Rafting the Franklin River via Frenchmans Cap
A group links two of Southwest Tasmania’s classic iconic adventures: rafting the Franklin River and climbing Frenchmans Cap Words, Ross Taylor, photos Mat Farrell
The first rain came as we broke out from the tree line on the ridge above Irynabyss, the grey sky living up to its promise as the wind picked up from the south. We dropped packs and pulled rain jackets on over t-shirts and shorts; it didn’t look like it would last long. Below us green, tree-clad hillsides dropped steeply to the Franklin and our waiting raft. Somewhere above us, hidden from view, was the brooding mass of Frenchmans.
The track was so steep buttongrass was silhouetted against the sky, little black pompoms bouncing in the wind. The higher we climbed the wilder the weather grew, and the more silent we all became, retreating into the solitary worlds of our hoods as the rain beat against one side of our bodies and the cold wind blew our heat north.
Gradually the ridge became craggier, the track traversing mysterious cliff-lined gullies filled with mist and hidden drops. Finally, Scott broke the silence; ‘I reckon we should stop and put some more clothes on.’ Obviously I wasn’t the only one on the border of too cold. We stopped in the lee of the ridge for shelter. I fumbled with the buckles on my pack, pulling out a fleece and beanie, then struggled with my jacket zip, hands clumsy with the cold.
Behind me, Mat, our trip photographer, spoke up; ‘Hey Ross, can you help me off with my gear?’ Mat had brought a huge amount of camera gear on the trip and to save weight he hadn’t brought a pack. Instead, his gear was packed in dry bags that hung painfully off his body from climbing slings. It was only when I turned around that I realised he had also cut weight in other areas: instead of a raincoat he was wearing his river cag – which didn’t have a hood – and sandals with his shorts. As I helped him off with his jerry-rigged pack his body shook violently with the cold. I also had to help him with his cag, pulling the elasticated neck over a wet head full of chattering teeth. It was cold and miserable, classic Tassie weather that catches you brutally by surprise. We all rugged up, then continued on into the storm.
With extra clothes on we warmed up, but as we reached the summit of the ridge the rain and wind began to abate, shafts of light falling through the clouds, lighting up distant ranges and far-off lakes. It was beautiful. Soon we were at the saddle above Lake Tahune getting our first glimpse of the majestic main face of Frenchmans – a face we planned to climb the next day – and Tahune Hut, squatting down by the lake below. We made the hut just on dark, thankful for a warm dry place for the night.
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Going down the Franklin River is one of the great wilderness journeys. You can’t help but be moved by its beauty or by tales of the battle to save it from being dammed. I had long planned to raft it, particularly after a friend told me that a day and a half down the river it was possible to walk to Frenchmans from Irynabyss in a ‘couple of hours’ (four as it turned out). Immediately the climber in me knew that my dream trip would be to raft the river and climb a route on one of Frenchmans’ gleaming white faces of quartzite.
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