Entry

Where to enjoy the thrill of caving?

Aug 28th, 2006 10:06
Harish Kohli, http://www.awimaway.com

Where to enjoy the thrill of caving?
“BY THE RULE OF THUMB, A MOUNTAINEER IS AN ADVENTURER” said Roger, a 
caving Instructor. I knew what he was getting at, but I wasn’t the 
least interested in going in to dark and dank underground places. I 
like the openness of the wide open valleys, beautiful vistas, fresh 
air and independence. Caving to me is claustrophobic but when you are 
upgraded to an adventurer, it is hard to pull out.
Roger, a fit-looking forty-something was going to be our instructor 
and leader the next day. We chatted for an hour or so during which he 
tried to explain the similarities between climbing and caving. “Oh, 
you climb up and then climb down, while we climb down and eventually 
have to climb up. It is no different than what you do” he said trying 
to make it look simple and easy. I couldn't decide whether to feel 
encouraged or not.
MENDIP UNDERGROUND. Unknown to him, I had been reading Mendip 
Underground, a caver's guide written by local experts Tony Jarrat and 
Dave Irwin. There was no mistaking what some of the technical terms 
foreshadowed: a low grovel, a muddy wallow, a wet flat-out crawl and 
a. desperate squeeze did not need translation. 
The names of various features of the Mendip caving systems seemed 
similarly mixed in portent. The Ruby and Crystal Chambers, Princess 
Grotto and Harem Passage sounded appealing. But the Vengeance Passage, 
Agony Crawl and Sludge Pit Hole didn’t sound too good. 
GOING DOWN. As Roger unlocked the door to the entrance to GB Cave the 
next morning, I started to think of Something Nasty In The Attic and 
Abandon Hope. Dressed in waterproof suits, helmets and lamps, I gazed 
down a squarish hole into darkness. Holding myself, I followed Roger 
down the hole, picking my steps on the metal ladder by the light of my 
lamp. It was dark and damp.
The cave was 3ft wide and straightened up with chambers out on each 
side and overhead. I could hear the scrape and shuffle of Jack 
bringing up the rear, a reassuring sound. We came to a place where the 
passage roof dropped sharply and the sides, narrowed in. My helmet 
lamp showed a short tunnel through the rock, roughly two feet square 
and maybe 5ft long. 
The soles of Roger’s rubber boots gleamed momentarily in the opening, 
and then he was through with an athletic wriggle. I got down on my 
belly, shoved my arms out ahead, and wormed forward. It was impossible 
to squeeze through. The rock around me felt as if it was in-contact 
with every part of my body except my face, and that was laid ear-down 
in a puddle of mud. 
“Turn on your side," came Roger's calm advice, "and just pull yourself 
forward." I did as he said but nothing happened. I was stuck. “Go back 
and try again” he said calmly again and again it was the same. After 
learning a few tricks lying down on the muddy floor, I slowly 
slithered out on the far side, as greasy as a new-born baby. Later, 
flicking through descriptions of desperate squeezes and right-angle 
corkscrews in Mendip Underground, I found that the little funnel I had 
passed through did not even rate a mention.
Then came a couple of 15ft descents down slippery looking walls of 
rock. That would be easy, I thought. With some experience in climbing 
and guidance from Roger about the cracks and hand-holds, I found I 
could spider my way down the vertical rock faces at the cost of a 
barked knuckle or two. It wasn't until the following morning that 
muscles I never even knew I possessed, began to complain about being 
woken from their 50-year slumber.
As we walked, crawled and crouched our way south, a couple of hundred 
feet below the grazing fields of Mendip, my lamp picked out gems of 
underground architecture: smooth curtains of cream-coloured flowstone 
coating the walls, tiny pale needles of stalactites dripping from the 
roof, helectite in hunches like coral or frosted cauliflower 
heads. "Calcite," said Roger. "You never get tired of the different 
ways it forms. Always different, always beautiful." 
BEAUTY BELOW GROUND LEVEL. Turning around a corner, I found myself 
suddenly gobsmacked. What I saw was a breathtaking sight. GB's main 
chamber opened up in a vast cavern, nearly 100ft from floor to roof. A 
rock bridge sprang out across a ravine. Long stalactites hung among 
wavy curtains of calcite and haphazardly sinuating worms of helectite. 
Nearer at hand were smooth, round knobs of stalagmites, hobbling the 
chamber floor.
When caving first took off as a serious science-cum-sport in the 19th 
century, cavers would snap off calcite formations and knock down 
stalactites for their rock gardens. Finders could be keepers in that 
carelessly innocent climate of opinion. Nowadays the emphasis is on 
responsible caving: enjoy it, and leave it for others to enjoy. "Don't 
touch the stalagmites," Roger warned when he saw me stretch out a hand 
to the irresistibly rounded shapes. "We try not to spoil the 
decorations."
I knew well enough the kind of pleasure I had got out of my few hours 
underground: the sense of achievement in overcoming squeezes and rock 
climbs, the beauty of the calcite formations twinkling in lamplight; 
the feeling of being somewhere truly "other", yet part of a familiar 
landscape. 
I call myself an adventurer but that is an old term that has long lost 
its true meaning. The real adventures are the cavers and what they do 
is real exploration. 
Harish Kohli
Adventure travel and Activity tour
http://www.awimaway.com