“Does anyone have any medical conditions we should know about?” asks Jamie in a gruff, straightforward voice, softened every few syllables by its Welsh inflection. Our group exchanges glances then murmurs a collective no.
“Just being sure,” says Jamie, giving us the once over. “One feller didn’t tell us about his prosthetic leg until it came off on the first abseil.”
Some faintly apprehensive feet shuffling until Lisa, a Londoner in her late 40s, pipes up. “How did he recover the leg?” she asks.
Jamie doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, it was an abseil. So, he just hopped down and picked it up.”
We are in the mountains of Snowdonia on a surprisingly balmy morning of early June sunshine. Our surroundings belie the waterproof jackets, head torches and stout wellington boots strewn on the grass. Where we’re going the sun has never shone.
Our party is nine strong, seven punters and two guides here for the Go Below Ultimate Extreme experience day. Back in 2014, some bright spark had the idea of converting a disused slate mine into a Go Ape style warren of climbs, traverses and ziplines that takes visitors seven hours to negotiate. Once underground, there are no facilities and no communication with the outside world. If both guides are incapacitated, the advice is to sit tight until a Chilean miner-style rescue operation can be effected.
The only way is down
We hike to the mine entrance past teetering pyramids of discarded slate. A few of the pieces look like good quality tiles to my untrained eye, but apparently the 19th century homeowner was very picky about his roofing material. Though the day is warm, a cold air emanates from the entrance, like standing next to an open fridge. We turn on our headlamps and process in through the rusted iron gate.
Daylight fades behind us to the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel and then is lost altogether around a bend. The air is utterly still, with a hint of moisture but a curious absence of flavour as though sterilised. All around us, the jagged slate walls press in, a reminder of the immense weight of the mountain above. My torch darts around the passageway, glittering here and there where it alights on the crystalline sheen of blast dust.
A cavernous borehole opens on our left hand side, angling down at perhaps 30 degrees, with a set of parallel tracks running down the centre. The mine is constructed over a series of levels, each containing a similar layout of chambers connected by tunnels. The levels are each about 20-30m in height and follow the seam of the rock in a slanting downward diagonal. We are on Level A, and our tour will take us on a zigzag journey to Level F. It’s a long way down.
We pick our way along the sloping tracks in clumsy wellington boots, and then it’s time to get acquainted with the clipping system. Familiar to anyone who’s been on Go Ape, our harnesses are fitted with two identical clip lines ending in a carabiner (a metal loop with a spring-loaded gate). By moving these between fixed ropes set along the dicier sections of the route, the idea is to be protected at all times by at least one of the lines.
Spiders on the wall
After a short practice session, we venture out onto the first traverse. A set of narrow wooden platforms is nailed high on the slippery, dank wall of the chamber. Below, the mine falls away into absolute darkness. We can’t see the bottom. Helpfully, Jamie tosses down a stone so we can listen to how long it takes to fall. A few moments of anticipatory silence, and then an echoing crash as the impact rattles through the impressive underground acoustics. Say what you like about the Devil, but I bet he knows how to rave.
With a certain gingerness, we edge along the traverse to blessed terra firma on the far side. From there, our descent continues via a dizzying array of abseils, scrambles, ziplines and even a rickety, pulley-operated chair dubbed the “goliath swing”.
Finally, we reach Level F, the deepest point on our subterranean journey. There are pools of standing water here, and we must wade through them, balancing precariously on a length of pipe running a few inches below the surface. No fixed ropes protect this section – if you slip, you’re going in.
Through a jagged hole in one wall, we can hear the sound of running water in the deeper recesses of the mine. Jamie explains how the entire place was left to flood during a 30-year distressed period in the early 20th century. Then some new owners drained it using a borehole at our present level and installed a pump to keep it clear. I think of the chilly waters of Lake Cwmorthin hundreds of feet above. Perhaps one day the mine will fill again.
There’s opportunity for a brief bathroom break in the relative privacy of a side tunnel. Lisa seems curiously fascinated by the mechanics of urine disposal, expressing concerns about a build-up of bodily fluids at depth. “Imagine what it was like when you had a hundred men down here on a 12 hour shift,” remarks Jamie.
The march of progress
In one chamber we find an abandoned trolley car still sitting on its tracks. Were it not for the rusted wheels, one might imagine it had only been left empty overnight, awaiting fresh slate in the morning. Jamie pulls out a long steel jumping rod and demonstrates how the miners used it as a primitive drill, slamming it into the slate over and over to bore a shoulder deep hole. We pass around the rod and feel its hefty weight. Hard to imagine pounding it into solid rock thousands of times a day while perched precariously halfway up a slate seam.
All around we find evidence of the former miners. There are faded tin cans, cracked boxes once heavy with gunpowder, and even a circular piece of slate engraved with its sculptor’s name. In my mind’s eye our torch beams fade and are replaced by flickering candles. The air is thick with the smell of burning tallow, and my ears ring to the sound of steel on slate. The seam is alive with dust-smeared men, moving deftly between the platforms like mountain goats, jumping rods swung easily in callused hands.
The moment passes, and I come back to the scattered relics. Along with the tunnels, they are all that remains of generations of labour, an entire culture built on the voracious demands of an industrialising world. Now the halls stand dark and silent as a crypt. Perhaps the same fate awaits Canary Wharf.
Free fall
Like Orpheus ascending from the underworld, we begin our journey back to the lands of sunlight. We haul our way up metal rungs, tiptoe across wooden beams and scramble over piles of rubble until we reach the entry level. Our final (optional) challenge is billed as the world’s first underground free fall. In a nutshell, you stand on a 20m platform clipped to an auto-belay and must step off into empty space. For a moment you feel the dizzying rush of unfettered gravity, then the auto-belay kicks in to control your descent to a crash mat at the bottom.
I stand fourth in the queue, waiting patiently for the chance to hurl myself into the abyss. The first in line jumps off without a hitch, and then it’s Lisa’s turn. She approaches the platform with confidence, but gets cold feet when the moment of truth arrives. Her face is white, but her jaw is set. Three times she counts down to jumping, and three times she pulls back from the brink.
“Turn off your torches,” says Lisa. “I think I might be able to do it if I can’t see the drop.” With some gentle whispers of encouragement, we obey the command. Our lights dim, then fade to nothing. It is profoundly dark, blacker than a moonless midnight with the bedclothes pulled over your head. The seconds stretch long, the time dilated by sensory deprivation. Suddenly, a shrill scream goes up, followed by the whine of the auto-belay.
We reignite our torch beams and blink in the glaring light. Out on the platform, Jamie stands alone, chuckling softly. He looks toward us, features lit by a mischievous smile. “What happened?” we ask. He seems momentarily abashed, then answers. “I pushed her off.”
End note
If you enjoyed reading this article, check out my other posts about the Welsh mountains and the Welsh surf. To stay up to date with all my travels, be sure to subscribe here.