The 1957 Expedition to Monte Margu Aries
by W. A. Linford
In the early months of 1957 the Club had the pleasure of taking Sir John Hunt down Gaping Gill. So impressed was he by our enthusiasm for potholing that when shortly afterwards he received an mvitation from the French Speleologists for several Enghsh potholers to join them in exploring some caves in North Italy, he very kindly passed it on to the Y.R.C. As a result I broke off my holiday in Switzerland and, with two friends, Malcolm Kay and Brian Angell, joined the French for the latter half of their expedition.
The Speleological Club of Paris had organised for August, 1957, an exploration of the massif of Monte Marguaries in the Alpi Marittime. Their plan of campaign was —-
(i) The exploration of the Grotte Caracas and its possible connection with the Piagga Bella, a pothole 340 metres
deep.
(ii) To study and explore the Pian Balfaur at a point named Solei, to find the origin of the water in the Piagga Bella.
(iii) To search the Lapiaz between the Cime della Saline and the Sargant de Piscio.
(iv) To search the slope of Mongioje. (8,368 ft.)
This, we were soon to find, was an ambitious programme, of which only the first and last sections were accomplished. The Grotte Caracas proved to be so difficult that only a small portion of it was actually explored.
Our adventures really started when we alighted from the train at Ormea, where we expected to find an Italian, Alberti Giovanni who, Raymond Gache had promised us, would guide us to the French base camp at Upega. After waiting an hour, and no Alberti, we decided to make our own way to Upega, only to find that there was no public transport and the road, though clearly marked on our map, was in fact nothing but a cart track and no taxi driver would attempt it.
Ormea is on the road to the coast so we got a lift as far as the Colle di Nava where we were left, with 11 Km. to Upega and large heavy packs. Having little food and not speaking Italian we decided to camp and push on next day. However, just outside a shop I ran into a very sunburnt Englishman who introduced himself as the interpreter for the British Consul in Turin and asked if he could help. After a brief absence he came back with the information that Alberti Giovanni had taken an injured Spaniard to hospital and if we liked to wait in a tavern down the street the Italian Military Policeman on duty would stop him on his return. We had no sooner settled down to drinking beer than a tremendous clatter and babble of voices, from which we several times distinguished the word ” Speleologive,” heralded the arrival of Alberti. We emerged to find our rucksacks being secured to the top of a battered and ancient Fiat which didn’t seem to have either springs or, from the sound of it, exhaust pipe.
Alberti, we later discovered, had the important task of organising the food supplies for the French potholers. He was a very jovial character and looked after us extremely well. After heaving and swaying down the cart track for 1 \ hours we arrived at his “hotel” where we were given a meal of spaghetti washed down with chianti and shown a camp site behind the house.
At 7.00 a.m. next day Alberti woke us with the news that we should be leaving in an hour for the French speleo camp. On arriving at the hotel we saw a sight to gladden the heart of any mountaineer, our sacks packed on the back of a mule. On the long walk to the camp we learnt one or two things about mules: apply the law of the boot, never walk just behind them and never let them have their head.
After six hours’ walking we arrived at the camp on a small plateau between two buttresses, level with the entrance to Piagga Bella and obviously the abode of numerous cows. We were most heartily welcomed by Raymond Gache, Max Coudere, several members of the Club Speleologique de Dijon and three members of the Cuneo Club who had arrived just before us. Very soon our tent took its place among the thistles and cow dung, looking very small among the French bell tents. Whilst Paquerette prepared eggs and bacon for us the conversation turned naturally to potholing and to the details and difficulties of Caracas. Fortunately the Frenchmen spoke very good English, but in order to make himself fully understood Raymond gave us a demonstration on the tent floor of the very narrow ” snail ” pitches. For a man with a weak heart Raymond did very well and in the few days we were together I formed a deep respect for him. The entire camp revolved around Raymond and all the ” speos ” there held him in the highest esteem and admiration, one of the pioneers of French speleology.
A Venezuelan named Eugenio de Bellard-Petrie discovered the cave in 1954 and in that year descended to a depth of 115 metres by a system of 9 pitches. It was not until this year, 1957, that it was again entered and it was from the point at 115 metres that the year’s exploration began. We were disappointed to learn that the pot was proving more difficult than expected and that because of its unsafe nature the French had only brought 350 metres of ladder, which in fact proved enough to reach a depth of only 346 metres.
