1. sports
2. climbing

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely
coincidental.
© 2015 James G Riley
Conundrum [Definition]
(pronounced: kəәˈnəәndrəәm) noun: conundrum; plural noun: conundrums
•
a confusing and difficult problem or question.
synonyms: problem, difficult question, difficulty, quandary, dilemma;
informal poser
•
a question asked for amusement, typically one with a pun in its
answer; a riddle.
Chapter One
Priddy, Somerset
July 1968
The graduation party was a memorable event, so Graham Norris was told the next
day. Twelve shots of whiskey into the evening and he was out for the count, but not
before he had agreed with three of his buddies to be part of a spelunking
expedition the following Tuesday. They planned to explore a small part of a vast
cave system below the village of Priddy, in the county of Somerset, England.
<<<<>>>>
Lt. Colonel Patrick Norris of the 1st Battalion The Somerset and Cornwall Light
Infantry was stationed at Osnabrück, Germany until June 1961, when the regiment
moved to Gibraltar. Taking advantage of the so-called ‘continuity of education
allowance’, the Colonel was able to send his son Graham to the prestigious
Marlborough School; the fees paid in full, at expense of the British taxpayer.
Graham Norris was described as a keen study, excelling in languages. Fluent in
French, Spanish and Greek, both ancient and modern, he was known to converse
with his fellow students in Latin, much to their frustration and his Latin teacher’s
amusement. Just over six foot tall, lean and athletic; his one distinguishing feature
was his bulbous nose. However nobody chose to disrespect Graham, as he was a
mean scrum-half for the rugby team and captain of boxing. In general he was
considered a ‘well rounded scholar’, a credit to both the school and his family.
He matriculated in the fall 1965, entering Baliol College at the University of
Oxford as an under-graduate. There, he continued to demonstrate his academic
prowess. Three years later, on July 5th 1968, he graduated Class I, double Honors
in Classics and Modern Languages. Graham Norris planned to follow in his
father’s footsteps by entering the Royal Military Academy. The army’s initial
training center for prospective officers, Sandhurst was located 34 miles southwest
of London. However, four days later the carefully laid plans were to be dashed.
Indeed the consequences were to determine the entire course of his future life.
<<<<>>>>
And so it was, four cavers, called spelunkers in the United States, made their way
from the barn at Manor Farm, which they had used as a changing room. Stopping
by Homefield Cottage to pay the farmer the customary access fee of one shilling
each, they made their way across the lush green meadow, crossed a style and picked
up on Priddy Spring barely six inches deep, and headed downstream. Dressed
alike; old clothes covered by a one-piece navy boiler suit; a canvass belt at the waist,
securing the battery pack. Each pack had a cable snaking up the wearer’s back to
the electric lamp attached to the plastic hard-hat. Stout hiking boots, worn by three
of the young men, clomped the narrow footpath. The fourth wore wellington
boots, that gave a soft squelch with each step. Each toted a hiker’s backpack,
Graham’s slightly smaller than the others, a concession to his novice status.
Rex had the lead, followed by Chris and Scott. Graham ambled at the rear, stealing
occasional glances at the anvil shaped cloud hiding the morning sun.
‘Cumulonimbus incus’ he mused to himself, never missing a chance to call upon his
Latin scholarship. He ne’er gave a thought to their foreboding of strong winds,
lightning and heavy rain. ‘What did this matter to him? After all, soon he would
bee deep underground, safe from such turmoil. Right?’ “Right!” he murmured,
and munched on the remains of a bacon and sausage sandwich that he held in his
left hand, a thermos of black coffee in his right; take-outs from a small café at the
bottom of Cheddar Gorge. The rest of the team was forging ahead. Graham
quicken his pace, concentrating on placing is steps rather than looking up or
around. Had he glanced behind, to the west, he would have seen a hint of the
storm cloud rapidly building to an altitude of over 50,000 feet.
They approached a turret like blockhouse that straddled the stream as it
disappeared through a triangular iron grating into the caverns below. The waters
would emerge two miles away, as the crow flies, in Wookey Hole Caves. So far the
underground passages have been explored through nine systems, some requiring
diving gear to access; a total 30,000 feet in length. This Tuesday however, our
intrepid explorers where to confine themselves to the upper series, for to advance
further, cavers needed to negotiate short submerged passages called sumps; too
much for a first venture. They expected to return to the surface within four hours,
for a late ploughman’s lunch at the local inn.
<<<<>>>>
Everyone checked his headlamp.
