Franklin Fiasco: Part 8

Tasmania, Australia
By Charlie Hynes

Day Eight: Rafer’s Basin – Blackman’s Bend
We woke to the palatial campsite and a brilliant blue sky. It was fairly early again as we were keen to get the final gorge, the innocuously named Newland’s Cascades, out of the way before the expected bad weather hit.

The heavy portages lay behind us and soon we would move from the high walled and craggy rock cliffs to the lower part of the river. We broke camp quickly and began ambling down towards our target. The trip had gained momentum now and we were well on track to finish easily.

The first marked rapid we met was Ol’ Three Tiers, a nice and tricky rapid that shook us from our complacent head room. We ended up portaging the top section and running the bottom two, which gave a nice adrenalin shot and the now ubiquitous nostrils full of water.

There were a lot of negatives about being in the front of the boat. The lack of any really secure footholds meant you were usually the first to be flung out in a rapid. You also did the bulk of the bailing when the boat was full of water and were unceremoniously drenched each time a minor wave or haystack popped up. On top of all this, you occupied the position on the pecking order reserved for hired help and common grunt labourers. Still, I wouldn’t have swapped my place for anything.

The next rapid was Trojans, a narrow drop that rested between two huge rock formations, with one of them surprisingly looking a little bit like a Trojan horse. We punched through this without worry, though I did get another face full of water.

By now the system of processing rapids had become instinctive habit. Pull over to left bank: Scout. Stand around considering lines. Consider carnage factor, check for surprises. Then either A: portage, or B: run it. Thankfully today was there was much more from column B than column A.

Soon after came the ABC rapid. This was where Australia’s national broadcaster was supposed to have lost plenty of expensive camera equipment during the protests of the dam construction in the 1980s. It looked simple enough, but the thought of us losing all our gear caused some alarm, so the boys got out to scout while I bravely guarded the boat.

It was a little technical, requiring some deft manoeuvring and spinning our way through the waves. Another good soaking entailed, though thankfully there were no mishaps to speak of.

The blue and yellow dolphin boat slowly ate up the bends and long pools of the river, but the tranquillity ended when we reached the Pig Trough. According to the notes it was a compulsory portage, and as soon as we clamoured over the rocks we could understand why.

The river dropped away remarkably and forced itself to squeeze between a narrow and craggy chute. In the middle of the pour over, at the exact point you would need to be if you were stupid enough to run it, were two rocks that sloped into a nice sieve that would surely pin most things that tried to squeeze through, especially four goons in a ten and a half foot inflatable raft.

We began to portage over rocks on the left bank, which had us standing precariously over the top of the biggest and nastiest hole that we saw on the river, apart from the one in Boris’ wetsuit. It was an instant and roaring reminder of the consequences of getting it wrong.

We stopped for lunch at the end of the portage, and while munching away recognised the famous Rock Island Bend, subject of a well known photograph by a guy called Dombrovskis. He was an interesting guy who would go out for weeks on end to capture the Tasmanian wilderness in all its beauty. Sadly, he drowned on one of his expeditions, but his legacy was left standing there before us, looming large over our al fresco lunch.

“P-p-p-person!” Dave exclaimed while pointing at the top of the island. I swivelled and was blown away to see the figure of a man emerge from the trees that grew between the craggy rocks. He waved happily, then raised a camera to get a shot of the nasty trough. We realised he must have been a member of the army group that were on the river ahead of us.

It is always strange seeing another human being after a period of isolation; you are reminded how out of place we appear when compared to natural beauty such as that which surrounded us. We finished lunch and began packing the boat as he swam across the river toward us.

We chatted for a while about their progress as a group and the flooding. The group had seen Rowen’s dad but were across the other side of the river, which left me wondering why ten guys with half a brain wouldn’t have offered some kind of assistance when they saw he was in trouble. He also told us that they had relented at Thunderush and done the six hour high portage, meaning they all had to squeeze into the Eagle’s nest camp. We felt satisfied knowing we possibly had more balls than the army.

Before jumping back into the water he informed us that Newland’s Cascades lay only 300 metres down river, and that it was an easy grade two to three section that would present no problems. After that lay the campsite that they were enjoying a rest day at, he wished us luck and was gone.

Soon we bid farewell to Rock Island Bend and prepared for the Cascades. The boys got out and scouted the first section, deciding to run it before stopping again. This all went smoothly, and once finished we got the chance to see the rest of the section below.

It was a long sucker, with rocks popping up all over the place like a convention of nosey meerkats on the savannah. It dropped away consistently over a distance of about 200 metres and we knew that ‘down the guts’ wouldn’t be a successful ploy here.

