Expo - Beyond my comfort zone
Mon 21 Aug 2017
Becka Lawson
It's been six hours since we left the quiet, calm space of the fossil level and started dropping down hundreds of metres of spray-lashed pitches. Six hours fighting hypothermia with not one alcove or sheltered ledge to escape the unremitting, icy gale. We're at the head of another 50m pitch with anchors going in for the final bag of rope but I can't wait any longer. I strip half naked to piss in the churning pool at the base of a waterfall then battle for ten minutes to get dressed again, my useless, numb fingers refusing to grip my central MR tight enough to turn it. Over 800m above me the sun is baking the limestone pavement. What am I doing here, struggling to hold it together?
Having been on the CUCC Expo since week one I took a few days out in the final week to join the local Austrian club, VHO, for their annual week of expedition to the Plankamira area, a few kilometres east of CUCC's patch in the Totes Gebirge. After five weeks of expedition caving I wasn't expecting anything too stressful and I thought I knew what to expect as I'd joined them twice before to cave in the same area. With my flaky German I only realised we were heading on a multi-day underground camping trip the night before we set off. We were going to Wildbader H?hle, which was explored to -874m in 1982 by a team of tough French speleos from the Soci?t? des Amateurs de Cavernes de Rioz (SAC). Since 2013 VHO has been systematically resurveying and extending the cave. However, bad weather in the past two years meant that they hadn't yet reached the deepest horizontal level because the only route down is via a wet shaft series.
I set off to the underground camp with two tacklesacks - my own, laughably small by Austrian standards, plus another I was lent that was over twice the size. En route three of the five of us diverted off to take rope to start re-rigging the deep, wet pitch series. However, after a couple of short pitches, we reached a big shaft where the overnight rain meant that a powerful waterfall was shooting across it to hit the far wall, filling it with spray. With the cave at 2 degrees and us sleeping in our caving undersuits we weren't willing to get soaked so we left the gear and headed back up.
Later, whilst unpacking at camp, I spotted a wetsuit. Hmm, what's that about? It's for Robert, I was told. Strange, I thought, surely he's not diving here? Then, mixed in with the bags of food, I saw a neoprene hood - so what's this needed for? After all, the Austrians think British cavers are crazy for going near pitches with water. They explore flood-prone caves in the winter, when water levels are low and predictable as any precipitation falls as snow. Well, they do except that, just this once, and unbeknownst to me, the plan was to try to bottom Wildbader H?hle, dropping from the camp at -400m to follow the master streamway down another 500m of aqueous pitches. So they all had their wet gear with them. WHY DID NOBODY THINK TO TELL ME? I even had neoprene at the CUCC Base Camp, neatly packed away, that I could have brought. And it looks like I'm supposed to be in the team of three going deep tomorrow.
The next morning I could hear them talking about me but I couldn't follow what they were saying. Eventually Paulina said that Robert and Glitzi would wear their wetsuits under their oversuits and that I could use her thin rubber suit which should keep my furry stuff dry underneath it. I didn't really understand what I was being offered but anything had to be better than drenching all my clothes. It turned out the suit was a Russia-made, lightweight, membrane caving drysuit. Despite being taller than Paulina I managed to get into it though once I had my harness on I couldn't raise my arms far ... but hopefully there'd be no stretchy free-climbs needed. It felt odd but toasty and comforting, hurrah, things were looking up. However, barely five minutes after leaving camp, my wrists were being squeezed unbearably tight by the seals: this just wasn't going to work. I struggled out of the top half of the suit then tied the arms around myself, so effectively I was wearing pontonnieres. I was now perfectly equipped for wading deep canals .... but that wasn't where I was going. I was scared that, with water falling down on me, I'd fill up like a tacklebag with no drainage holes ... and then what?
The three of us set off down the pitches. The water levels hadn't dropped from yesterday and we were each struggling with a beast of a bag. Together we had around 300m of 10mm rope, rigging gear, a hefty drill, spare battery and all the rest of the usual junk you need. Around 250m down we got to VHO's previous limit of rigging. Here we slowed down as Glitzi started to put in thru-bolts whilst Robert began surveying. I was at the back, tasked with the no-brainer, donkey-plus-Disto-target role.
Is this the worst water yet, I kept pestering Robert. No, no, it gets wetter further down, as inlets come in. Sheeesh. The low point was a long drop that ended with 10m where the rope disappeared, unavoidably, into the middle of the main water course. I abseiled through, water pounding down on me and emerged to join Robert at a small ledge. The shaft here was 7m in diameter. Some bits didn't even have much spray. All innocence, I shouted to him above the din: so could the rig perhaps go, err, a little further away from the water? Not possible, I was told, firmly. Oh woe.