Lifting the grating, Chris was the first to climb down the short tube to the babbling
water below. His red helmet disappeared as he ducked into the crawlway, trying to
avoid getting wet; the stream flowing inches from his chest.
Blue helmeted Rex was next. Graham stood motionless, his mouth open,
wondering what he was about to let himself in for. The bacon disagreed with the
sausage, which made his stomach rumble. The blue helmet bobbed back.
‘What are you waiting for rookie?’ inquired Rex, sporting an ear-to-ear grin. ‘Come
on in Gray; the water’s fine!’
Scott, who was to bring up the rear, give our reluctant explorer a friendly nudge
forward, which brought Graham out of his momentary stupor. “You heard the
man, Kemosahbee. Ladies first!”
Graham stepped forward to the open grating. He looked down. Had he looked up
he would see the sky turning grey, which within the next hour would turn to an
ominous black. Finding his resolve, Graham descended to the floor of the stream
and inched forward. He didn’t duck low enough and banged his helmet on the
tunnel roof. Instinctively he ducked lower, only to find himself immersed in water.
‘Damn, it’s cold,’ he though, as he pushed forward praying this ordeal would not
last. To his relief, he soon found himself in a small chamber, the roof high enough
to permit him to stand with only a slight stoop.
Chris and Rex thought it hilarious that Graham had elected to take an early bath.
Scott popped into the chamber, completing the quartet, and shared the
amusement.
Chris shone his lamp around the enclosed space. For a moment he let it settle on
the stream as it tumbled over the lip of a boulder and into the darkness. Then he
focused the beam on the sheepish Graham. Sweeping his right arm to the side and
bowing so slightly, impersonating Macbeth, he declared, “Lay on, Macduff, And
damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough!”
Graham tuned his head to the stream-way. ‘Was it his imagination; was there more
water flowing than a minute ago?’ Swallowing hard as a lump came to his throat,
he settled for imagination. “Who me? But…but…” he stuttered. “I’ve never been
down a cave before.”
The others again burst into fits of laughter. Graham, bemused, could not see the
joke.
“Only kidding, mate; I’ll go first. You follow me. Rex will be behind you. Scott,
bring up the rear,” announced Chris who had become the self-elected leader.
Graham was not about to argue, being the new kid on block. His was pals with
Scott; they had shared lodgings in Oxford, often studying together. Chris and Rex
were Scott’s friends, hence their invite to the bacchanalia celebration the previous
weekend.
Chris skipped onto a small bolder in the middle of the stream. He then stepped
forward, bending his knees at the same time. In an instant he had his legs forward,
was sitting on his butt, proceeded down the cascade, and disappeared.
“You’re next Gray,” said Scott. “Do exactly as Chris did. The drop is less than six
feet. Pretend you are on a water slide.”
Graham moved to the edge of the drop. He shone this light down. Sure enough,
Chris’s cheery face beamed back. ‘This is no harder than some of the training he
had undergone whilst in the Combined Cadet Force, or CCF, at Marlborough
School.…and off to Sandhurst in a few weeks. This will be a stroll in the park,’ he
told himself. He took a deep breath, and then let the water take him down the
chute. Chris grabbed Graham’s arm or he would have shot on by, pulling him onto
the dry ledge.
“Not so hard, was it?” asked Chris rhetorically, not expecting a reply. Rex and Scott
followed. So they set off, moving down stream along what is marked on the cave
survey as the Wet Way.
Much of the time the four were able to keep out of the water, straddling ledges that
remained after erosion had taken the steam a foot or two lower eons ago. They
passed landmarks euphemistically named with graphic descriptions such as The
Well and The Lavatory Pan. The latter was a narrow choke, that the stream rushed
into. There was not alternative route. No ledge or dry bypass. When it came to
Graham's turn, Scott obligingly' lay his body across the waterway briefly stalling
the flow. Graham positioned himself by sitting in the stream bed, feet first. He lay
back. Scott stood up and the water poured through, flushing Graham to the other
side. Everyone laughed. Despite being soaking wet, Graham realized that he was
actually enjoying himself.
Continuing their descent, the group came upon an enormous cavern. Graham’s
jaw dropped; he was speechless. He just stood there eyeing a roof towering thirty
foot above them. Curtains of iron-stained calcite hung down, their colors
intensified by the beams of their lamps. Large stalactites dangled from the roof,
with the corresponding stalagmites on the floor; just as Graham had seen in coffeetable books. He forgot the cold which was permeating this wet clothes, and gazed
in wonder. It was time to use the waterproof camera Graham’s parents had give
him as a graduation present.
“OK; time for a break,”declared Chris. “Not too long through, or we’ll get a chill.”
