This is the story of how I descended Alum Pot Hole through the goodwill of a well-equipped speleological party.
Alum Pot is a huge hole in the limestone on the lower slopes of Ingleborough, distant about three miles from Ribblehead, and located in a tiny plantation just above the hamlet of Selside. From one side of the chasm, the depth is 210 feet sheer, whilst on the other side there is a sheer face to a ledge 90 feet from the bottom. To gaze down is to acquire a feeling of awe; the blue mists that rise, the smooth, overhanging rock-face, and the low boom of waters far below gives a weird attracting effect to the hole.
On the hillside, 150 yards above the Pot, a stream enters a passage known as Long Churn. I have explained before of our traverses down this subterranean river, of the thrills associated with the climbs down waterfalls, rock-ledges, and through narrow, jagged fissures, with the constant risk of a nasty fall or a plunge into an icy pool ten or twelve feet deep, of candles spluttering out, and of trying to light damp matches in pitch darkness. I have spoken of how Long Churn breaks into Alum Pot fifty feet below the surface, of the half-light that filters through, of how, by standing on the lip, one is able to glimpse a little of the awful chasm below, and catch a thin gleam of sky above.
How many times have I gazed over the lip and sighed for a rope? Then all would seem accessible, and maybe I should be one of the few who ever reached the mysterious depths of Alum Pot! Ignorance was very blissful until one night in the summer of 1928, when, to my delight, one of us found a rope in the stream. A thin rope, soaked and slippery, not more that 20 feet long, but we tested it, secured it round a slab of rock, and with a tingle of excitement, I lowered myself into the chasm. Fool I was, with fifteen feet of rope below me and sheer rock, as smooth as glass for a hundred and twenty feet!
I couldn’t grip the rope properly owing to it being thin and wet, and as soon as I got my whole weight on it, down I slid, frantically trying to grip, and burning my hands along it. By the greatest luck in the world my foot stuck in a niche as I reached the very end of the rope. Just a cornice of rock hardly two inches wide, and big enough for only one foot, but I managed to light a candle and thereby gain some idea of the awkward position I was in.
Twice I tried to climb the rope, and twice I slid back as it stretched and bounced me almost like elastic. It was grand though, in that unique position, with three glimmering candles fifteen feet above, weird beyond the limit of imagination, with a smooth rock-face behind me, and above, below, and ahead the startling nothingness of inky space, but miserably lit by the flickering candle. Such was it to make one wonder at the vast antiquity of it – and make one wonder how much longer I could keep one foot holding the weight of my body! I strove hard with the third attempt, as for dear life, as indeed it was, though the ghastly realisation of my escape did not come until I fingered the lip and pulled myself to safety into a pool of icy water. That evening as we strolled back to camp in the dusk, I was aware of a greater respect for Alum Pot – and for these limestone caves and potholes in general. Cave exploring is no child’s play.
Almost exactly a year later, my chance came. A fully-equipped party arrived just as my friends and I were coming away from Long Churn. They were short-handed, and asked for two volunteers to help carry the heavy rope ladders, life-lines, and belaying pins, promising the two who came forward the sight of a lifetime. A Wigan chap and I jumped to it, and soon we were making our way down Long Churn once more – in joyful anticipation.
The first rope ladder was fixed. It looked beautiful by the light of acetylene lamps, a slender, peaceful work of art gracefully zig-zagging down about 30 feet of smooth rock to a sloping ledge. But that rope ladder was not peaceful; it possessed life. The moment I stepped on it the devil in it began its pranks. It twisted; it jerked; it swung, and it never was in the place I put my foot. Thirty feet of elusive devilry, that rope ladder was. But the next! Only 16 feet long, but that 16 feet destroyed my simple faith in rope ladders for ever. It was a muddy, tricky business getting on to it, sliding feet first over a dripping ledge of clay and rotten rock and then feeling with our feet for the first rung.
That first rung was never in the place a first rung ought to be. This ladder had a nasty habit of swinging until your knees or fingers got jabbed with sharp rock. I thoroughly hated that sixteen feet ladder, and consigned it to various places that rope ladders never go to. Here was the ledge 90 feet from the surface, and we emerged into broad daylight with a wide strip of blue sky showing overhead.
To reach the next point of descent, it was necessary to cross a deep gulf, 70 feet deep by means of a tremendous slab of rock that ages ago had wedged itself firmly across the chasm so as to form a natural bridge. It was all those things a bridge shouldn’t be, however, being smooth, slimy, and tilted at an almost sheer angle. Then a third rope ladder of 60 feet, hanging sheer in mid-air, except the last six feet or so. At this point we had each a lifeline round his chest as a safety measure.
That ladder was a terror; it developed elasticity, a violent swing, and on the latter half a spin. At each rung the ladder deftly avoided the foot, and the result was a thorough mix-up of ladder, life-line suffocating us, and ourselves. Then came some scrambling down pointed rocks and shin barking on jagged knobs, and we dropped the last ladder, 20 feet. This one was a pleasure to walk down, but it was 8 feet short, and we had to climb down the best we could. Then, wriggling through a small hole in the wall, we reached the ultimate bottom, about twenty feet below the bottom of Alum Pot hole; a small rock-prison, two hundred feet below the surface. We were a hushed crowd of eight, but there was not silence. From somewhere above, a waterfall descended with a hissing , hollow sound, and the water raced down into a black pool at our feet to sucked under…..where?
A hundred thousand years and more were represented in a giant stalactite pendant from the roof, and in stumps of stalagmite on the floor of one great cavern. In nooks and crannies they formed prison bars, down walls where petrified waterfalls, as though everything was in the grip of an ice-age.
In the cavern of the waterfall and the sucking pool was the possibility of terrible things. A storm on Ingleborough; and in five minutes the cave is full to the top, trapping anyone who does not reach the narrow outlet in time. Fairyland, and awful portend hand-in-hand!
At the bottom of Alum Pot itself the walls were sheer and dripping; up above the sky gleamed like a single diamond on a velvet pad, and the atmosphere was icy cold.
The ascent of the romantic, but faithless rope ladders was easier than the descent, and eventually we retraced our way along the underground river to the strange brightness of the warm outside world. What mattered a few cuts and bruises, mud and a soaking when we had seen – what we had seen – what so few ever see ?