Fortunately below here Glitzi found a dry parallel shaft series for a series of drops. Unfortunately the draft was even stronger. Pitiably, I tried to use my tacklesack to shelter from it. As we slowly crept deeper I knew I wasn't the only one struggling to keep my temperature from steadily dropping: I could see the tell-tale, jittery dance of the laser beam of the Disto and I felt for Robert as I watched him battling to control his hand shake enough to draw the survey notes. It transpired that he and Glitzi were in just 2mm of neoprene under their cordura oversuits - madness. Later still I was told that when the original French explorers got hit by heavy rain down there they couldn't keep their carbides alight. There was nowhere to shelter so they'd put plastic bags over their heads to let them breathe and then prussiked up through the waterfalls in the dark. There's always another level of misery to sink down to.
Finally, seven hours in, Glitzi then Robert whooped and, at last, I touched down in the huge chamber at the base of the shafts. I climbed stiffly up the boulder pile to them, out of the spray, and we shook hands formally and grinned inanely - we'd done it. We stomped off down the huge phreatic passage slowly driving some warmth into ourselves, took photos and heated drinks on the Jetboil (an excellent, well-designed bit of kit - light and really fast to boil). I braced myself and breezily asked, so, what now? Do we finish the survey down here? No, it's late - we'll just head out. Phew.
Five hours later I was at last away from the water. My arms were sodden and I was still chilled through but I'd thrashed myself and my bigger-cross-section-than-me tacklesack up through some tight pitch heads that vied with the most awkward that Yorkshire has to offer. We made it back to camp before 3am after fifteen hours of effort. The other two woke and cooked for us whilst Robert and Glitzi peeled off their wetsuits and changed into their dry furries with shudders of pleasure. No such instant relief for me. However, from now on in it was just a waiting game. I pulled off my wettest layer and tucked up in my pit to gradually warm up and then to start to dry off. Finally back within my comfort zone ....
Blog Author: Becka
Becka Lawson
Beyond my comfort zone
It's been six hours since we left the quiet, calm space of the fossil level and started dropping down hundreds of metres of spray-lashed pitches. Six hours fighting hypothermia with not one alcove or sheltered ledge to escape the unremitting, icy gale. We're at the head of another 50m pitch with anchors going in for the final bag of rope but I can't wait any longer. I strip half naked to piss in the churning pool at the base of a waterfall then battle for ten minutes to get dressed again, my useless, numb fingers refusing to grip my central MR tight enough to turn it. Over 800m above me the sun is baking the limestone pavement. What am I doing here, struggling to hold it together?
Setting off for the two hour walk up from the valley to the surface camp at Plankamira.
And in the drizzle on the way up, with Glitzi kitted out in wellies and an umbrella.
Having been on the CUCC Expo since week one I took a few days out in the final week to join the local Austrian club, VHO, for their annual week of expedition to the Plankamira area, a few kilometres east of CUCC's patch in the Totes Gebirge. After five weeks of expedition caving I wasn't expecting anything too stressful and I thought I knew what to expect as I'd joined them twice before to cave in the same area. With my flaky German I only realised we were heading on a multi-day underground camping trip the night before we set off. We were going to Wildbader H?hle, which was explored to -874m in 1982 by a team of tough French speleos from the Soci?t? des Amateurs de Cavernes de Rioz (SAC). Since 2013 VHO has been systematically resurveying and extending the cave. However, bad weather in the past two years meant that they hadn't yet reached the deepest horizontal level because the only route down is via a wet shaft series.
The French survey of Wildbader Hoehle (1625/150) after exploration from 1977-1982.
I set off to the underground camp with two tacklesacks - my own, laughably small by Austrian standards, plus another I was lent that was over twice the size. En route three of the five of us diverted off to take rope to start re-rigging the deep, wet pitch series. However, after a couple of short pitches, we reached a big shaft where the overnight rain meant that a powerful waterfall was shooting across it to hit the far wall, filling it with spray. With the cave at 2 degrees and us sleeping in our caving undersuits we weren't willing to get soaked so we left the gear and headed back up.