The group dropped their packs and each rummaged for a snack. Rex munched on
Kendal Mint Cake, Chris, ate from a bag of Trail Mix. Scott was tossing raisins into
the air, catching them in his mouth. Graham chomped on a Mars Bar, enjoying the
chocolate and caramel taste. He was feeling so a home he decided it was time to
share a joke:
Colosseum Rediens inde abiit in foro Iulii Caesaris potum.
"Quid faciam illud?" interrogavit minister.
"A Martinus,'inquit Caesar.
"Ne istuc Martini?" Interrogabat minister.
Offenso Caesar inquit, "rogo, si libuerit Curabiturplus quam unum."
Scott burst out laughing. Chris and Rex looked perplexed. “What's so funny? What
are you babbling on about Gray?” uttered Rex.
“It's a Latin joke,” volunteered Scott. “Didn't either of you study the classics in
school?” To shaking heads he translated:
‘On his way home from The Coliseum, Julius Caesar went into bar for a
drink.
"What'll it be?" asked the bartender.
"A martinus," replied Caesar.
"Don't you mean martini?” questioned the bartender.
Annoyed, Caesar retorted, "If I wanted more than one I'd ask for more than
one."'
“That's a pretty good translation,” declared Graham. “Well done, Scott. The two
others were poe-faced; not even a twitch of muscle.
“I don't get it,” announced Rex. “Dumb if you ask me.” was Chris's comment.
Scott attempted to enlighten them. “One Martinus; two Martini.” With no
response, he tried to elaborate. “Cactus is one; cacti is plural.” Still the light bulbs
did not come on. “I give up.” Said Scott, shrugging his shoulders. “You explain it to
them Graham? “
“Don't ask me to bail you out,” replied his friend. 'Not my fault if they are such
dumb asses.”
“Stick to the day job, Graham,” advised Chris, ignoring the jibe. “Anyway; time to
get moving. And you my Latin joker, can take the lead. I'11 be right behind you.”
<<<<>>>>
With Graham leading, followed by Chris, then Rex, with Scott as tail-end Charlie,
the route followed a steady, incline down. As before, by placing their feet on each
side of the rock-wall they were able to stay above the foaming water that raced in a
channel inches below. Then the passageway broadened out. Now the stream
covered the whole of the floor. There was no alternative but to splash their way
through. Graham was glad of his wellington boots. Water seeped through the laceup of the three others.
Had Graham been a hydrologist, which he was not; or studied geography, which he
had not; or paid more attention during physics and maths lessons, which he did
not; he would have known that streamflow was governed by the equation:
Q=VxDxW
where Q is the the volume of water discharged over time (e.g. ft3/second);
V is the speed (velocity) of the water;
D is the average depth of the stream;
and W is the width of the stream.
If the discharge and velocity remained the same, and the width of the stream
increased then the depth would decrease. However, the depth had not decreased
significantly, which meant but one thing; the volume of the water had increased. As
a classics scholar and novice caver he gave no consideration to his earlier
observation of storm clouds gathering, just before the start of their descent. The
flow of a stream is directly related to the amount of water moving off the
watershed into the stream channel. It is affected by weather, increasing during
rainstorms.
So he pressed on, regardless. Graham soon learned that the water smoothed stones
were a slick as ice, and more than once he nearly lost his footing. With occasional
glances at the way forward, most of the time he directed his lamplight to his feet.
So intent, he gave no thought to the thrashing sound, like the wheel of a
Mississippi river boat, growing louder and louder with every step.
“Whoa cowboy!” exclaimed Scott, grabbing hold of Graham’s rucksack and
pulling him back.
Surprised, about to protest, Graham looked up. He was staring into space, or
rather into a large cavern, his headlamp picking out the far wall sixty feet away. As
the stream exited the tunnel in which they were standing, it had become a
magnificent waterfall, the sound as it smacked into the pool forty feet below
resonated around the chamber.
“We’re going down there?” Graham asked, as Chris pushed passed him with
coiled up aluminum ladder. He watched the ladder being attached to a steel tether,
which in turn was attached by a carabiners to ring bolts conveniently set into the
floor a few feet behind him. Rex appeared with a coil of rope and demonstrated
how to secure it round one’s waist by tying what is called a bowline-on-a-coil. The
bowline-on-a-coil was to be utilized to secure a caver to the end of the rope.
