18/03/22 – 20/03/22
Ivy Cottage is owned by the Craven Potholing Club and had been booked with the obvious intent of a big Yorkshire caving trip for the fitter members of the club (and the President) while allowing some excellent opportunities to walk for those who felt their caving days were behind them (Easters) and those for whom they had never started (Hoody). Situated next door to the Crown Inn in Horton in Ribblesdale I was looking forward to a couple of beers after a satisfying caving trip. This did not quite transpire…
The meet was two members down before it had even started with Martin C succumbing to the dreaded ‘rona and Lionel S with a racket ball sporting injury.
John E very nearly had a cold weekend. When packing he asked Betty if she had seen his sleeping bag. “Oh, I gave it to the Ukrainian appeal.” was the reply. “But what am I meant to sleep in?” asked John “Their need is greater than yours” was Betty’s very true reply. It is a good job John gets on with his neighbours who lent him a spare.
Syd and John started the with plan of three peaks in three days by ascending Whernside before arriving and treating themselves to a pub tea. Mike and Rob descended Diccan Pot before arriving a little later to ready themselves for the main activity of Saturday.
Saturday morning dawned fine and bright and after the President had single handedly cooked a delicious breakfast the party set off for their various activities. John E, Syd, David and Jonathon H elected to climb Ingleborough and Mike, Rob and myself decided to attempt Penyghent Pot, a long and arduous trip and one that meant extra care in preparing our kit. This had an added bonus; a few minutes after the walkers had set off, a rather sheepish Jonathan rounded the corner again. He had forgotten to put his boots on, setting off instead in his loafers.
My day started slightly better than Jonathan’s but rapidly went downhill as Rob, Mike and I started to go uphill. I had decided to wear a thin wetsuit under my fleece caving suit to protect me from the cold water; on this bright sunny morning above ground carrying ropes and harness it caused me to heat up rapidly and chafe where no true gentleman wants to be chafed. This was probably because over the past few years the suit has shrunk while it was being stored.
With an hour’s sweaty walk up to the entrance to Penyghent Pot over with we prepared to descend. It seemed alien to be descending when the weather was so good and the view of the hills of the Yorkshire Dales so beautiful but descend we did.
An awkward entrance squeeze (for me) leads almost immediately to a wet 250 metre crawl with flat out sections. Several wet rope pitches and more wet crawls took us down through strata each darker in colour than the last; it felt very ominous. Six or so pitches in I was beginning to tire but I let myself be encouraged to keep going by Rob without realising just how much energy I was expending keeping warm and crawling. At the bottom the water through which we had been progressing ebbed away, along with my strength, into the sump. A quick look at the inky water, surrounded by dark coloured limestone and we turned round. I immediately realised that I had made a mistake in not turning round when I began to feel tired. I had fallen into the same heuristic trap that I have, from my comfortable armchair, criticised so many other cavers and mountaineers for; I had expended too much energy on the inward journey and I was now going to struggle to make my way out of the cave without help.
Rob and Mike were patient and steady, cajoling me along and helping me negotiate the reascent of some awkwardly rigged pitches but my strength was failing and even the mars bars I had brought and the energy gels given to me by Rob and Mike seemed to make little difference.
At the top of one of the pitches I had barely the strength to perform the mantle shelf manoeuvre needed to finish it. My arms were cold and I just could not do it. I sensed Mike’s frustration and I knew it when he asked, “Do you not think you should have turned around earlier, McBain?” I then saw that he immediately regretted the question though he was entirely correct. My mistake was putting all three of us in danger.
Rob rigged me an extra foot loop to stand in and this allowed me to get high enough to flop onto the tiny shelf, almost crushing him in the process. I rested, feeling guilty and worried about my predicament.
The guilt did not help me progress upwards any faster; the last pitches and the final metres of wet streamway, with gravel now stuck between my knees and knee pads became tortuous and as I crawled I began to suffer from the famous (amongst cavers) Penyghent knees. For what seemed like (and probably was) hours I crawled and jumared, crawled and jumared. Ten moves up the rope and ten seconds rest, ten moves up the rope and ten seconds rest. I moved like an automaton with an ever unwinding spring. I grew colder, so cold that I stopped shivering and began to feel hot. I desperately wanted to unzip my suit a few inches but experience told me that this was the worst thing I could do. Instead I pulled out a thin beanie and put it on. Layering seemed unnatural but deep down I knew it was the right thing. I kept going, every shuffled metre closer to the entrance would make the rescue that must inevitably come, easier and quicker.
My memories of the last couple of pitches are muddled and vague but the feeling of relief when I made it into the last 250 metres of streamway was huge. Only the last, awkward move into the scaffolded entrance pitch needed to be made. This proved harder than almost anything I have done before, no purchase for my feet and no strength to pull myself upwards on the scaff bars above my head. Rob and Mike encouraged me, unable to do much except stand and shiver; they had already derigged the cave and dealt with the wet ropes, dragging them behind themselves through the stream way and were now themselves cold and tired.
Somehow my toe found a tiny scrape and I managed to push myself up a few centimetres, at the same time I hauled on the scaff bars and managed to get my bottom onto the rock above the squeeze, giving myself a rest for a few moments before standing and climbing out to find the bright warm day had turned into a cold, clear night, after an exhausting 8 hour trip.
Rob and Mike carried the ropes down and I followed miserably and mutely behind them slowly covering the few kilometres back to the welcoming lights of the hut. Rubbing our names off the call out board gave a finality and sense of safety to our arrival.
This being the president’s meet meant that I was supposed to have been providing gourmet fare for all. Luckily Rick had arrived earlier in the afternoon and cooked a delicious chicken mole, served with as much beer and wine as could be drunk. Before dinner was eaten he went above and beyond the call of duty; he helped me take off my wetsuit…
Sunday’s bright sunshine burned away the despair of the night before and we set off for above ground activities. I was still exhausted and despite starting to walk with Syd, Jonathan, John and David I decided to leave them at the inbye line and continue my solo walk slowly in the valley.
In summary: John and Syd climbed the Three Peaks in three days. David and Jonathan (after he remembered to put his walking boots on) walked with them on Saturday and Sunday summiting Ingleborough and Simon Fell and Park Fell, then Pen-y-Ghent and Plover Hill. Rick prepared a fine repast for us, driving up just for the meal, and provided invaluable wetsuit removal services. Rob and Mike went down Diccan Pot on Friday and also of course caved on Saturday and walked swiftly up Pen-y-Ghent on Sunday. I nearly didn’t make it out of the cave unaided and I am grateful to Mike and Rob for their help and care…
I didn’t even manage a beer in The Crown Inn.
Ed MShaw
Derbyshire Pennine Club 