The Anglo-french Expedition To Labouiche, June, 1955
by A. N. Patched
At nine o’clock on the evening of 21st June, the electric train slid quickly out of Paris while Phil Price, Lewis Railton and I slaked the dust of the Capital in the buffet car. The train sped southwards through the clear night . . . Orleans, Limoges, Toulouse, where we changed trains and drank coffee at 5.30 in the morning.
We arrived at Foix three hours later, to be met by Bob Davies, the Leader of the Expedition, Bob Hastings, ‘ Bugs’ Woolhouse and Bill Little. They were full of the civic reception held in our honour the night before, soon after they arrived.
At breakfast on the balcony of our hotel overlooking the River Ariege we were introduced to Norbert Casteret, Joseph Deltiel, Robert Vergnes and of course Pierre Salette, Mayor of Ax-les-Thermes, who was running the financial side of the expedition.
After we had told various press representatives our names, addresses, occupations and caving clubs, the small motor bus belonging to the Syndicat d’Initiatives de la Rivière Souterraine de Labouïche drove us to the fabulous cave some 6 Km. from Foix.
We did not change our clothes that morning but were shown the tourist part of the cave. We went down a little path to thecave opening, which was not particularly impressive but quite large, and contained water deep enough to float two big barges ; one of these was enough for our Anglo-French party of fifteen.
We were soon on our way and were at once amazed at the extremely well lighted lofty roof and the wall formations of a size and splendour not seen in England. The barge was propelled by two guides who stood one at each end and pulled at a rail fixed to the side of the cave. The journey along the underground river continued for 2½ Km. to the famous Cascade Salette, named after Pierre Salette.
Cascade Salette falls from a high level passage into a deep lake about 25 feet in diameter. The tourist boats use this to turn round and go back downstream about 1 Km. to a landing stage from which concrete steps lead upwards to Salle Renald, a fantastically beautiful chamber. Further steps lead out of the roof to another chamber higher up, and eventually the tourist emerges into daylight from a spiral staircase to the roadway some 250 feet above the underground river.
The hospitality of the French knew no bounds ; after aperitifs a splendid lunch was awaiting us, cooked on the spot in a way only the French seem to know how. Two hours of pleasure and no more caving that day until early evening !
The next two days were spent in reconnaissance — in Labouiche itself, where we managed to reach the final syphon, in Le Plagne and in Terrefort. These two caves are some five miles up the valley from Labouïche ; Casteret took us to them because fluorescein tests had proved that their waters find their way into Labouïche. The first two nights were spent under the stars, but on the Friday night we returned to Foix for dinner and a good night’s rest at the hotel so that we might be in good condition for the grand assault planned for the Saturday and Sunday.
Early on Saturday morning, after making good small (and large) leaks in our elephant suits which preliminary excursions had revealed, we were rushed up to the cave entrance. The four French divers led by Michel Letronne had already arrived with their bottles of compressed air. Deltiel handed out great quantities of provisions ; Vergnes was everywhere with his cine-camera; the press reporters and photographers dashed from one group of cavers to another—among the reporters was Geoffrey Hoare, the Paris representative of the “News Chronicle.” Bob Davies was in deep consultation with Casteret and Salette. The Bishop of Palmiers was instructing the seven priests from the surrounding district. A large motor lorry disguised as a sailing ship drew up and the “sailors” handed to every caver, press man and assistant a bottle of Ricard. Groups of men, women and children from Foix and the surrounding villages completed the animated scene.
Eventually everyone was ready. Down the spiral steps we went to find the Bishop about to conduct Mass in the beautiful Salle Renald and to bless the Expedition. Fortunately we had taken much of our equipment and stores into the cave the previous day, and not being overburdened on this occasion we could enjoy the unique experience to the full. After the blessing we went down to the landing stage and embarked, to be followed by the Bishop and his assistants as far as the Cascade Salette. Here he watched us as we ascended the waterfall by means of the steel hand and foot holds let into the rock, and hauled up the rest of the tackle.
What a scene it was. Magnesium flashes and cine-cameras, the Bishop in all his colourful regalia along with his priests and attendants filled one boat, the press filled another, whilst from our own boat men passed countless items of tackle from one to another for me to hand up to the men at the top of the cascade.
