stuck in a cave

Well, it has finally happened, the thing I dreaded has come to pass: I got stuck in a cave. I don't mean that I was unable to make forward progress and had to reverse (that has happened many times): I mean that I was wedged in tight and could not move in any direction.

This happened in Eastwater Cavern on 15th November when I was on a trip specifically chosen for its challenging squeezes, so in a sense I got what I asked for. And before you ask: no, I was not alone, I was with some very sound friends. A more detailed account will appear in the UK Caving Forum in the next few days.

For me, the most interesting aspect of the experience was that it had been far worse in my imagination beforehand than when it actually happened.

In my imagination, I was going to have a complete psychological breakdown ("freak out"), scream and thrash about until I was exhausted, then either suffocate and die or be rescued hours later, unconscious and traumatised for life.

In reality, it was pretty horrible, and scary at the time, but none of those things happened. I maintained a constructive dialogue with my companions, wriggled in a controlled manner to try to free myself and stopped wriggling when it was clear this was making things worse, was able to continue to breathe, kept still so as not to drive myself to panic and exhaustion, and eventually, with the help of my companions, was able to find out why I could not reverse, fix that, then then free myself for a second attempt.

And was I traumatised? On your Nellie! At the second attempt, even before my torso and head were out of the obstacle, as soon as my feet and bum had got through, I felt a huge sense of relief and achievement, and just stopped moving so that I could have a good look and really take in the sense it all. Within half a minute of clearing the obstacle I became elated, and this elation stayed with me for days and days.

I would go back and do the same route again, and meanwhile, it has made me a better caver.

The lesson of all this is an obvious one, and one we all have been given but may have not acquired first hand: for something we are actively afraid of, the fear of it is worse than the thing itself.

It was horrible being stuck, but not utterly horrible. No-one got hurt. I have grown from the experience. and I am glad that it happened. 

Scafell Pike reconnaissance

On 17th October I went north to reconnoitre Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England, to fill one of two gaps in my professional repertoire, the other being Ben Nevis. I was supposed to have reconnoitred both of these mountains during the summer, but the summer lurgy of which I have written previously prevented this, which was quite a nuisance. Actually, I had to turn down some Three Peaks work in the late summer because of not knowing Scafell Pike and Ben Nevis, which was very annoying.

My friend of two or three years standing, Sheena, came with me, for her first hike in her new boots. It was also my first hike in my new Mountain Equipment Lhotse mountain jacket, my old faithful Mountain Morpheus jacket having seen better days.

On the morning of 18th October, a Saturday, we made a deliberately late start from YHA Wasdale Hall, a rather fine building, and drove to the shops and café at Wasdale Head for some last-minute supplies and kit, and warming cups of hot chocolate, then started at the gate at just south of the loos and followed the established footpath around the ridge and up beside Lingmell Gil, then up Brown Tongue to the interesting area around the Hollow Stones, then forked left to take the more commonly-used route to the left (north) of Pikes Crag. By this point we were in fog. We swung round to the right for the final stretch to the summit, and arrived there in a strong wind with poor visibility. It wasn’t actually cold, but it certainly felt it.

We huddled at the summit with the other twenty or so walkers there, chomping on our flapjacks, then headed down via the south-westerly path rather than the path by which we had arrived, and reached the emergency kit depôt at Scafell Crag, then deciding against a descent via the short way to Hollow Stones, retraced our steps until the north-west path from the summit was in sight through the fog, then made our way carefully over, and resumed our descent the way we had come up.

Back in the valley conditions were warm and gentle again, very mild, in fact, for the time of year.

The purpose of the walk was to have a reconnaissance for future Three Peaks work, and to that extent the objective was achieved. However, I was really not in the mood to be up a mountain that day, and would have much preferred to have been curled up under my duvet at home with a good book and a large teddy bear. My companion Sheena, however, was full of beans, and for most of the day had been bounding ahead of me as I trudged behind: I am glad one of us had had a good walk, at least.

Back at the hostel, I was dog tired, and after a hearty supper and pint of local real ale, I went to bed early and slept very soundly for a good eleven hours. It wasn’t the best weekend’s walking I have ever had, but as they say in Bristol, “Job’s a good ‘un!”.

The remaining gap in my repertoire is Ben Nevis, but now it is winter and the days are short, so I will leave my reconnaissance until the Spring.