Traditionally the standard method for attaching oneself to the climbing rope
around the waist, the extra wraps distributed the force of a fall over a larger area of
the torso than a single bowline would, and prevent the rope from riding up over the
rib cage and under the armpits. Utilizing five wraps parallel to each other and
laying between the hip bone and lower set of ribs, Rex ensured all coils touched
and were tight enough to ensure that a fist could not be inserted between the wraps
and the body. The wraps were bound by the bight of the bowline, finished with an
overhand knot to prevent the rope’s end pulling through. The safety line was
belayed by another caver. Whilst ascending or descending the ladder, the safety line
would check the fall.
Graham watched as Rex, who had attached himself to another ring-bolt set into
the limestone, belayed Chris; who was first to make the decent . Unable to see over
the lip of the tunnel, he had to interpret the shouts to determine the progress.
“More slack! Keep it tight! Give me some slack! I’m at the bottom. I’m untied. Pull
the rope up!”
Once the loose end of the climbing rope was retrieved, Rex proceeded to reach
round Graham;s waist and secured him with another bowline-on-a-coil.
sistamus hoc concursu, said Graham.
“What”, retorted Rex. “Me no speak the lingo.”
sistamus hoc concursu, Scott repeated, unable to stop the broad grin on his face.
Rex finished tying the rope. “Okay; wise-guy. Someone, please translate.”
Scott obliged. “Graham was simply saying, if you insist in holding him round the
waist, then the two of you will have to stop meeting like that.”
“All that in three words. You’re kidding me, right?”
“Hello ladies. Is anyone else joining this party!” It was Chris trying to move
everyone along.
So Graham tried to step onto the top rung of the caving ladder. However, pressed
up against the rock, this made getting the feet in difficult. Only when he had passed
the rim did the situation improve, to be replaced by another concern. Because their
caving ladder was not solid, it mean there was the tendency to flail around if the
caver’s technique was not good. Graham’s technique was not good. The outcome
was that the ladder swung out below him and he ended up hanging on with just
your arms. Rex heaved on the bottom of the ladder to stop it from flailing, and
shouted instructions for Graham to wrap his legs around so the heals went in from
the other side. This equalized his centre of gravity. Now he was able to use the
strength in his legs to climb down.
Progress was slow. The waterfall hit the caver’s helmet and drenched his clothing.
He clung on tightly to stop being forced off the ladder. Graham now knew why
water-cannon as so favored by police for riot control. Rex helped by pulling
sideways on the base of the ladder, succeeding in taking Graham out of the path of
the cascade.
It took thirty minutes for all four cavers to descend. They were all wet; very wet.
Teeth chattered; involuntary shivers came in spasms. They were cold, and if they
did not start moving again they would get colder.
This time Scott lead the way. Out of the large cavern, which was called the ‘Forty
Foot Pot’, on account of the forty foot waterfall. Following the stream-way, Graham
was amazed at the draperies or curtain formations overhead. Deposited from
calcite-rich solutions flowing along overhangs, surface tension had enabled these
solutions to cling to the sloping ceiling as they streamed ever-so slowly downward.
Loss of carbon dioxide to the cave atmosphere caused the solutions to become
supersaturated with respect to calcite, which was deposited in a thin trails ,
developing into slender, delicate sheets. Organic and iron oxide compounds
brought in from the surface, gave the parts of the speleothems an orange brown
color. The presence of oxides and hydroxides of iron and manganese gave others a
deep brown or black color. Quickly removing his backpack Graham retrieved his
camera and took a number of photos, which he hoped to share with family and
friends when he described this adventure.
Onward, the quartet reached the a featured named the ‘double pots’, which
resembled two gigantic ceramic jars with slits on opposite sides, where the stream
entered and exited. Scott continued to lead, showing Graham where the handholds
were located that were now submerged in the torrent of water. The pots looked
deep. The cavers skirted round on the walls finding narrow ledges for their feet.
Scott was on the other side and shouted encouragement to his friend.
“Ahh!” screamed Graham . as he lost his grip on the second pot, which sent him
gliding through the air and then the inevitable splash as he was baptized as a Son of
Mendip.
Scott thought the event hilarious to see his buddy standing shoulder deep in the
white foam of the raging water, only to be swept to the edge. Scott held out an arm
and pulled the Graham out. Both cavers looked upstream, to see Rex and Chris
huddled in conversation; neither had attempted to cross the Double Pots.
“Come on back,” Rex shouted.
“Why? What’s your problem?’ Scott replied. “A little water never hurt anybody,” he
added slapping Graham on the back, making a loud smacking sound.
“Just get your butts back over here,” Chris insisted, sounding annoyed. The most
experienced caver had finally realized the water was considerably deeper than
usual.It was time to turn back.