From the top of the Cascade Salette we made our way by wading upstream in alternate deep and shallow water, and by dinghy, in a wide and lofty passage for some 500 yards till we came to an old wooden ladder propped up against the wall not far from the first syphon. This ladder led almost (I repeat—almost !) to the ‘Wedding Ring’ which gives access to a stalagmite-filled gallery over the river. At the end of the gallery a narrow crack leads by a steep mud slope to the famous Pont du Diable — a spacious chamber on an upper platform where we were to camp for the night and where a telephone point was installed to maintain communication with the surface.
Then came the descent to the river again, through the muddiest tunnel I have ever encountered. The tunnel finished by overhanging the river at the precise point where it plunges down a sixty foot drop to the syphon which we had just circumvented. A tricky climb down to the top of the fall (Cascade Casteret) was negotiated by all — Anglo-French party, press photqgrapbers, reporters and other intrepid French friends. After this there was more deep water, which sometimes rose to our armpits — how much we appreciated our elephant suits ! Davies and Price were of course wearing proper diving dress. After a further 500 yards the Grand Siphon appeared at the far end of a large chamber, where the pale blue water welled up to form the river.
After what seemed an age the divers were ready. “Apres vous” said Davies to Letronne. “After you” replied Letronne. These exchanges of’ ‘politesse’ threatened to go on indefinitely until finally Davies gave up. In went the French ; a deep silence followed, broken only by the lapping of wavelets against the fretted walls. There was nearly a calamity when Letronne kicked his companion’s mouthpiece out of his month while under the submerged roof and both came back post haste. Another French diver went in with Letronne while the other recovered his breath. These two were away just long enough to buoy up everyone’s hopes, but they returned to say that the syphon water went down to the staggering depth of 40 feet and after 75 yards the passage narrowed down to a mere slit. It was obvious that the syphon was not going to “go” and the five of us removed our breathing apparatus with mixed feelings, for if it had we should all have gone through, after a line had been fixed, to what must be a vast series beyond. Davies and Price went in as a matter of form but soon came back and confirmed the worst.
This result ought to have been an anticlimax, it probably would have been in England. Yet the atmosphere remained tense and the French, still full of resourse, made use of the cable laid by the intrepid military during one of our reconnaissances the day before a switch connected the Diving Base with Radio Diffusion Française !
That night all the French left and possibly reached the surface by daybreak. We English decided to stay at Pont du Diable and camp there. We soon dug out the petrol stove and pumped away until a steady roar enabled me to make a supper of hot pate de foie gras, fried ham and gallons of coffee.
After breakfast — porridge, fried ham and still more coffee, we decided, in spite of three men feeling off-colour, that Davies, Hastings, Railton and I should try and find some way over the Grand Siphon while the others took it easy and later lowered the tackle to the river and possibly loaded the dinghies.
Several large passages abandoned by the river countless centuries ago had actually been found by Casteret at an upper level between the Pont and the Cascade Salette, and these in fact lay over the first syphon. Thus there must surely have been at one time an active upper passage of no small dimensions which carried the river over the final syphon.
Lightly laden we descended once again to the muddy tunnel, made the further descent from the overhang towards the Cascade Casteret to the smooth flowing river and, halfway to the final syphon on the left, entered a previously noted and partially explored small opening . . .
Here I must digress and tell of the first exploration of this side passage which we had made two days before. After the first horrible initial wriggle, a narrow but very high passage appeared ahead. As I was last I stopped, intrigued by a wall formation, while the others followed the passage for some distance. I turned round and made an easy climb to get a closer view — about two thirds of the way up was a large opening into a circular chamber about 15 feet high and 10 feet in diameter. It had a crocodile floor and obviously had never been entered before. In one corner was a large flat table, the underpart of which was cut away in tiny inverted steps at an angle of 45 degrees down to the floor. Rising from the floor at the side of the table was a four inch thick stalagmite some eight feet high. As I went in the stalagmite cast its great shadow across the table and on to the wall beyond. My friends were now well out of earshot and as I stood there alone my hair threatened to lift the helmet off my head.
