Strahan to Pilot Bay and Cape Sorell Lighthouse:
The waterfront at Strahan on Macquarie Harbour is empty apart from a couple huddled under blankets and sheltering from the wind and intermittently driven rain under a rustic wooden picnic shelter. I’ve added another layer to my paddling kit and am wearing fleecy tights, a long sleeved thermal topped with another long sleeved fleecy top over that, a paddling cagoule and, the head-wear that I will wear for virtually 24 days straight – a woolly beanie. It is the most kit I’ve ever worn paddling, not all that different to what I used to wear ski touring in very cold temperatures in Canada in – what feels like – my other life as a skier and alpinist.
The forecast is typical for the southwest of Tasmania and the great Southern Ocean that batters onto the seaboard. Moderate to strong southerly winds with a 3 to 5 metre swell and intermittent rain. However, all we need to do today is paddle south across Macquarie Harbour and out Hells Gate to land at Pilot Beach. The nautical chart for the region issues terse warnings:
The tidal stream at Hells Gates can provide difficulties for under-powered vessels. The ebb stream can reach 4 knots or more….
In northwesterly gales or when a heavy westerly swell is running a dangerous break may occur eastwards of Cape Sorell across the harbour approaches in depths of less than 10 metres. Vessels should not attempt to enter under such conditions.
Named by early convicts bound for hard labour on Sarah Island in Macquarie Harbour as the entrance to Hell, the narrow channel squeezed between massive sand bars, Entrance Island and Nigger Head, drains the entire 315 square kilometres of Macquarie Harbour ensuring that the current rushes in and out with no slack water.
Finally our kayaks are loaded with two weeks of food, a couple of days of water, and all the other requisite gear for a month long trip into the wilderness. After a final photo of us kitted out in kayak gear and looking both anticipatory and anxious we push the boats out into the sheltered waters of Macquarie Harbour and start paddling.
We’ve decided to hug the western shore to garner some shelter from the wind and paddle the ten kilometres to Yellow Bluff where we regroup. Nick, as usual, is like a keen cattle dog straining at the leash, while Doug and I, as the nominal elders in the group have settled in to a steady pace, pushing against the wind. From Yellow Bluff we head for Round Head, a small hillside barely visible in the gloom and as we cross Kelly Channel, wind driven rain pours down, exactly meeting my pre-conceived expectations for paddling on the west coast of Tasmania – wet, windy, cold.
In fact, I don’t really know what to expect despite spending an entire year planning and training for this trip. I’ve seen photos and videos, read trip reports, spoken with other kayakers, heard the stories of paddling far off shore due to reefs and bommies, and five metre swells, and I’ve spent the better part of the last decade embarking on increasingly more difficult and remote sea kayak trips, but nothing really prepares you for the west coast of Tasmania and the feeling of absolute isolation once you paddle out onto the Southern Ocean. There is no mobile phone reception, and, although we carry VHF radios, we see so few boats that the idea that our radios would prove useful in an emergency is risible.
Southwest of Yellow Bluff, on the southern side of Kelly Channel, a vague hill – Round Head – rises through the gloom of low lying cloud and we head for that. As we paddle closer I notice that in order to maintain a course for Round Head my kayak is now lying parallel to the southern side of Macquarie Harbour and it takes a while for my brain to catch up with the current and to realise that we are being dragged inexorably northwest towards Macquarie Heads and Hells Gates. As we drift closer, we check in with each other that we are ready to paddle out of the safe waters of the harbour. All we can see from our position is a line of breaking waves because the deep water channel, a mere 70 or 80 metres wide is hidden from view by the curve of the land. I put my nose plug on although I suspect I have little hope of rolling should a five metre wave crash upon my head but there is something about the ritual that is comforting.
With the tide ebbing strongly we rapidly exit past the two light stations marking either side of the channel. To the north over Kawatiri Shoal lines of breakers roll in but the channel is marked only by fast moving water and soon we are paddling along the eastern side of an old rock breakwater, around its north end and south to land on an surprisingly sheltered sandy beach at Pilot Bay.
There is a certain amount of power in beginning. The old adage that a mountain is climbed a step at time is true. Once you start and commit to something the possibility of continuing to move forward until you reach the end is infinitely greater than it was before starting. We set up camp on the sand at the back of the beach, eat lunch, drink tea – the constants of sea kayaking – and set off to walk to Cape Sorell lighthouse, just under 3 kilometres along a bush track.
Standing below the lighthouse which is bright white and soars 30 metres high on the apex of land at Cape Sorell, we got our first view of the west coast. And what a view it is. From Cape Sorell to Sloop Rocks, 13 kilometres to the south, is shallow water (marked unsurveyed on the nautical chart) liberally studded with rocks and reefs so that the Southern Ocean swell breaks for a long distance. The sea conditions, however, do not look too bad although it is clear we will be paddling far off-shore to avoid misadventures with bomboras from the long period swell.
