Present: Toby Graham, Tom Green-Plumb
Duration: 3 hours
After numerous forecasts and DUSA members discouraged the notion of a Sunday Yockenthwaite Pot due to the possibility of drowning (a bit dramatic if you ask me), Toby and I decided to go anyway. I set off from Durham at a leisurely 10:40am to pick up Toby from his Crackpot fresher’s trip. The drive over was as tedious as ever and not helped by the fact my lack of screen wash meant all oncoming traffic was masked by a muddy mess. After releasing Toby from his DUSA whipping boy duties, we made it to the layby in good time. After faffing about doing a series of acrobatics to get changed in the car, because I was scared of the rain, we headed to the cave. The approach is simple however care must be taken over the barbed wire fences if you value your manhood.
Arriving at the entrance the DT in a large rock is not obvious due to the many large rocks surrounding the pothole. Alas upon identifying the correct rock Toby went about rigging. The DT is sneaky and requires a slippery unprotected partial descent to identify. Although Toby employed the use of a nearby tree as a backup, however this emotional support branch would be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a fall (super good enough). The rest of the pitch is smooth sailing, and we arrived already drenched from the rain in the muddy shaft. After some light excavation at the bottom of the shaft we slithered down the muddy slope. This is a horrendously gross and smelly (emphasis on the smelly) experience which is not helped by the numerous judgemental sheep skulls observing your slimy descent.
Pitches 2 and 3 are straightforward, albeit the top of pitch 3 is a tad snug. Being the daintier of us, I was selected/sacrificed to rig and descent pitch 4. The actual pitch is worse than it looks and putting my descender on my new cowstails made from ancient, retired rope was a far more daunting prospect than doing the actual squeeze itself. The squeeze was going wonderfully for me until I proceeded to get my hand jammer and the bag stuck in between a sea of rocks under a foot of running water, what a prat!!! After freeing myself I waited on the ledge and watched a Toby made a very gracious descent of the rift. Toby then rigged the second half of the pitch using an uber large sling and a rope protector (which is so not worth the effort).
The awkward climb up in the chamber into the rift is fine, in saying this I did have a heel at head height. But if my hamstrings can do it so can yours! We then proceeded to make steady progress in the rift before debating over navigation for far too long. To sum it up the misleading arrow carved into the rock pointing down is a death trap and the horrible looking rift at chest height is in fact the way on. Yet again Toby nominated me to tackle the rift head on, he’s too kind. This rift section may prove tricky for cavers of more generous proportions, both horizontally and vertically. Some easier caving leads to the boulder squeeze which is a rather sporting headfirst dive to a good handhold. We were at this point nearing turnaround time due to perpetual faffing so with Toby halfway through the squeeze exclaiming “this will take a while”, we decided to call it a day and head out.
The way out was mostly uneventful. Pitch 4 is best tackled by disregarding the jammers and going for an un-aesthetic grovelling approach instead. Pitch 3 has turned from a light trickle to a full-on water boarding experience. Needless to say, after swallowing far too much cave water I was very happy to be heading out into the slightly less aggressive rain. After saying my goodbyes to the manky sheep remains (with no response) pitch 1 was derigged alpine style by cutting many steps in the mud. The way back to the car was made interesting by Toby’s attempt to wade across the river ending in him drifting off into the abyss. FYI he survived. Overall, a very ominous and wet experience, might cave again.
Tom Green-Plumb
Disclaimer: goldfish have the memory of a me, and despite writing some bulletpoints in my notes app this trip report is written two weeks post cave. Take it with a small pinch of salt and a generous dollop of scepticism, you have been warned. Many thanks must also go to Tom for putting up with me and being the sacrificial lamb for this trip, we agreed to both write a report for this trip so go read his for an alternative point of view.
Having spent all term running freshers’ trips I was keen for an afternoon of proper caving, and being a serious caver Tom was happy to oblige. All the forecasts were looking miserable so after giving the black book a thorough scouring for dry weather trips we decided on Jean pot. Of course Jean pot is on Gaping Gill and we have about as much of a proclivity for hill walking as hill walkers do for talking about anything other than hill walking (i.e. not much) – Yockenthwaite pot it was.
