Franklin Fiasco: Part 9

Tasmania, Australia
By Charlie Hynes

Day Nine – Blackman’s Bend – St. John’s Falls
There was no real rush to get going again that morning. There was steady rain throughout the camp so it was actually better to stay in bed. Today would mean about twenty kilometres of paddling, including the final six or so on the Gordon River.

All our gear had been saturated by the overnight rain so it was fortunate we were finishing today. Despite all the sleep we had I was still knackered and in desperate need of a beer and a shower.

We had been told that a visit to the Kuta Kina caves was a must, and spent a good hour looking for them in completely the wrong spot, bashing our way high up on the ridges above the river in search for the elusive landmarks that had been described to us by the army group. After climbing high above the river we gave up, deciding that time was wasting away, so began carefully down climbing. Imagine our joy when we discovered that a large and sheer cliff now separated us from our raft. There was no choice but to swim for it, and it was then that we saw the outdoor education group pulling in to the bank about 200 metres further downstream…sheepishly we climbed back into the raft and paddled towards them.

The caves were significant because in ancient times they’d been inhabited by aboriginal tribes, who used the location as a kind of holiday retreat. Back during the last ice age, the climate had been much more conducive to living comfortably and there was no rainforest, instead vast grasslands stood in their place. An aboriginal tribe had used the cave as a summer residence and there was plenty of stuff for archaeologists to get fired up about, like stone tools and burnt animal bones.

Inside it was silent as a church and nobody dared speak. The amazing natural light that flooded in made the place feel ethereal, so it was no wonder that these people had continued to come back time and time again. We stood for around ten minutes in a vain attempt to connect with something long since gone.

After climbing back into the boat we headed for the second last rapid, Double Fall. After scouting it carefully we ran it without incident, the full on adrenalised water now drifted ever further behind us and into memory.

The surrounding hills had become low and gradually sloping, much less dramatic than what had been before. Even the rocks in the river had changed, taking on a more pitted and light brown look. This caused us to be more careful with the raft as they formed odd and sharp shapes that could easily pierce the raft, leaving us stranded.

The paddling had become very hard work. Only one rapid remained and it was an infamous one, Big Fall. We had read and been told plenty about this rapid. Two people had died there in its turbulent waters, a shocking way to end a trip for those groups. The thing we needed to be mindful of was the fact that it was supposed to look quite runnable, which could be tricky since we’d been suffering from some excitement withdrawal. You could understand why people had risked so much here, especially with the promise of a final thrill.

It appeared on the river horizon and it was exactly as people had described – completely innocent looking. The pour over and stopper at the bottom told a sinister story however, so we decided to line the raft through.

Once through the river slowed more, each stroke felt like dragging the paddle through wet sand. It was hard to keep the strokes going and we began removing our helmets and waterproof jackets to get some air circulating. We glided past the amazing Verandah Cliffs that hung over the river like a permanent wave that had locked eyes with a Medusa.

With little fanfare we reached the confluence of the Gordon River. It was completely different to the Franklin, twice as wide and barely moving. The water seemed much blacker and reflected the sky back like a photograph. At Pyramid Island we dipped our hands in to grasp our last taste of the mighty Franklin, before casting our eyes over it for the last time.

After a short while we passed the proposed site of the dam that was a battleground between environmentalists and the Tasmanian government during the early eighties. That battle had ended with a High Court decision that prevented the flooding of much of the area we’d just spent eight days of our lives getting through. It would have been a tragedy if the river had been lost, even if most Australians would not know it. There was no real signifier to be found apart from the gauges that measured the river levels now. It read 1.9 metres as we slid past the gauge.

As we neared the Big Eddy a strongish head wind began to blow, making the going even harder on us. It seemed that the river was not going to let us go without a fight. We hugged the left bank and knuckled down. The hardest paddling we would do would be the next six kilometres.

It was incredibly tough going and I had to dig deep to keep the paddle knifing through the water. At times the wind blew so strongly we swore that the raft was being pushed backwards. Darkness was beginning to fall and the weather started to freeze us to our bones.

Round the bend the jetty loomed tiny in the distance. I had made the bold statement that when the trip was over I would celebrate by somersaulting over the front of the raft and into the river. As we drew closer to the jetty I leapt into the freezing water and immediately regretted my brashness. Brass monkeys would have turned to sopranos in water that cold. Imagine my delight then when the jetty proved not to be the end point, but instead the roof over our heads that we dreamed about lay further around the bend. BUGGER!

The hut is all that remains of the hydroelectric scheme work camp that housed those workers who were building the Franklin Dam. It had since been turned into a fairly basic centre of accommodation but at least it had a roof and some beds. We returned to the raft to collect our gear and heard the distant sound of a motor approaching. As we looked downstream we saw a sight that filled our hearts with joy – a small grey boat that was driven by Trevor Powell, the man that would get us back to Strahan and who, more importantly, carried the beer.

We’d imagined that the hut to be empty we were surprised to find a lone bushwalker already settled. He was tall and bearded, with a spooked, almost slack jawed look about him. Conversation dribbled from him with difficulty and I got the impression that he’d played pretty hard in the seventies. To top it off, he used a lilo as a mode of transport, a device I’d not seen since my early childhood at the local pool. Apparently it is a fairly common way of getting around, but there is no way you’d get me on one of those with all my kit.

Trevor stopped briefly before heading down to the jetty to tie up at the site of my premature acrobatics. As he chugged off we had a photo taken on the small beach and returned to the hut to get dry.

As we changed, Trevor appeared with a small cooler bag which contained some of the beer we’d asked him to bring. I had expected it to taste a little sweeter after ten days, though it did slide down pretty well and signified the end of a long adventure. It should have been a moment of pure elation but we were too knackered.

Trevor invited us down to his boat where he offered to cook dinner. It was above our expectations, but he had mysteriously referred to a surprise he’d brought along. Intrigued, we tore along the narrow bush track to the jetty.

On board the grey coloured boat Trevor had prepared a mini feast. Two crayfish were handed around and he busied himself with cooking us all a chicken schnitzel. Night was falling rapidly and the temperature was becoming bitter, so he produced a bottle of ginger wine to add to the beer. A couple of beers later, our bellies full, we reminisced about the past adventure and listened to the country tones of Shania Twain. Around us, the Gordon River seemed to disappear into the cold and black night and misty rain descended to make it bleaker.

Trevor was a miner by trade, working far under Queenstown as a truck driver. He was a thickset man with a wide head of grey hair, and carried an aura of friendliness that only rural folk can summon. The most striking thing was the size of his hands, massive lumps of meat that looked like flesh coloured boxing gloves. He was good company and we drank steadily until the grog ran out.

The walk back was somewhat treacherous, mainly due to us being half-cut than the condition of the track. In what seemed like seconds we slumped into our respective bunks to snore and fart through the last night in the Tasmanian wilderness, satisfied that our efforts had seen the trip reach a conclusion determined by us rather than the river.