Caracas is a true pot-hole, consisting principally of one narrow pitch after another. Parties of four had been going in at 8-hour intervals, each taking a few ladders, and linking up below for exchange of information. One such party was to leave that evening with 25 metres of ladder and link up with Abel Chochon, Toni Senni, Yves Creach and myself, who would enter at 08.00 hrs. the follow/ng day with the remaining 50 metres. We could ourselves have gone in that evening had not Trotte Coudere (Max’s wife) made a brew of wine, cinnamon, lemon and sugar which, with our natural fatigue, put an end to any such thought.
Respective clubs was the topic of the evening and we discovered that despite its reputation for pioneer work the “Expeditions Speleologiques Francaises” is in fact a young club. It had ten founder members who held their first meeting in a back alley with dustbins for seats. Their first potholes were only 20 ft. deep and their equipment a collection of home-made ladders, but after a campaign in the local press a meeting was held at the Cafe de Lyon in September, 1947, at which the Club Martel was formed, to be amalgamated with the French Alpine Club after 3 years of precarious existence with insufficient funds and equipment, and no meeting place other than side-streets, cafes and cellars.
Transport provided them with many adventures, their first vehicle being a 1905 Model T Ford salvaged from the scrap heap and rebuilt. This served them for 4 years though only two people were able to tame and drive it and when the oil consumption exceeded the petrol consumption they decided to venture upon sometliing more modern. In due course they acquired a 1928 Model A Ford which, apart from losing wheels, breaking con-rods and blowing valve tops off, gave them excellent service and they still had it when we met them.
Soon after 8 a.m. we were making tracks for the col, while Kay and Angell left for Piagga Bella. The entrance to Caracas opens in the centre of a large buttress on the opposite side df the hill from Piagga Bella, at 2,300 metres above sea level. The path from the col leads to a great porch which gives way to the first gallery and narrows immediately to the top of Pitch 1. Zero is taken from the top of the porch, 14 metres above Pitch 1. The Italian shepherds have their own name for this porch, ” The Church of Baukas.”
We packed the equipment, which had already been brought up by the ‘ resting ‘ members of the party, into six short circular bags, drank our fill of water and started the descent. While packing the ladders I had my first glimpse of them and was horrified at their apparent weakness and very small width, 145 mm., just enough for one boot, with 13 inches between rungs. They are very light per unit length, 10 metres weigh 1.5 Kg., are made from 3 mm. watchmaker’s wire with 12 mm. diameter ‘ Durahnox ‘ tubing for rungs. They are quite different from the English 9 in. wide, 10 in. between rungs, and they provided the French ‘ Speos’ with one or two good laughs while I learnt the necessary technique.
Pitch 1 was not the best place to try a new ladder; 10 m. deep, it started with a very narrow chimney which ended abruptly, leaving one swinging in space. The chimney presented no problems but transferring on to the ladder near the start of the free section was terrifying as I could not find a rung to stand on and so take the body-weight off my arms. Convinced that I did not have my feet in the ladder I tried to find it by swinging my feet but the ladder being very light just oscillated and added to the confusion. After a while, having got one foot between the wire strands, I slowly lowered myself and after what felt like several feet, found a rung. Because the wire strand is rather dangerous to the hands, it is necessary to wear gloves which make it difficult to hold the ladder when it is against a wall. Looking for the next step took me out of the chimney so that I could see where I was moving and I stepped down to the next rung, only to find I could not reach it. The additional 3 in. between rungs makes an appreciable difference and the technique is to keep the ladder close to the body with the hands low, about chest height, behind the ladder, dropping one hand as the free foot is lowered. Once you get used to dropping 26 in. instead of 20 in. and moving the hands quickly, descent by these ladders is rapid and easy, but ascent can be rather strenuous. Their main advantage is their bulk/weight ratio.
A greasy gully led to the top of Pitch 2, a straightforward pitch which went rapidly to within 6 ft. of the bottom when again I had difficulty in finding the ladder with the lower foot. “It is O.K.,” called Abel from above, ” we changed the 15 m. ladder for a 10 m. one to conserve ladders, just drop! ” The next 7 pitches, which were not difficult though narrow and constricted, took us down to 100 metres where a sharp corner only just wide enough for my helmet led into the ” dining hall ” at 115 metres. This is a lofty chamber containing a natural stone table with a limestone tablecloth surrounded by several blocks forming seats. Numerous empty tins placed in strategic positions reminded one that Caracas is a dry pot with no flowing water, when using acetylene lamps this can be quite a problem. The dryness did not add to comfort, for had there been water in quantity it would no doubt have washed the walls clear of ” monmilch ” This is a limestone paste containing sand and grit which covers one from head to foot, making life most uncomfortable and ropes difficult to control. Plaited nylon cord is used because it has better wearing qualities than spun nylon rope. Rope is generally used only for raising and lowering equipment, only on Pitch 16 is it used as a safety rope. On much of this first section the route between ladders ran several feet above the true bottom and the baggage had to be passed in chain fashion; this often meant that one man had to bridge the clint with the bags stacked upon him while the others clambered over him, a strenuous process which added much to our fatigue, especially on the ascent.
