Franklin Fiasco: Part 2

Tasmania, Australia
By Charlie Hynes

Day Two: Derwent Bridge – Collingwood River – Junction of Franklin and Loddon Rivers
Woke early and moved slowly, we’d all slept fitfully as the moment drew nearer where the wet part of the trip would begin. We made the drive to the put in point, which was where the Lyell highway crossed the Collingwood River. The drizzle had kept falling steadily and you could understand why the place was so green.

We packed our gear carefully and mentally ticked off all the requirements. Our personal gear, or everything that we would use for camp and sleeping, was to fit into large dry bags, which necessitated a fairly light approach to packing. We had only one set of dry clothes for camp and it was strange to take such a small amount for ten days. The weight of the raft would be incredibly important.

It took a while to get all the gear together and inflate the raft; all the while the nervous tension was becoming more evident as swearing and sighing increased in frequency. Once everything was laid out we got into our paddling gear and the tremulous hiss-hiss-hiss rhythm of the foot pump heralded the inflation of the raft.

One slight change to the plan was that Leigh would not join us for the initial two days, his place in the raft taken by his friend Boris, a crazy man from the wilds of Russia who made his living poaching caviar and selling it in Moscow. They had formed a fast friendship during a mountain racing series and thus it transpired that he would get some white water experience with us. The plan was that Leigh would run in to Irenabyss camp via Frenchman’s Cap on the second night before swapping with the unconvinced looking Russian for the remainder of the journey. This decision would prove important as the trip unfolded and be risky for a couple of members of the group.

The backdrop for the trip was already amazing, setting Tasmania apart as a place of real and stunning natural beauty. So unreal was the environment that it seemed contrived, like a scene constructed by a set design crew for a blockbuster movie. Our senses readied themselves for the barrage of beauty that we’d be subjected to along the 110 kilometres that lay ahead.

We began carrying gear down to the Collingwood River, which looked tranquil and inviting. The journey was to be undertaken by an 11 foot Dolphin raft with three bodies as the engines, as well as two kayaks of the creek boat style. Within these innocuous and small looking craft lay our hopes of getting down the river.

We ate lunch and went through a safety briefing for the raft, which Rowen translated badly into Russian by using hand signals that covered the basics. This done, we hit the river and began the journey. The guide books told us that a level of 0.8 metres at the bridge meant low water, while 1.2 indicated a high water level on the Franklin. As we set off, the gauge gave the level at just under a metre, though the drizzle was some concern. We didn’t really need much more water than this, especially with the gorges and bug water ahead.

In no time we had entered nature’s art gallery, as if the cliffs and stunning vistas were a secret place that she’d created to show off her finest wares to only the most intrepid. The Collingwood treated us gently, providing only a few grade 1-2 rapids that got the heart pumping a little and helped us sort out the manoeuvring of the raft. A couple of pour over rapids saw the quiet Russian screaming like a school girl and seemingly endless bailing of the raft, an activity that we would spend a good deal of time engaged in over the next eight days.

After three hours of serenity and drizzle we reached the junction of the Franklin River and left the Collingwood behind us, thankful that no carnage had befallen us yet. Immediately the river changed, with clear water giving way to the darker – the colour of strong tea or weak coffee. The waves of the rapids became larger and the currents swifter as it hurled us towards the gorges and chasms that were rolling around in the back of our minds like nemeses.

All day, even on the Collingwood, we were surrounded by lush and stunning rainforest and starkly dramatic rock formations that would plunge swiftly into the water or tree line. Rapids would be interspersed with slack pools that offered you the chance to look around and take in the natural magic. We coasted above bronzed boulders that slid harmlessly beneath the surface, placed there at by the whimsy of the floods sometime in history.

The sensation of meeting the Franklin was just like merging with a major arterial road. Unlike the Collingwood, whose rocks stuck out all over to block the progress of a raft, the Franklin hid her rocks under the surface. The first rapid that was marked on the map was ‘Sticks and Stones’, which had me nervous. It was relaxing to see the routine that would guide us through the next ten days when we came to a rapid, which went like this: Pull raft into bank, get out and scout it paying particular attention to ways of dying, then either run if happy or portage (carry stuff).

Using the same method, we passed the next rapid, named Gordon Gate, which was a little slippery, and the Boulder Brace, which was fairly straightforward and made easier by the ability of the kayaks to scout a rapid before the raft.

The rain continued to fall as we passed Angel Hair campsite, where we’d planned to stay but decided not to after another group had beaten us there. They were a larger party from the Army, travelling in two enormous boats powered by ten of Australia’s finest. We would bump into them from time to time.

Not long after we came across the appropriately named Log Jam, which was my first experience of a rapid that would certainly kill you; it needed a major portage. We unloaded the raft and began ferrying the gear over and around the large slippery rocks that lay in our way. It was tough going, as the neoprene booties we wore on our feet offered minimal grip on the wet rocks, resulting in scrapes and spills that were far from graceful; thankfully there were no girls watching. Rowen informed me that most injuries on trips like these, especially on the Franklin, occurred during these portages. I could easily understand why this was the case.

After an hour or so we finished and paddled a short distance to our campsite, which stood on the riverbank above the junction of the Loddon and Franklin rivers. We were slightly knackered but very satisfied with our achievements and relieved to get the first day on the river out of the way.

Personally I was feeling the cold and looked forward to getting into some warm gear. The campsite was light on for dry ground but offered sufficient flat areas for the five of us to sleep. To save on gear we’d decided to forego tents in favour of bivvy bags and tarps to keep any rain off. We ate well and warmed up with hot drinks before retiring fairly early to the sound of the two rivers rushing by. The rain had thankfully ceased and my last view as I brushed my teeth was of the gentle rapids that lay on a bend in the river below our camp. I felt becalmed by our surroundings and permanently stunned by the beauty of the vistas that lay in all directions. We all discovered sleep quickly.

Only until 3 a.m. of course, when the pissing rain forced us to action stations to keep our gear as dry as possible. We lowered the tarp but still the rain fell down hard, saturating the ground beneath us. Little did we know that this rain was feeding the river and making it swell, making it larger.