Later, whilst unpacking at camp, I spotted a wetsuit. Hmm, what's that about? It's for Robert, I was told. Strange, I thought, surely he's not diving here? Then, mixed in with the bags of food, I saw a neoprene hood - so what's this needed for? After all, the Austrians think British cavers are crazy for going near pitches with water. They explore flood-prone caves in the winter, when water levels are low and predictable as any precipitation falls as snow. Well, they do except that, just this once, and unbeknownst to me, the plan was to try to bottom Wildbader H?hle, dropping from the camp at -400m to follow the master streamway down another 500m of aqueous pitches. So they all had their wet gear with them. WHY DID NOBODY THINK TO TELL ME? I even had neoprene at the CUCC Base Camp, neatly packed away, that I could have brought. And it looks like I'm supposed to be in the team of three going deep tomorrow.
The next morning I could hear them talking about me but I couldn't follow what they were saying. Eventually Paulina said that Robert and Glitzi would wear their wetsuits under their oversuits and that I could use her thin rubber suit which should keep my furry stuff dry underneath it. I didn't really understand what I was being offered but anything had to be better than drenching all my clothes. It turned out the suit was a Russia-made, lightweight, membrane caving drysuit. Despite being taller than Paulina I managed to get into it though once I had my harness on I couldn't raise my arms far ... but hopefully there'd be no stretchy free-climbs needed. It felt odd but toasty and comforting, hurrah, things were looking up. However, barely five minutes after leaving camp, my wrists were being squeezed unbearably tight by the seals: this just wasn't going to work. I struggled out of the top half of the suit then tied the arms around myself, so effectively I was wearing pontonnieres. I was now perfectly equipped for wading deep canals .... but that wasn't where I was going. I was scared that, with water falling down on me, I'd fill up like a tacklebag with no drainage holes ... and then what?
The three of us set off down the pitches. The water levels hadn't dropped from yesterday and we were each struggling with a beast of a bag. Together we had around 300m of 10mm rope, rigging gear, a hefty drill, spare battery and all the rest of the usual junk you need. Around 250m down we got to VHO's previous limit of rigging. Here we slowed down as Glitzi started to put in thru-bolts whilst Robert began surveying. I was at the back, tasked with the no-brainer, donkey-plus-Disto-target role.
Is this the worst water yet, I kept pestering Robert. No, no, it gets wetter further down, as inlets come in. Sheeesh. The low point was a long drop that ended with 10m where the rope disappeared, unavoidably, into the middle of the main water course. I abseiled through, water pounding down on me and emerged to join Robert at a small ledge. The shaft here was 7m in diameter. Some bits didn't even have much spray. All innocence, I shouted to him above the din: so could the rig perhaps go, err, a little further away from the water? Not possible, I was told, firmly. Oh woe.
Fortunately below here Glitzi found a dry parallel shaft series for a series of drops. Unfortunately the draft was even stronger. Pitiably, I tried to use my tacklesack to shelter from it. As we slowly crept deeper I knew I wasn't the only one struggling to keep my temperature from steadily dropping: I could see the tell-tale, jittery dance of the laser beam of the Disto and I felt for Robert as I watched him battling to control his hand shake enough to draw the survey notes. It transpired that he and Glitzi were in just 2mm of neoprene under their cordura oversuits - madness. Later still I was told that when the original French explorers got hit by heavy rain down there they couldn't keep their carbides alight. There was nowhere to shelter so they'd put plastic bags over their heads to let them breathe and then prussiked up through the waterfalls in the dark. There's always another level of misery to sink down to.
Finally, seven hours in, Glitzi then Robert whooped and, at last, I touched down in the huge chamber at the base of the shafts. I climbed stiffly up the boulder pile to them, out of the spray, and we shook hands formally and grinned inanely - we'd done it. We stomped off down the huge phreatic passage slowly driving some warmth into ourselves, took photos and heated drinks on the Jetboil (an excellent, well-designed bit of kit - light and really fast to boil). I braced myself and breezily asked, so, what now? Do we finish the survey down here? No, it's late - we'll just head out. Phew.
Five hours later I was at last away from the water. My arms were sodden and I was still chilled through but I'd thrashed myself and my bigger-cross-section-than-me tacklesack up through some tight pitch heads that vied with the most awkward that Yorkshire has to offer. We made it back to camp before 3am after fifteen hours of effort. The other two woke and cooked for us whilst Robert and Glitzi peeled off their wetsuits and changed into their dry furries with shudders of pleasure. No such instant relief for me. However, from now on in it was just a waiting game. I pulled off my wettest layer and tucked up in my pit to gradually warm up and then to start to dry off. Finally back within my comfort zone ....
Relaxing in the sunshine after the underground camping trip.