Depth through thought
OUCC News, 6th March 2002
Volume 12, Number 4
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This issue was not published at the time, and is incomplete.
The first 80 pages of the new cave rescue ropework manual 'Life on a line' are now available as a free download from http://www.draftlight.net/lifeonaline - the author (me!) would be grateful for any comments or problems with getting it, reading it or wishing to burn it :-)
Section 2 is still frantically being worked on, due in a month or so. The entire book is a free-for-all thing, so you can do (realistically) whatever the hell you want with it provided you don't make money. The idea is that the online version will be updated regularly to reflect changes in kit, methods, errors you lot find (!) and new thoughts on how to play with string... Dave Merchant (firstname.lastname@example.org)
A tale of gross fiasculation
After the previous night's beer, wine and whisky marathon, Chris managed to rise far too early and I spent a half hour chasing the crocus-eating bastard sheep out of Blackwalls' garden yet again. Ran them all round the fence trying to find where they got in. Eventually ended up in the bottom corner where half the flock undertook death-defying leaps over the fence. The other half eventually met Chris coming back up the path and jumped the wall straight into the Lamb and Fox garden and towards Carol's flowers.
Eventually, we started to addressed the caving kit and I tried to remember whether dets went into 8mm holes. Rang Ali who happened to have the remains of one on his mantlepiece which he measured at 7.8mm. So we were on. Initially managed to persuade Ali that we were both waiting for the rest of the Riflemans' team to turn up: "ur, terribly sorry - I did try to ring you on Thursday, Friday, Saturday to say it was cancelled..."
Eventually set off at the respectable time of 1230 having decided to ignore the minor problem of no wire and assumed there would be a crowbar
"Inside the Cave"
(Chapel-le-Dale, North Riding)
Green leaves: and in the cold entry of the cave
Green light which turns to a darkness:
Green water from the bellowing dark, here still;
Yet forward flows to turn no green-wheeled mill.
It sinks under its antique pebble-studded bed,
And carves rock shiningly and cleanly into curves:
Gives back no eyes but mine, no shiver of sun, or stars,
Floats down no seedling from the gamboge-throated flowers.
Yet pulled, I push inside the ivy-hanging screen,
Adjust my eyesight to the delicate green,
And press sharp footmarks on its pale-ribbed sand
And feel this classic water's cruelness with my hand.