I shouted, but hearing no sound climbed out of the chamber and immediately saw a large opening about 12 feet higher up. I shouted again and then at last I heard a voice from below, that of Woolhouse, and soon the four of us stood together. After having shown them the “Salle Patchette” as they called it, Hastings scaled the steep slope, reached the top and, having gone through the hole, called out “it’s as big as a bus station.” The others followed him very gingerly as the slope was covered with tiny flower-like deposits and it seemed sacrilege to have to tread on them. They reached the Bus Station safely while I kept vigil at the entrance to my ‘Salle,’ and I soon learnt from them that a great variety of ways lay ahead. Shortness of time compelled a fairly quick return, but not before several lengthy passages had been partially explored.
On Monday however we had most of the day before us by the time we once again reached the Bus Station. Soon we were in a long gallery — a good-sized abandoned river passage ; its walls were smooth and on its floor was a layer of clean dry sand. The passage went on and on — surely it would pass over the final syphon far below. Then, just as our expectations were growing the passage came to an abrupt end in a pitch into a vast chamber. Without sufficient rope it was impossible to get down, so there was nothing to be done except go back and try the roof, but before we did that we planted a lighted candle in the sand at the brink of the pitch.
We explored a number of other ways, which we named Gallery Little, Bugs Passage, Railton’s Crawl, Hastings Passage, not to mention Phil’s Folly, but none had a really successful sequel.
Davies and I left Railton and Hastings, made our way down to the river and waded upstream nearly to the syphon, where we found a rocky slope on our left up which we climbed, shortly to reach a very roomy place, really part of the syphon chamber. There, up on the left, some thirty feet from the floor nearly at the top of the wall was a lighted candle on the sill of a cave opening !
Without further ado we turned our backs on this bitter disappointment and immediately stumbled across another series of complicated and intriguing passages down some of which water had obviously flowed during some far-off era. We must have spent about an hour following various passages when suddenly a stalagmite slope appeared and led us up a fair height, but on rounding a bend about twenty feet from the floor our upward climb was brought to an abrupt end by a stalagmited choke. Somewhere up there was surely a resumption of the sandy passage on the opposite side of the chamber. If we could only get high enough there might be some hope of getting into such a passagen— if it did existn—nand then the way over the top of the syphon would be at our mercy !
Time, relentless as ever, was against us. We felt that Railton and Hastings would be getting anxious, so reluctantly we turned back to report ; besides, the other three were presumably waiting a mile or two downstream and almost a whole day had gone since we had left them . . . and so the riddle of Labouiche remained unsolved. I feel that if only I could go back and have another look before I finish this story I should be able to record a thrilling climax.
The next day was spent at Niaux inspecting the famous cave drawings and for the two days following Gouffre Terrefort again claimed our attention. If the syphon would not yield from upstream we intended tackling it by going downstream through Terrefort, some five miles up the valley.
After blasting away an offending piece of rock (Bill Little in charge of this operation) halfway down the very narrow pitch, Davies made a successful dive through the syphon at the bottom, greatly to the delight of Casteret, Deltiel and Salette. So on our last day Hastings, Little, Woolhouse and I put on our breathing apparatus and followed Davies who had laid a line through the syphon. The breathing apparatus was in fact hardly needed for on Bob’s second trip he found a way with a small air space. Casteret and Vergnes ducked under without breathing apparatus and soon we were all out of the water and crawling along a mud terrace at the side of the stream, only to reach another syphon after about 100 yards.
Undaunted, Davies entered the water again and after an age returned thumbs up. A line was fixed and off he went again with the other three following while I stayed behind with Casteret and Vergnes in a filthy and comfortless chamber. Hastings followed Davies for some 500 yards to reach yet another syphon at the end of an appallingly dirty and featureless cave. For much of the way the water literally came up to the eyebrows and at one point the air space consisted of a tiny equilateral triangle the sides of which were no more than two inches long. It was a valuable addition to the Cave Map, but hardly the place to open up for tourists.
When we emerged from Gouffre Terrefort that evening it was still daylight and the press reporters and photographers were there in full force thirsting for news and views. That night yet another memorable dinner marked the end of the expedition and we left the next morning with cries of “L’Anné Prochaine” ringing in our ears.