The army guys had all gathered on the rocks at the bottom of the Cascades, no doubt hoping that some carnage would follow once Tiddilik and the ‘dodgy brothers’ got moving. We use ‘dodgy brothers’ in an affectionate manner, feeling that tackling this river in our heavily laden tiny raft in high water might be viewed by some as somewhat foolhardy. There was nothing amateur about the brains trust though, they had thought of everything. The boys took about fifteen minutes to scout the thing properly while I bailed the boat and slouched in the foot well.

The verdict came back from the brain’s trust that it was all runnable as long as we manoeuvred the boat in the correct fashion. There were several stoppers and lots of rocks, but as long as we stuck to the plan there would be no worries at all.

“Forward paddle!” came the cry from captain Rowen. Down a ledge then miss a rock – no worries at all.
“Back paddle – hard!” we slowed up with a reverse ferry glide and positioned ourselves perfectly for the next drop. Down we went to be punched in the face by water again.
“Forward hard!” Oh shit, I thought, big rock – we swept by without touching it. We were now about two thirds of the way down and looking good. Two more stoppers and we would be through the final gorge. I had perhaps thought too soon..
“Forward hard – no – now back hard!” as the next stopper span Tiddilik. Whoops – sideways into the stopper we went and I knew that all was lost. I had time to think of how nice it was to have a swim as I was unceremoniously ejected from the raft.

The water was cold and shocked the breath from me as before. Head up, boat in front. Too far to swim to – Fuck. Hang on to paddle and into safety position. Here comes a stopper, oh well, I hope I come up. Then I’m under and being buffeted and turned inside out and upside down. I hit nothing and then emerge facing down river.

“Are you right mate?” comes the question, so I nod in the affirmative. The boys and the boat head for the bank, I keep on going along with the current. One of the army group is standing on the approaching rocks with a throw bag. I clamber up and wait while the lads bail the raft. One of the group offers me a hand and pulls me up.

“Welcome to Newland’s Camp.” he says cheerfully, offering me a lollipop. Surreal.

The boat drifts downriver and we all share a laugh about it while they accuse me of abandoning ship. The army group gather to share tales of their experiences on the river and offer us advice on the journey ahead. Some of their guys had done the trip three or four times so were a great source of knowledge. They told us that from here on was a much easier time and we could afford to forego the heavier safety equipment.

It was 4.30 in the afternoon and their leader expressed the opinion that we had no chance of reaching our intended destination of Blackman’s Bend. It was like a red rag to a bull. All in all the guys chatted for about twenty minutes, but one exchange was particularly memorable.

“So what is that – a ten footer?” enquired one of their guides, gesturing towards the raft.
“Oh na, ’bout ten and a half, eleven” Rowen replied whilst puffing his chest out. It was as if his manhood had been insulted. The army boys all looked somewhat amazed that we had conquered the hard sections of the river at high levels with a boat that size. This was one of the most satisfying developments of the trip and a great source of pride. Raft envy was indeed a mirthful thing.

Bidding goodbye, we pushed on into the late afternoon. Newland’s Cascades signified the end of the wild part of the river as far as we could see it, and now we all had the sense we were just paddling for home.

The Franklin changed in appearance and character as the kilometres slid by. The cliffs became more sloping and gentle and the distance between the banks grew greater. Past Eleanor’s Ferry we drifted, also the Royal Box, a small cave high in the cliff where you could comfortably watch the theatre of paddlers going past.

The water felt like syrup and we told dirty jokes to pass the time. The third last named rapid appeared, that of Little Fall. It didn’t look too bad, but a closer inspection and scout revealed a mean streak that forced us to use our portaging skills again. Thankfully it didn’t require a complete unloading of the raft, only some extra muscle power.

Soon after we rounded a bend and caught sight of two other rafts, a real shock to the system and further proof we were about to emerge from isolation. The army guys had mentioned a group ahead of them but we’d expected them to be much further down river than this.

They had been removing some blackberries near the bank and waved us in for a chat. They were a motley collection of outdoor education instructors who were on a training trip, and unfortunately for us had planned to stay at the same campsite. Shit, we thought. It is amazing how unwilling to share the wilderness you become in such a short time, but I’m sure we all felt a little territorial.

We told the story of the flood again and were met with muted respect and recognition of our feat. It was getting dark and we still had some kilometres to paddle.

Our unwillingness to share a campsite drove us past Flat Island Camp and on into the ever dwindling evening light. The water was tough going and there was very little evidence of a discernable current, making the kilometres even harder on our weary muscles.

Blackman’s Bend camp was again incredibly palatial and exotic looking, sitting slightly back from the river at the end of a sandy pathway. It was flat and the sand was soft, providing more than enough space for we four adventurers.

Dinner was served at ten thirty due to the late start, but all were collapsed into bed by about eleven. At 2 a.m. we were woken by fairly heavy rain which was dealt with admirably by Rowen and Dave. We had paddled so hard that by tomorrow we would be finished and lounging at St John’s Falls, where we would meet our ride. The fat lady was starting to gargle in her dressing room.