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New River Federation Peak, 2009

“I’m sitting on top of a caravan-sized lump of grey quartzite which has fallen from a great height and stranded itself in the middle of New River, in Tasmania’s remote South-West. Sitting here scares me; I know that with Andy and Miles in their tents, no one would know if I slipped on the rocks wet surface and fell into the tannin-coloured flood waters swiftly swirling and roaring about four metres below.

In front of me, running right to left, is the rushing River, it sound like a thousand blow-torches drowning out everything and making it necessary to shout. Behind me there are a number of large logs, thrown like matchsticks and jammed against my rock and the bank by a flood of seemingly Biblical proportions.

Upstream of this jam of logs a small, sandy spit about the size of two pool tables has been protected from the current by a vertical cliff that juts out into the stream and judging by the vegetation growing in the sand, it is rarely inundated.

It is here that we were forced to pitch the tents earlier that day. Sheer faces of mud and rock extend about three metres from the river all around us, before reclining slightly to Gondwana-era forests clinging and thriving on slopes of about 60 degrees.

Quartzite crags hundreds of metres above us smile a brilliant white in the flitting moments of sunshine which are more frequently interspersed with light to medium rain showers and the trees that dominate everything sway in the wind that comes straight down the gorge from unknown lands upstream.

We decided to make camp that day at only 11am, nearly six hours earlier than usual. We had decided this after three hours of futile effort only brought us about 150m upstream; indeed, the ‘campsite’ that we retreated to was only 90m further upstream than the previous one. This was all we could safely manage but it left us plenty of time to contemplate the journey that had led up to that point.

It had been a rough but exhilarating ride for the last eight days. Our trip to summit Federation Peak via New River had started when the three of us had entered the South West World Heritage Area from the tiny fishing town of Cockle Ck, at the very southern most extent of the road.

Walking for three days along the scenic South Coast Track had proved to be an adventure in itself – battling with 35kg packs, mud, rain and leeches we savoured the fantastic views, the marvellous beaches and the grandeur of the rainforest, before our first view of New River at New River Lagoon. From here we left the track and headed north, skirting along the edges of the lagoon to a campsite in the shadow of Precipitous Bluff, an iconic peak for those who visit the region.

We were covering what felt like epic distances each day: 11km, 10km, 12km. However, day four put the walk back into perspective. On this day, we managed 1.5km along the lagoon in a couple of hours and then only 850m in the scrub in the next four. This included a near-hypothermic half-hour swim along New River which left us so cold we had to call it quits for the day and set up camp at only 3pm. The next day proved to be much better as we had crossed the river the day before and then the scrub opened out.

Walking for the first part of the day involved a lot of vaulting, crawling under and bashing through vegetation and such was the difficulty of leading that we took it in turns of twenty minutes each to create a route for the others. There was a section so bad that we contemplated another swim across the river to the other side but as soon as my waist was in the water I knew it was too cold – we couldn’t afford a repeat of the day before. Fortunately the scrub opened out into magnificent rainforest with trees metres across and no undergrowth. We made excellent progress from then on, totalling about six km for the day.

From that day on the river began changing dramatically, becoming wade-able in sections. Then it narrowed substantially, the walls became sheer and we found ourselves in an unmapped chasm, with deep black water swiftly flowing around the three boulders that were wedged there and sheer walls at least thirty metres high.

This unexpected quirk of geography was navigated with a bit of precarious climbing on slippery and wet boulder faces, a three metre jump down to another boulder, a pack throw (literally, where the packs are thrown, in this case a good four metres down), an icy fifteen metre swim against the current and a pack haul. The beauty that awaited us on the other side of the chasm was breath-taking, as if we had passed through some mythological gates back in time to a wonder of natural beauty and untouched grandeur.

We knew that only four or five other parties had ever been through this part of the world and we were the first to view it travelling upstream.

Our sense of serenity was soon shattered, when the first rain started to lightly fall and we had to make camp on the bank of the river. We set up various methods of measuring any rise in the stream. Both 6pm and midnight showed no change but daylight brought a different story. The river had risen about a foot on the opposite bank where the main current was flowing around an island that we were in the lee of.

Fortunately the rise on our side was only eight cm, otherwise we would have had to pack up around midnight. The river had changed infinitely: what had been a comparably easy upstream route, of which we had done a couple of hundred metres the day before, turned into a swirling impossibility. Logs we had crossed were turned into deadly ‘strainers’ (where you get pinned and drown) and many of the rocks we had used were under a foot of fast flowing water. Three hours of wading, desperate climbing on slippery rock faces and pack hauls through the stream brought us to the sandy spit only 90m upstream. We decided to try and wait it out.

Dawn broke the next day with the water level over 70cm higher again and our pathetic campsite under threat. Being the closest to the river, that morning I could literally reach out of the tent and fill my cup from it. We decided we had to go. Unfortunately, our escape route for that section was blocked by the unknown chasm of two days previously, so we had to find our own way out via the ridge that extended behind us. The scrub was absolutely, indescribably horrendous.

One km in eight hours that day and 1.4km in thirteen hours the next, left us out of water and out of escape options. We weighed up the situation and with great difficulty, decided to call it quits there before someone got seriously injured somewhere inaccessible even from the air. The helicopter arrived three hours later.

The trip was an incredible adventure and learning experience. I’ll never forget the looks on the faces of the other two of joy after an hour of sunshine or of horror after a particularly bad section of scrub and I’ll always remember the satisfaction of an obstacle conquered or dry clothes after an icy swim but for now it’s back to the maps and to the lessons learnt to plan for next time.