Spelunking
Exploring cavernous regions
A good many years ago as a young boy, on a cool autumnal day in September I was introduced to what was affectionately termed as potholing as part of a school trip to Pendarren House in Wales. Although the most significant learning event that day was not expected or part of what I considered the national curriculum, it was vital and formed the basis for a significant and permanent shift in my thinking.
The trip was a week long residential comprising of a series of adventurous activities where pupils were given “the opportunity to challenge themselves in the natural environment”. Caving, as we called it, demanded that we wear our boots, waterproofs and a helmet with a light attached at the centre and a battery that we clipped to our belts to power the light on our heads. I remember feeling excited and apprehensive as we set off with a small rock hammer, notepaper and pen and little if any expectations.
During our time in the caves we given the option of climbing through a particularly narrow opening called the “letterbox”. The more claustrophobic pupils or those who did not want to squeeze through what was a dark and dank gap in the rocks were able to walk around an alternate route. The few of us who stayed behind looked into what appeared to be the stone jaws of a rock face, collectively faking the required courage whilst listening to directions from our instructor as to how best to navigate our way through.
I remember squeezing through first into an almost impossibly small space lying on my front, having to adjust the battery pack on occasions and losing my helmet off my head a few times. I eventually got to a position where I felt I was half the way through but now I was completely stuck. I tried to move my battery but it was jammed, my left leg was wedged against something and I was not able to use it to push myself forward as I had been. My helmet slipped off my head and I heard it roll away. I attempted to use my right leg to push against something and realised that there was nothing I could reach. I could now feel the jagged stones beneath my chest clawing my skin and digging into my rib cage. At this point I felt a sense of fear rising so I called to the instructor for assistance and I was surprised by the response I received.
On the way into the cave I had walked with the instructor for a while and we had talked a bit about caving around the world but primarily about school and the difference between life in the city and life in the countryside. I had naively stated that I thought it was harder to live in an inner city than out in the “sticks”, as in London you always had to think on your feet and be “switched on” to your environment.
So when I heard the instructor shout back “you’re not stuck, you’re just not switched on” this made me smile. I closed my eyes briefly and relaxed my whole body taking slow deep breaths until I felt my battery shift and my left foot twist inside my boot. I realised that I could move my torso without the use of my legs so I edged sideways until my right foot hit something hard and I was able to push myself forward. I pushed off hard with my right foot and my head slide unwittingly into my helmet and out of the crevice to be greeted by familiar faces staring back at me who raised a cheer.
Having negotiated the “letterbox” I felt a sense of accomplishment and towards the end of our caving expedition, I moved slower, more considered and observant, trying to absorb as much learning as possible.
It was at this point I noticed a large boulder with a long and perfectly linear trough gauged deep into its otherwise smooth surface. I was curious and reviewed the scene more carefully, realising that the area along the trough was wet. On closer inspection I realised there was water trickling very slowly down the centre of the trough. There was a spray at the beginning of the trough on the top of the boulder and a small pool of water at the base, on the floor by my feet. Instinctively I searched for the source of the water and very quickly reached the conclusion that the source of the water must be above. I looked up, but it was dark over head. At that moment a droplet of water appeared out of the darkness, skirted past my cheek and landed on the boulder, splashing across my hands that were rested either side of the trough. I stepped back and observed the boulder for a while and saw that water fell onto the boulder at regular intervals every few seconds from the ceiling of the cave.
I learnt two important lessons that day. Lessons that have informed my thinking ever since. I have on countless occasions reflected on the journey we took that day downwards and inwards and been afforded amazing insight when I have felt trapped or powerless. I have often stepped back and marvelled in recognising the seemingly innocuous and insignificant actions currently at play, that if repeated consistently and relentlessly, will, over time have a dramatic and seemingly disproportionate effect on me.
I had initially laughed on the way to the caves many years ago when I heard the instructor coin the term the US and Canadians referred to as caving; however, on occasions even to this day when I appear to be daydreaming, deep in thought and someone asks: “where were you”, I often answer (at least in my head anyway) “Spelunking”.
