By Rowen Privett
Day Ten - Slow Boat to Strahan
Trevor had been keen to get away because of the weather forecast, which predicted thirty knot winds to blow directly from where we were heading today. He told us that it would be a six hour trip to Strahan, a small town at the top of Macquarie Harbour. Two hours of that would be spent meandering along what remained of the Gordon River.
We loaded our gear roughly and prepared for the final paddle from the hut back to the jetty where Trevor waited. The scene was glorious despite the low grey sky that hung above the gently rippling waters. Although the boat home lay only a few hundred metres away, our muscles burned with the minor effort, though this could have something to do with the alcohol we'd consumed last night.
After deflating the raft we began our journey back to civilisation. Trevor cooked bacon and eggs and we kicked back and drank hot coffee as the Gordon slid by. Soon after departure we passed the island that the dam protestors had occupied at the height of the struggle, which was astounding for its complete lack of suitability for camping. Nevertheless, Trevor told us, there had been quite a number of those who'd lived on the rocky slopes to cause trouble for any passing boats and workers.
After an hour I headed for the bunks for a well deserved siesta, dreaming of that clean feeling that a hot shower can give you. I was also looking forward to a shave, as the result of my beard growing attempt had only realised a rather patchy and grubby looking covering that I was keen to get rid of.
Soon I was awoken by the lurching and heaving of the boat. We had left the mouth of the Gordon and were now in the middle of a choppy two metre swell. I had hoped for a relatively smooth trip but for the next five hours we were forced to stand up in the cabin of the aptly named Ol' Smuggler.
We averaged a little over four knots and at times we were certain that the boat was travelling backwards. In the distance we saw Sarah Island, which had been the site of the most horrific and dastardly prison during the convict times, reserved only for the worst of the worst.
We held on grimly as the death of a thousand waves was administered. There were laughable attempts to urinate from the stern of the boat without showering everything with piss, and no one dared eat or drink lest they violently throw up. I was convinced that this trip would never ever end.
Mercifully the township of Strahan eventually appeared on the horizon sometime in the mid afternoon to end our pain. A motley collection of watercraft were anchored at various points around the many small inlets and harbours, while brightly coloured tin roofs dotted the coastline here and there. Trevor nursed his boat alongside a narrow jetty and thus our journey down the Franklin River ended with little fanfare. The wild and challenging adventure was now complete.
Epilogue
When we left the jetty the trip continued for a few days, though the activities were purely supplementary. After cleaning ourselves up and getting a good feed we went out on the town and got rambling drunk in a pub full of miners and local pissheads. From Strahan we headed to Launceston for more revelry and headed our separate ways a few days later. Overall, it became more like a regular holiday that four blokes might have in a strange town or region, the achievements of the trip disappearing swiftly into memory.
We did find out that the track that Boris had been sent up had actually been revegetated and no longer existed. So what happened to the crazy Russian and the two kayaks? Well that is an adventure in itself. Rowen's dad had to charter a helicopter to fly in to the helipad and collect everything.
When I reflect on the expedition it is with a sense of pride, but not the fierce kind. Much of the hard work in organising the trip and preparing everything actually fell to the three paddlers. I didn't discover the meaning of life or fall in love with the world of the wild rivers, nor did I make some sweeping self discovery. What I did do, in league with a great bunch of blokes, was travel one of the wildest and most stunning rivers anywhere in the world. We immersed ourselves, sometimes too literally, in an environment so pure and majestic as to make us blasé about the privilege we'd been given by the environment.
There were a few hairy moments, we got through a flood of almost biblical proportions, beat the Great Ravine and paid homage to the wonderful uniqueness of the Franklin, managing to get through unscathed.
What we are left with are stories that will grow taller with the years and the pleasant burden of drifting back there in quiet times, perhaps when asked of beautiful things, perhaps when we are asked about risk. Regardless of what we took from the river, we are comforted by the knowledge that is still there, running tea coloured and madly into the future, to be appreciated by many long after we are gone.
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