Mandale Mine
Cat, Julian, Brendan, Alan, Pete, Chris, Robert, Edvin, Victoria — the somewhat older and now slightly soggier birthday human.
It was a damp Tuesday evening (when isn’t it in winter), and the usual suspects had been summoned to neoprene up for what could only be described as a “moderately aquatic expedition.” Jess, bless her, swung by with a birthday card and good cheer — she's nearly cave-ready again, which is excellent news.
We rendezvoused at the lay-by, and headed to the entrance. The gate looked just as it should — locked and undisturbed. Being freshly a year older, I had the brilliant idea of combining a conservation survey and birthday cake.
Cat brought a stunning carrot cake. I, meanwhile, had baked my own offering and lovingly sealed it inside a paper bag, then a backpack. Genius-level waterproofing, I thought at the time.
This being the first survey of the new year, I also planned to take photos of the collapse inside. Naturally, I forgot the waterproof phone case. Thankfully, Robert was equipped with a Daren drum and patient enough to serve as “Keeper of the Phone.” Each time I needed it, he somehow retrieved it without rolling his eyes (too much).
We reached the water faster than expected, which was definitely deeper than on previous trips— waist-deep, then chest-deep, then “I wished I was two inches taller deep.” Holding my cakes aloft touching the ceiling, we pressed on.
Cat, cheerfully announced that the airspace continued ahead. Encouraged, we all did an awkward sideways shuffle through the passage that involved some helmet-removing, and one very cold ear (mine).
Finally, we reached the collapse. Several feet of mud, zero view of the rumored plastic pipe, and the idea that the mud may be moving a bit forward into the passage. But hey — we’d made it! Time for cake diplomacy.
Against all odds, both cakes survived! Out came a tea light candle and the world’s most indecisive lighter. We sang an enthusiastic but slightly damp rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
Then it was time to retreat through the flooded passage, pausing only for a bit of exploring and the classic group photo — in which Pete appeared to be auditioning for a “how hypothermia starts” PSA. Note to self: wetsuit for Pete is now officially top priority.
We all emerged into the frosty night. After peeling off layers of neoprene that may or may not have fused to our bodies, we made a quick detour to The Bulls Head. A warm fire, a fine pint, and good friends. Note to self: bring my own daren drum next time.
