A Wet Day In Helln Pot

By W. E. Palmer.

 On the evening of September 18th, 1908, we^[1] assembled at the old Manor House at Stainforth in Upper Ribblesdale, with the intention of once more exploring the picturesque depths of Helln (or Alum) Pot^[2].

 Day-break brought a grey sky but a steady barometer, and we set off at an early hour on the seven miles tramp to the Pot.

We had arranged with our host Mr. Lund to carry our tackle in a cart, and, as usual, the most likely looking walkers of the party took advantage of it and rode.

Arrived at Long Churn, the usual entrance to Helln Pot, we were not long in setting off, with candle in hand, and rucksacks, ropes, and other tackle, down the well known stream passage leading to the Main Hole.

 Botterill, however, had got a bad cold and wisely funked the wetting so dear to pot-holers; and he and A. Palmer, along with Mr. Lund, mounted guard at the top to prevent chance visitors indulging in their usual game of throwing down stones on to the skulls of those below.

 We got down all right, and at 1-30 p.m. reluctantly left the Bottom Chamber with its Hundred-foot Waterfall, and jet black pool, and started back.  It is on record that the outlet of this pool once got choked and refused to take all the entering waters, and in half a day the great chasm filled to the brim.  It is difficult to imagine Helln Pot like this, but those who have had the rare chance of seeing Hull Pot in flood-time, nearly overflowing with seething brown water, will have some idea of the magnificent sight.

 On returning to the Sixty-foot Pitch, we found rain falling heavily and at once made all the haste we could upward to the foot of the Forty-foot Pitch leading into Long Churn.  To our surprise we found it a waterfall of no mean volume, visibly increasing every minute.  Delay was dangerous, so I quickly scaled the ladder through the fall and was followed by Addyman; and after a few moments’, struggling for the bottom rung of the ladder, which was about seven feet up the pitch, Barstow joined us in the pool at the top.

 The roar of the water was deafening, and made it almost impossible for the men below to hear our signals, or we theirs, and, pulling on the life line too soon, we gave J. Buckley, the youngest member of our party, some trouble, as he was roping up.  By this time the rush of the water was terrible, and we literally had to haul him up through the waterfall, but he stood the ordeal well.  Again we lowered the rope, and soon there came a tug, and faintly, the words ” Pull, Pull ! ” and for two minutes or more we pulled our best, but despite every effort by the man below on the ladder, we could only gain an inch or two at a time.  At length J.H. Buckley’s spectacles appeared above the head of the fall, and if ever a man looked like a drowned rat he did.  He missed, however, the chance of a lifetime by forgetting to remark: –

 “Facilis descensus Averni,” &c.

but probably his mouth was too full of water.

 The force of water had by this time increased so much that it was impossible for any more of the five still below to attempt to climb the ladder, and indeed, in a few minutes, they were driven back by the rapidly rising flood to the grass-covered ledge in the Main Hole, level with the platform at the foot of Long Churn.  It was then 2.40 p.m.

Fortunately, those on the top, who had noticed a slight drop in the barometer, too late to warn us on our downward journey, caught sight of the men on the ledge and lowered a rucksack with a note in it telling them to fasten their rope and ladders to the rope, and after these had been drawn up and fixed, the five made their way to the surface.  Every care had to be taken, as the whole aspect of the Pot had changed; three enormous waterfalls bounded from above and met at the top of the Sixty foot Pitch, whilst innumerable smaller falls spouted from every chink and cranny of the walls.

Long Churn Exit, From Helln Pot By M.Johnson

Helln Pot, From Long Churn Exit, By R.Hoersh

It was then half past eight in the evening, and too dark for them to do anything for us in Long Churn, so both rescuers and rescued made their way to the nearest farmstead to wait for the dawn.

 We did not know of their escape and wondered greatly how they were faring, but of course could do nothing to help them, and indeed our own position called for all our attention.  Three of us waded up Long Churn to the next waterfall pitch, but found the force of water simply too much for any living thing to ascend, so there was nothing for it but to wait till the waters subsided.  We disposed ourselves, more or less comfortably, on a sloping shelf, well above the torrent, and prepared for a long vigil.  The chief of the commissariat, with a serious face, opened his sodden rucksack and produced the remains of our lunch – half a loaf, of course soaked with water, and a tin of fruit, another man found a very much battered apple in his pocket, and on these we made a frugal meal at 6 p.m.  We had set a water gauge as soon as our detention seemed certain and read it at regular intervals.  For three and a half hours it rose steadily, for two more hours it remained about level, and then for three hours it slowly but surely subsided.  One often hears the remark “How Time flies!” but he certainly did not do so then.  Perhaps he had got his wings wet!

 Luckily Addyman had an acetylene lamp and plenty of carbide with him, or we should have been in darkness, for our stock of candles was very limited.  We talked at intervals, and sang or dozed, but most of all we shivered! and SHIVERED!! and SHIVERED I !!

After a sumptuous (!) repast off the remains of our dinner, we decided, at 11 p.m., to try to get out, so we roped up, and started.  The main stream in Long Churn was still running very strong, and the light weight member of our party at times floated out on the rope like a cork, but we struggled through, and just on the stroke of midnight reached the upper air.  Our first thoughts, naturally, were for the others, and we made our way at once to the mouth of the Main Hole, and shouted repeatedly, but as we got no response, we set off to the farm-house, where heads were thrust out from apparently every window, and our friends rushed downstairs in various stages of déshabille, which in one case was French for a towel, and we gripped hands amidst a babel of questions and counter-questions.

After another sumptuous repast, some walked back to Stainforth, and the others slept at the farm-house till the morrow.

 In conclusion there is no doubt that had we been half- an-hour later in leaving the bottom, ten men would have been subjected at the Sixty-foot Pitch to the battering of three tremendous volumes of water in a limited space with no recesses or ledges to shelter in or on.  However “All’s well that ends well “; the sport is good and we all hope to re-visit the depths of Helln Pot.