Red
Rose Cave and Pothole Club - Newsletter Vol. 6 No. 7 - December 1969 / January
1970
28th Dec. 1969.
BULL POT KINGSDALE.
Party:- Dave Creedy, Chris Bargh,
Phil Pearson, Frank Hardy, and Hodge”
Bull Pot was planned the week before (how’s
that for organisation) but this was changed to Hardrawkin,
again to Black Shiver Pot and yet again to Tatham
Wife and I arrived at the Farm the following Sunday set on an easy trip down
Lancaster Hole in n extremely confused state of mind.
We changed at the Farm and drove over to
Kingsdale in potting gear after being threatened by the Red Rose roughnecks
with the prospect of Waterfall Passage. We reached the bottom of Bull Pot after
a quick trouble free almost dry descent and it soon became apparent that
something had to happen soon or there would be no material for this write
up. Suddenly it happened, just as I had re-ascended the final pitch. One by one
various members of the rest of the party became badly wedged at various levels
on the pitch and began sliding up and down the walls grabbing and
kicking at anything that looked like a ledge and that included each other.
After observing this human yoyo act with
some amusement and for considerable time I made steps to retrieve my party with
the help of Dave who didn’t seem to be as stuck as the rest. We ascended
to the top of the fourth pitch where Phil came towards me clutching a wire
belay ’Look at this Hodge’, be said triumphantly. “Ye Phil” I said,
“That’s called a belay”. We exchanged queer looks and it was not
until later that I discovered he had just found it in a pool. For once a
trip was done where the amount of tackle returned actually exceeded that
taken out.
I lined everyone up the fourth pitch
and arrived at the bottom of the third to find two novices
lining each other up. “Throw the rope down" I shouted “Line coning
down" shouted a voice in the distance, there was a whistling
sound and I found myself buried under 320ft of rope and immediately began
searching for an end, finding not one but two. I heard someone
say “Oh dear” and then "Sorry" as I climbed
through the hole at the top dragging the rope behind me. I surfaced in fading light and ten minutes
later I was coiling the big rope in freezing darkness the situation proved somewhat
difficult as the wet rope
had frozen solid and the Tyrolean method became akin to tying a knot
in a steel spring. However this small task completed, five hard men descended
the moor. Our trog togs were so
hard we had to chip them off.
Hodge.