Scaife.
ScaifeLe Gouffre Berger
Wednesday 3rd – Thursday 4th of August 2016
Cavers: Team 1: Chris Scaife, Alex Ritchie, Shezi Mohamadi.
Team 2: Tom Howard, Anton Petho, Mark Dougherty, Laurel Smith.
We were staying at the Buissonets campsite in Meaudre. Vueling Airlines, part of the Iberia Airlines family (not a favourite son, more a sort of illegitimate backstairs sort of sprog) had lost my luggage on the way from Newcastle to Lyon, via Barcelona, so I was to attempt this mighty cave using borrowed gear, scraping together the backups and cast-offs of my companions. The day before we walked to the entrance and left some equipment, ready for the big push.
The entrance is surprisingly unassuming, a fairly unremarkable hole in a limestone pavement, with an 8m pitch that leads down to a short narrow section. Alex and Shezi went down the next pitch, 28m deep, and shouted that another team was coming up. Priority in the Berger is for those ascending, until the Puits de l’Ouragan in the depths of the Earth, so we stood aside and watched as these weary explorers finished their 24 hour journey.
A 24m pitch was then followed by the meanders, quite Yorkshirey traversing through a rift. The 37m Puits Garby brought these meanders to a very shapely end. A few more pitches, culminating in the 41m multi-rebelayed Puits Aldo, completed the entrance series. An entrance series that was akin to two Yorkshire SRT trips on top of each other and took us down to -240m.
The Berger then became truly spectacular, as we passed through iconic sections of cave whose names were well known to us: Grande Galerie, Lac Cadoux, Salle Bourgin. Photos of these incredible places cannot do them justice.
Three hours after entering the darkness we were at Camp 1, shortly followed by the awesome Salle des Treize, with its coincidental 13 giant stalagmites, one for each of the first explorers to reach this point.
Before long we had reached a depth of 640m, having used very little rope since the entrance series, descending mainly on foot, underground mountaineers.
The cave changed in character again at this point, becoming narrower and more aqueous. We were soon down to the Canals, where Anton befriended a French family and became so attached to them he just had to follow them out.
Much effort was required to remain dry in this part of the cave, with Tyrolean traverses sapping Poor Old Mr Ritchie’s normally Herculean strength. At a particularly cacophonous section, Shezi shouted that she was turning back. With Antonless Team 2 now ahead, this left me alone with Xaaaaandah.
Spirits now slightly quelled, not wanting to leave anyone alone for long, we quickly pushed through the rest of the Reseau des Cascades and the cave regained its Brobdingnagian proportions in Le Grand Canyon. We descended over 100m of height here by sliding down the slope over to the right hand side of this enormous passage.
At the foot of this great slope we were at Camp 2, where the call of duty inspired us to fill some sacks. This was, after all, a cleanup trip.
Xander and I turned around at the top of the Puits Gache, at least 860m below the surface of the Earth. Tom, Mark and Laurel reached the immortal depth of over 1000m at the foot of Puits de l’Ouragan.
We found Shezi in the Canals, suited and partly booted.
“Elle a perdu sa chaussure! Elle a mal au pied!”
Completing the outward journey with only one boot ensured Shezi’s apotheosis and I imagine the previously unassuming Berger entrance is now dominated by a colossal statue of Shezi standing astride, with a welly and pantin on the right foot and a mere sock on the left.
We stopped at Camp 1 for our only cooked meal of the trip; three tired cavers sporking cous cous out of a pan, as I yelled at Mr Ritchie to sit back and stop spilling food out of his exhausted mouth. Ascending the entrance series was strangely revitalising rather than soporific as one might expect, and we were reunited with the better shod Tom, Mark and Laurel just below the surface.
We returned to the sublunary world eighteen and a half hours after we had left it. Two bottles of red wine, one bottle of champagne and a sleep in the sunshine were our immediate, tangible, rewards. Perhaps there are others more abstract, but I am no wordsmith.
