll never do it with just the two of us. That’s a four man job.”
Dave grinned. “That’s what I told Pablo. He’s got other ideas.”
“Tell me then.”
“You don’t use ladders; it’s called self-rope technique – SRT for short.”
Bob scratched his long hair again, and shook his beard. “I’ve heard that expression before somewhere,” he mused.
“A trip down to Mendip will be expensive though for the two of you, Bob.”
As Dave made this remark, he was already lifelining Mark up to the ledge, while Bob peered into the darkness, and watched for Mark’s light to appear.
“He’s stopped now. Is he all right?” Dave asked.
Bob had seen Mark’s light, and sensed the critical point in the exercise had arrived. “He’s on the ledge, Dave,” he reported. “Can I take over the lifeline now?”
Dave was only too pleased to let Bob have his turn.
They waited while Mark rested. Then Mark began to climb, while Dave watched from the entrance. There was a muffled cry.
“Was Mark always like this at school, Bob?” Dave asked coolly,
“Many times worse, Dave. He’s changed a lot since then,” Bob replied, without making the least effort to give his friend any extra support.
“Did he never do any sport?”
“Only when he had to – and that was mainly cross-country running. He always gave up too easily – never made an effort to push himself to his limits.”
“Didn’t he like running?”
“He never liked any kind of exercise. He’s paying for it now, though. If you’ve never tried to find your limit before, it’s difficult to make the effort now. Bad habits are hard to break.”
“Bob, I don’t understand you. Tell me, why are we here? What’s Mark done to deserve all this?”
Bob paused to collect his thoughts and gave the lifeline a tug – just to make sure Mark was still resting. “It’s like this,” he said. “My dad’s surgery is in a very poor area. I’ve seen real poverty. I’ve seen people suffer – and I saw how Mark suffered from bullying at school. It was his own silly fault most of the time, of course, but I found that disturbing. I tried to help him, but it was no good. So I vowed that, if he ever made an effort, and I was around to help, I’d do what I could for him – and then, of course, there’s Sue.”
“That ungrateful wench who’s been wrecking your life!”
“Maybe, but I loved her – still would, if only she’d let me. You see, Mark introduced me to her, and I’m thankful for that. One good turn deserves another – and – who knows? – we might all need Mark’s help one day. He’s going to be a lawyer, isn’t he? How is he now, by the way?”
Dave looked down the pitch. “He’s O.K. He’s climbing now,” he said. “Take in, Bob.”
Bob took in the rope, as by slow degrees, and with many rests and pauses, Mark continued to climb the ladder. Then there was another muffled cry.
“I say, Bob. He’s not even half way. Don’t you think we ought to give him some help?”
Bob grinned. “Why should we?” he asked.
“Suppose he falls?”
