Rowton
Pot
It was a cold and windy day. Once again a late breakfast
had deferred the prospect of Vesper into perpetuity. But there was
enough rope to do Rowten, wasn’t there?
Ann and I arrived at the entrance just as Andy
slid over the edge and somehow hooked the rope over the farthermost
branches of a tree. “You‘re supposed
to use the bolt!” Bawled Fran, but the hurricane was already far
below, gibbering at the Turgid waters flowing into the abyss.
‘‘What‘s it like? asked Ann, looking slightly apprehensive.
“Airy.” I replied.
We were just digesting this remark when Mr. William Stead arrived. I knew it was Mr. William Stead because he
had it written all over his suit striking
an impressive hand-on-knee stance like a war movie (this Americanisms creep in
everywhere Ed.) veteran this imposing figure pierced us with a penetrating stare through his bifocals.
“What‘s the state of play here, then?” The word ‘chaps’ was
omitted from his question but implied
by the accent. His battle troops
stood around him, hungry for pitches and
glory, brandishing their immaculate
descenders.
“Well. We’re
going down,” I said, “and this is the only dry route, and we’ll be absolutely
ages.” Mr. William Stead looked pensive. Moving a few steps away he convened a whispered meeting with his platoon.
“No luck here, I’m afraid, we’ll have to try Jingling. His sorry band of
mercenaries trudged off over the fell following the determined Mr. Stead.
“Pillocks.”
“Rope free!”
Following Ann
I slid down to the bridge and wobbled across to the ledge where rigging was in
progress on the pendulum. Andy went down next and all seemed to be going
smoothly until muffled shouts floated up from the depths. Something was up, and
no one was down. Andy came back over the edge followed some time later by Fran.
“The rope’s 2Oft. short. I could have swung onto a ledge but couldn’t have
climbed down.”
It was Hurricane’s
hour. We retrieved 20ft from the traverse and the famous international speleologist
set off down like some hero from a Boy’s Own saga. We waited, and, leaning out
from our cows tails, watched. Below the ledge a yellow, bird—like creature
flapped frantically in and out of view, pedaling the thin air for all it was
worth, but getting nowhere very fast. The pendulum became less intent, then
almost idle in it’s motion, then non—existent. A rust crabs and gagets.
“He’s coming
back up!” indignantly.
“I can’t
swing into the rift with all that rope below m° and a bag as well.” stated the
birdman hotly.
“Well, it’s
your turn now Hugh!” said Fran challengingly.
It wasn’t the
moment that I’d been waiting for. Out Anne had never rigged before, so I had no
option. I left the bag behind with instructions for the next man to bring it to
the re-belay. I never like this bit. Below the ledge I started swinging with a
push off the wall. What a lot of black space. A tower of precarious blocks
overhang this exact spot. It’s uncomfortable. But I got in. We’d have to go off
the first bolts or there wouldn’t be enough rope. For the first time on a pitch
I tried a butterfly knot — at least I think I did, it looked sort of OK. Well
pleased with the hang I notified HQ
“Rope free!”
The Yellow
birdman came into view and was pulled into dock.
“You might as
well carry me with the sack.” I said cowardly.
“Thanks, pal”.
Another wait
to chock Anne through to the re-belay. It seemed to take an age.
“Sorry.
Forgot the bag and had to get Fran to pass it down. She’s got cold and ha gone
out.”
And them
there were three.
It’s a
pleasant glissade for the next l4Oft., cooled by the breeze of the hissing fall
close by. I swung onto a ledge at the bottom and watched Anne follow, a
friendly glow of yellow light descending like some paraclete into the black and
silver daylight streaked depths. Impressive.
Andy was busy
atoning for his previous failure, bolting manically downwards like there was no
tomorrow. A fifty, a thirty five, traverse and the last twenty five. No rope to
spare. Just made it.
Carefully we
traversed the deep bottom pool and rushed round a few corners to the sump,
showing Anne the line through to
Not wishing
to repeat the getting—it—stuck lark, I opted to take the bag up with me and began a slow assent on the
inefficient rig that had me stopping for a rest every five turns with the bag swinging giddily below. It’s
a lonely place. No one to talk to. No friendly floor to put your feet on. Just
a great hissing black hole. I sat and admired the situation, nagged by the
thought of my homemade butterfly knot. But I was too far up for doubts to
matter much. At last the rift and the re-belay. Edging nervously to the end of
the rift I let qo and shut my eyes. Like Tarzan I swung out with a whoop and prussiked
the last few feet to the changeover bolt. I could see a light going up the
entrance pitch.
“Sods!
They’ve left me with all this tackle!” I cursed.
But a cleated
pair of welly sole’s appeared and I woke Anne. She set off with the bag an I
unstrung the traverse line and wobbled once again over the bridge, the waters
rushing past below in a giddy chant that seemed to cry; “Come down, come down.”
“Rope free!”
I swung out
for the last time and slowly prussiked the 6Oft. to the top. The changeover was
not friendly. I struggled and swore as every bloody bit of rope ended up on the
wrong side of the next bloody bit of rope. I was getting fractious.
“Good floor show” beamed Andy to an un amused
caver.
At last I was out, hurling the sodding bag
into the frosty evening sky, shouting “Bloody SRT, what a cock up, bits of
string everywhere, we’d have done it in half the time on ladders!”
It’s a fine trip, though. Fine hole. Please
fix it for Fran, Jim.
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