Franklin Fiasco: Part 6

Tasmania, Australia
By Charlie Hynes

Day Six: Fincham’s Crossing – Coruscades Camp
All were up and moving early in anticipation of the continuance of the journey, thankful that day six would be spent paddling rather than lugging gear over 15 kilometres of Tasmanian bushland. Boris set off without breakfast, having clearly had enough of the adventure and slightly miffed that he’d been sent out like an errant schoolboy.

Today would be a 20-25 km paddle at least, our aim being to make it to the start of the Great Ravine by nightfall. We figured that as long as there were no more delays we would make the rendezvous with our boat quite easily. The brilliant blue sky above looked promising enough, but only really lasted as long as it took to break camp and pack the boat. The level had dropped overnight to just below two metres, and soon the plop of oars dipping in the water filled our ears and we were secretly thankful that the long walk had been avoided.

The river was serene; so different to its incarnation in the days before as a menacing torrent. The odd bubbling rapid with medium waves interrupted the long, tranquil pools we passed where the water barely moved. Above us the forests, which looked most un-Australian, covered the sheer cliff faces as far as the eye could see. This gave the mistaken impression that you could hike straight into the baby blue sky.

We passed rock walls as tall as office blocks and fifty metre water falls that slapped hard into the Franklin’s fluid coffers. The boys made jokes about running them in kayaks – we all told dirty jokes and sniggered as the oars clawed their way down the tea coloured highway. The wildlife began to emerge also, taking in the clearing weather and drinking the clean water. I saw my first quoll, a weird looking thing covered in spots that smelled like an ashtray milkshake with poo sprinkles.

The rapids we encountered in the first few hours were mostly fun, though some of them required careful scouting and tactics. As we became more familiar with the boat some level of bravado kicked in and we often made the decision to simply go ‘down the guts’.

The first named rapid we came to was Hind Leg Slide, a quick little chute that got the adrenalin flowing a little. Not far after this was Duck Shoot, which we ran after a brief scouting mission. It seemed the lower water was being friendly to us. The boat was handling much better with the extra muscle, especially when full to the gunnels with water.

We made good time even though the river was meandering for longer distances, forcing us to dig in and work hard to maintain momentum in slacker water. For about half an hour the rapids were only enough to fill the boat, providing annoyance value and a good cardio workout for whoever had to bail. By now it had been named ‘Tiddilik”, in honour of the aboriginal legend about the frog that drank and drank and drank and drank.

We watched carefully for Debacle Bend, as many boats had been damaged by the sharp limestone rocks, but after careful inspection we got through without incident. The Jericho Walls slid by without incident or fanfare, a testament to the fact that after six days in the amazing wildness of the Franklin we were becoming a little bit desensitised to its allure.

We rounded the Crankle, a stunning and famous bend in the river, and soon after discovered the perfect sandy beach to break for lunch. As we steadily approached the sun came out and it felt as if fate had decided to reward us for our persistence.

The feeling of the sun warming our wet clothes was uplifting, helping erase the memories of the flood from our minds. We continued downriver, planning to visit a plaque at the Dean and Hawkins campsite that commemorated the first descent of the river in the 1950s.

We passed Blushrock Falls, a huge waterfall that tumbled more than a hundred metres down a cliff face. Around this time we also got a view across to Frenchman’s Cap, which is a major landmark in the area. Its bald hill jutted out from the surrounds, but it somehow seemed to lose its magnificence in comparison to the river we were paddling.

Our journey down the Franklin was becoming a journey through the continents, for part of the day you could be in the craggy ravines of North America, while others find you in the vast pine forests you imagine in Europe. Many times you could forget you were in Australia at all.

Round the Bend of Martins we went and reached the next marked rapid, Side Slip. Upon scouting we realised that it would, as Rowen declared, ‘be a piece of piss.’ It was a good thrill, the heart pumping and paddles flailing madly while the Franklin slapped us about like impetuous children. We didn’t manoeuvre that well but were effective, becoming more so with the experience of each rapid.

We were making good time, and early in the afternoon reached ‘The Churn’. This was the rapid that signalled the beginning of the Great Ravine and our most challenging section so far. The notes on the rapid said that it was ‘virtually’ un-runnable, and fuck me they were right. This one had it all – a big drop off, large holes and stoppers, big rocks and narrow chutes that would pin both raft and man.

Soon again the magic ‘portage’ word was spoken. The notes mentioned a 1-2 hours on a high track. My God! A mountain goat would have had a tough time passing this one. In places the track was so steep as to be nearly vertical. We had to rope gear down for the first time to avoid taking a swift tumble into the drink. The going was hard on the mind but very good for the waistline.

Once finished we re-packed the raft and made the gentle amble down to Serenity Sound, a long pool that had a blackened sheen and reflected the scene above us perfectly. It seemed almost criminal to break the surface of the water with our paddles.

In no time the roar of the Coruscades rapid could be heard up river, telling us the campsite was nearby. As we got closer, we spied a magnificent eagle soaring from tree to tree as we drifted downriver – like we were being guided to safety. We pulled in to the left bank and were happy to see a real campsite for once. It had been a massive day, 25 kilometres in total, but worth the sore muscles and tired bones.

The evening was spent lounging on rocks and enjoying the postcard view, with soundtrack provided by the river. Each minute of sunset delivered a new thrill and a fresh take on the stunning beauty of the Franklin. We were all thankful to be here now, as it was so much more inviting than ‘there’.