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"Men
only in the party," the boys of the Club said when they announced a
trip to Tuglow Caves at King's Birthday week-end. The girls were
downcast, and, after some discussion, it was agreed that if they could
negotiate the first thirty feet descent in one piece they could go the
whole way, and three of the fair sex were included in the party.
We
drove beyond Jenolan Caves, along the Oberon Road to Edith, and thence
through Ginkin to Dennis's " Tuglow
View" farm, which stands on a windswept crest overlooking the
valley of the Tuglow River. Leaving the car just after dark, we
shouldered our packs and walked in bright moonlight to a camp site on
the river a mile or so distant. Here we pitched our camp, dined, and
slept well, a light rain keeping the night moderately warm.
The
following morning, having squeezed our torches, candles, magnesium,
matches, and lunches into two small packs, we set off, the boys groaning
beneath the burden of two coils of rope—one 300 feet length of
one-inch rope, and a 100 feet of half-inch, slung around their necks. We
followed up and along a ridge and descended suddenly to the entrance of
the Tuglow, or Horse Gully Caves, as they are known locally. I half
expected to hear an "open sesame" from the leader, and was
disappointed when an uninteresting space between two rocks was indicated
as the starting point of our adventure. The thick rope was secured to a
nearby tree, and turning our backs on daylight we took the plunge down
the first chimney.
We
descended slowly, only o:ie being on the rope at a time, to avoid
unexpected slackness. Showers of loose pebbles falling on the heads of
the lower members, and torch bulbs failing at awkward spots, did not
improve matters. The most uncomfortable section was a right-angled
tunnel, through which we "wriggled in snake fashion and promptly
assembled on the other side to see and hear the effect on the stoutest
member of the party. I heard him declare with some feeling that he had
again lost those portions of his anatomy which he had taken such pains
to replace since his last trip into the caves several months before.
UNIQUE
FORMATIONS.
On
the first floor, 135 feet below the surface, we sidetracked and, by
magnesium light, admired the beauty of the Pink Lampshade, numerous
stalactites and stalagmites, and a marvellous miniature pine forest.
Here we viewed the scene of the adventures of the first bushwalking
party to descend to the lowest level of the io caves some years ago.
They eventually succeeded by making a ladder from rope and saplings,
and the relics of their handiwork still adorn the walls of the caves.
Very faintly rose the sound of the underground stream running 130 feet
below, where it tumbles noisily over a series of basin cascades. We
returned to our stout friend, who had decided against all unnecessary grovelling
and was usefully employing himself in untangling the rope, which had
become twisted into an intricate series of knots. The last striking
formation we encountered before the last lap was a magnificent angel's
wing about twelve feet in length, which we admired from cramped niches
in the cave passage.
One
of the party, with visions of his previous trip into these depths still
vivid, nobly decided to remain at this point to haul us up out of the
jaws of death after we had seen the lower cave. His was an unenviable
position, alone with the bats in the darkness, while we revealed in the
beauties below. It "was definitely •worth the effort of sliding
down the last 35 feet of slippery limestone, with footholds few and far
between, to see the Grand Shawl Canopy, the Organ Loft, the glistening
Diamond Walls, and to drink the water from the underground stream which
flows through at this spot. It is fed from
Horse Gully Creek and ultimately enters the Kowmung, probably some
distance below the limestone bluff. We lit our candles and lunched at
260 feet below the surface, but the masterpiece was yet to be seen—Mount
Vesuvius, a perfect, glistening, white miniature mountain complete with
crater, and surrounded by a forest of slender columns, stalactites and
stalagmites.
THE CLIMB OUT.
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Then
came the ascent. The smaller rope which had been carried from the
top for this purpose was lowered for use as a life line, or rather
was hurled down with a stone tied to the end by the member above,
while we dodged under a convenient ledge for safety. We tied the
rope round our waists, and, while pulling
ourselves up on the heavy rope, were helped from above by means of
the life line. Being first to ascend, I was unfortunately deprived
of the cheering sight of the others struggling up that section, but
had it not been for the efforts of the life liner, who fortified
himself with bites of apple between pulls, I am convinced that some
of our bones would now be fossilizing on the floor of the cave
The
story is related, and authentically I believe, that one of the earlier
visitors to the caves had attempted this section without a life line,
but, when half way up on a ledge, decided he could manage more safely
with it. We are told how he clung to a stalactite with one hand, held
the thick rope with the other, and tied a bowline with the other—just
as well he was ambidextrous ! The rest of the ascent was uneventful,
although more strenuous, I thought, than the descent, especially as we
knew and could see in advance what we had to climb. After being in the
inky blackness underground for more than six hours, the first pale
glimmer of light was a welcome sight, and we were soon strangely dazzled
by the bright afternoon sunlight.
Grovelling
is great fun, but stick to bushwalking if you suffer from claustrophobia
!
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