After losing my Crackpot virginity with Jamie that very morning (his trip report is on the website and also a good read) I was in high spirits when Tom pulled up in the bus. I climbed in, damp wetsuit and all, and abandoned the bedlam of freshers in states of semi-undress. We’d been discouraged from the trip several times by several different members because it would be ‘too wet’ and ‘dangerous’ and ‘drowning is bad’. Alright mum. There was little information online about the cave and nothing we could find to indicate water would be a problem, so we had decided to ignore everyone else because we definitely knew best. As usual we spent the very rainy drive to Yockenthwaite in intellectual conversation, topics included but were not limited to: how right we were and how wrong everyone else was; the weather (it really was really very rainy); what was in my sandwich (ok, maybe that was the limit of our intellectual conversation).
Parking was nice and easy. Tom was still dry so he provided some entertainment by squirming around for 5 minutes on his back seats getting changed, in return I spent the whole time telling him how miserable it was out in the rain and how miserable Chrimmermeet would be. We were ready pretty quickly and soon set off through the farm up to the pot. The walk-in is straight forward (it’s not actually straight forward, you go along the river for a bit then up the hill, I mean to say it’s simple don’t be pedantic) but do mind the barbed wire fences, no-one likes losing their tackle.
The entrance is rigged from a thread through a large rock. I went in guns blazing and chucked a nice loop of rope over the top of the rock because the drilled thread was not immediately obvious. Don’t do this. There’s not much to stop the rope just sliding off, the slick mud bank you descend down doesn’t exactly inspire confidence either. Having heard the rope ping once or twice I gave the rock a more thorough inspection and found the thread. I attached my cowstail to a rotting bit of wood for some emotional support and re-rigged it properly. The rest of the pitch is pleasant and we swiftly arrived at the floor of the muddy shaft. It is with the utmost sincerity when I say, and I cannot emphasise this enough, that the next bit is really gross. You slip down into a hole at the far end and get head-to-toe covered in the most foul-smelling mud. The slipping bit is actually quite fun, the head-to-toe covered is not. We attributed the stench of death to all the dead sheep down there (figures).
I went and washed my hands whilst Tom started rigging the next two pitches. The crashing water (there was a lot of water in the cave…) meant it was quite hard to hear anything, and my hearing is bad as-is, so after a fair amount of shouting I followed him down. In my magnanimity I suggested Tom rig and descend the awkward fourth pitch, to which he graciously accepted. With descender safely attached to his new super-good-enough cowstails made of prehistoric rope I watched on as he wriggled on his side downwards into the gap. It was smooth sailing until, by a stroke of luck, his hand jammer got wedged between a rock and a hard place (another rock). Freeing this was made more difficult by being half submerged in the stream (the cave, have I mentioned, was really wet). After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing he freed himself and swiftly descended to the ledge. I climbed in and made my way down, trying very hard not to get anything stuck because it looked quite miserable. Feeling like I’d just been on a 30 minute rinse in my washing machine I joined Tom on the ledge and rigged the second half of the pitch, nice and dry and away from the stream. Big sling good, rope protector bad.
The way on is a little climb up the other side of the chamber into a rift. It was going well until I slowed things down by doubting our directions (sorry Tom). Do not follow the arrows in the wall pointing down to the floor below you, this is not the right way, also do not carve arrows into the rock that point the wrong way. The slightly intimidating rift at chest height is the way on. Yet again I volunteered Tom to go first (sorry Tom, thank you Tom), and he made quick work of the rift. After some (lots) words of encouragement I followed Tom trying not to think about my long femurs and the tight corner in front of me. This section of cave is not to be underestimated for cavers of generous proportions in either width or length, I would describe it as intimidating. After this it eases off until a headfirst dive through a squeeze over a jammed boulder. Tom was through like a slippery fish, I was through up to my buttocks before realising I might not follow as gracefully as Tom. We’d reached turnaround time so instead of jiggling my way through I put that thang in reverse and plopped back out.
The intimidating rift was quite tiring back out; pitch four is definitely easier abandoning jammers and taking the ungainly approach; I was ready to tell the third pitch anything just to stop the waterboarding, it really is quite an efficient torture method (there was a lot more water on the way out than the way in). Other than that and another spa day in poop city the way out proved to be quite uneventful.
I was convinced I could wade across the ford of the river and walk back to the car along the road: I could not. I ended up going for a little swim down the river which was actually quite deep and fast, closely followed by increasingly concerned shouts from Tom. Little did he know it was totally on purpose, I enjoy a nice wild swim and was simply trying to wash away the nauseating mud. All in all not bad trip, Yockenthwaite is passable in the wet but quite sporting (think intense Washfold), didn’t drown will probably cave again.
Toby Graham