We did not stop to eat in the ‘dining hall’ but crossed to the top of Pitch 10, a dangerous pitch of 23 metres, the start and walls of which are covered with loose pebbles which detach at the slightest touch and rattle down the pot making a tremendous noise in the confined space. Yves decided to move the ladder farther out to avoid some of the stones and the following half-hour was spent boring a hole in the wall to cast in a 10 mm. steel peg using Plaster of Paris as a cement. At Pitch 11 we met a party on the way out, Noele and the three Italians, who said they had found another shaft which had taken them down to 246 metres where they had left the rest of the ladders. The Italians wore a broad heavy waist belt with two shoulder straps forming a harness which carried several ‘ D ‘ buckles, hooks and eyes, none of which had any apparent use.
Pitch 11 passed uneventfully, leaving us to climb up to Pitch 12 where after 4 metres it was necessary to leave the ladder, descend in reverse a slippery ‘ Monmilch ‘-lined chimney, return under the ladder and finish through a foul vent-hole. Here baggage was a problem. Pitches 13 and 14 were similar, taking us down to 200 metres. Yves and I were now measuring as we progressed, charting with tape, compass and inclinometer, Yves getting excited when a change in direction after Pitch 11 indicated that we were moving towards the Piagga Bella. Pitch 15 was very awkward, 8 metres of sweat and struggle, leading to the top of the first big pitch, No. 16, 44 metres. After 10 hours of movement we stopped here to eat while Toni and Abel connected the ladders of Pitch 16 to those of Pitch 15. We lowered the baggage and went down to 265 metres where we fixed a peg for Pitch 17, a short narrow pitch, separated from Pitch 18 by a sharp bend. We had to connect the Pitch 17 ladder to that for Pitch 18, and very tiring and exasperating work it proved for the ladder would not he where we wanted it.
Here we left the monmilch for the familiar sinister black rock to be found in most pots, this, said Toni, was good for the connection with Piagga Bella. Having lowered the remaining 60 metres of ladder we descended to a small platform at the base of Pitch 18, but we were now moving away from Piagga Bella. Now we were on virgin ground and the question was how deep our next pitch would be. Toni drilled holes for the pegs while we connected two ladders together and manoeuvred them into position. The ladder started horizontal for 3 metres then down obliquely, ending in a 20 metre pitch where there was a tiny platform only big enough for one person, and not enough room to place a peg so we had to connect up our last 30 metres of ladder. Abel went down to a spacious ledge at 330 metres and from 300 metres I could see him heaving into the shaft great lumps of rock which hit the bottom with a terrifying crack and rolled on down the scree. At least 60 metres more! What fun this would be if only we had more equipment, Pitch 19 must be well over 100 meters deep. Abel moved on down to a third ledge at 346 metres while, prompted by curiosity, we chmbed down to the upper ledges. The shaft looked black and gleamed with moisture, very like the main shaft of Bar Pot, only the depth is measured in metres, not feet.
This was the end, a deep shaft and no equipment and we were now passing away from and under Piagga Bella, so after 12 hours underground we returned to 288 metres and prepared for the return to the surface. It was obvious that future expeditions would have to camp—but where? Yves said they would build a platform from timbers supported between the walls !
Taking only 3 bags with us we started for the surface, arriving at 5.30 a.m. just 22-| hours after going in. The return was very tiring, particularly the last 8 shafts, which seemed never-ending. Toni persisted in going to sleep at the bottom of each pitch, and Abel swore he fell asleep on a ladder—how it was nobody fell off I do not know. The sun was rising, tinting the summit of Monte Marguaries red, but we were too tired to appreciate such beauty as we tumbled down to camp and into our sleeping bags.
We all needed a day’s rest to mend grazed knees and elbows and we spent the following two days removing the equipment from Caracas, leaving only the pegs and the mystery of how the pot finished. The third day was spent washing the ladders, and badly they needed it.
A few notes for those proposing to visit the lower depths. Take rubber boots, not nails, two boiler suits, an umbrella and a catapult to ward off curious cows. A French type carbide lighting set is an advantage, larger and more substantial than ours, electricity is not so good. Finally if it is beauty you are after do not go to Caracas, it is/leep, dark and dirty, and does not contain a single formation.