Back at camp at Pilot Bay, a yacht is moored off the beach and a young couple are fishing and beach-combing. They plan to take advantage of the good weather to sail (or power) south to Port Davey and Bathurst Harbour and will be there within 48 hours even allowing for spending a day near Hibbs Pyramid. It will take us a week to reach Port Davey and that will mean putting in long days paddling. The couple are very impressed by our plans but I am uncomfortable with their accolades.
Truthfully, I’m uncomfortable with accolades at any time. I don’t think I am special in any way, only possessed of a stubbornness that allows me to keep working towards my goals regardless of repeated failures or discomfort. Some people are natural athletes, possessed of superior strength and proprioception. Neither of those things describe me; and, in a strange way, I’ve always seen that as a super power because you learn early to tolerate frustration and to cultivate a determination to just stick with practice and training and to value the process more than the goal.
At the eastern end of Pilot Beach it is possible to see the twin light-stations that mark Hells Gates and, even before we disappear into tents for the night it is clear that the swell, as predicted, has fallen precipitously. Sunset brings nearly clear skies. Tomorrow, the real paddling begins.
Pilot Bay to Gorge Point:
We truly stand on the shoulders of giants paddling the west coast of Tasmania. Those paddlers, often solo, who have gone before and worked out all the possible landing spots. Compared to them, we have it easy with more detailed weather forecasts than are possible using a SSB (single side band) radio, aerial photos of likely landing spots and information from yachting books (The Shank). Without this information, we would never have entertained the possibility of landing at Gorge Point, a small headland with a north facing bay, a creek running out of the hills, and a narrow channel of deep water (a rip) that runs right along side a breaking reef. Gorge Point is about 30 kilometres away down a coastline studded with islets, and reefs and bommies.
Paddling out of the calm waters of Pilot Bay sea conditions gradually increase until we are turning south past Cape Sorell and heading for Sloop Point and Sloop Rock, a kilometre off-shore. Conditions are very good, but still take some getting used to as the swell is large and pervasive, and even when we are a couple of kilometres offshore the sea is lumpy and bumpy.
As we turn south at Cape Sorell, an albatross glides along the wave crests, tipping its massive wings to rise over our boats. These elegant birds will be our constant companions along the west coast, a tangible reminder of the remoteness and rugged beauty of the west coast of Tasmania. It is impossible to feel anything but pure joy at being in this place at this time, our small group of paddlers alone on the great Southern Ocean.
Unexpectedly, we are able to tuck in behind Sloop Rock for a rest stop where Australian fur seals lay on the rocks. Unused to visitors, most remain resting on the rocks, although some more inquisitive seals enter the water and swim around our boats. With another good weather forecast the next day, we have decided to stop at Gorge Point - improbable as landing appears on the map – rather than paddling on for another 30 kilometres to Sanctuary Bay.
Just north of Gorge Point, we turn inshore, passing several breaking bommies. From the water, the landing looks improbable, but we know from friends who have paddled this coast, that we can land easily if we hug the southern reef and use the rip to get into shore. It is our first real landing, and I feel both mildly anxious and completely confident. Our strategy for landing and launching is for either Nick or Doug to go first or last, while I, as the weakest paddler, am the middle man.
I watch as Doug paddles in, his boat rising as the swells pick up, but nothing breaks, and quickly he turn south and disappears behind a sheltering reef. As I paddle in I tell myself this is just like landing at Mystery Bay on the south coast after a trip to Montague Island. Paddle the deeper water channel in and quickly duck behind the reef. Simple.
In a bigger swell, Gorge Point would be an exciting landing, as the rip is narrow and just to north (our left hand side as we paddle in) there are rows and rows of breakers. The westerly wind is increasing so we tuck our camp behind some rocks on the sand, a camp that would be inundated in a bigger swell. There is a lovely fresh water creek running out of a small valley behind camp, good for both drinking and washing, and it is a scenic walk along the beach to the northern end where the main Gorge Creek runs out onto the beach.
This is a bit of a guilty camp as we have only paddled 24 kilometres today and there is a little voice that niggles in the back of our heads that we should have paddled further given the favourable conditions. The other voice, however, wants to enjoy this trip and not rush along the coast paddling 40 and 50 kilometre days simply to finish in the fastest possible time. Often, we are paddling so far off-shore that we don’t see very much, and, only really appreciate our surroundings when we land and have time to wander around and explore.
With hindsight, it would be easy to make the right decision, and, with hindsight we did, as we reached Port Davey in five paddling days and seven days total (two weather days at Mainwaring Inlet). If, however, we had been stuck for a week one paddle day north of Port Davey, we would have made the wrong decision. The only thing I am certain about is that to make the most of life, we need to learn to live with uncertainty.
Gorge Point to Sanctuary Bay:
Each morning when we paddle out to sea from camp feels like a journey on its own. There are always so many reefs and bommies that we must pick a line and paddle straight west to get beyond the break zone before we can turn south and begin the real days paddling. At Gorge Point, the deep water is closer in than other areas and we paddle only half a kilometre out, all in a line until we can turn south following the coast with the ocean swells quartering in. We pass Albina Rocks, Birthday Bay and reef studded Varna Bay where we are a couple of kilometres off shore to avoid bommies.
More albatross today, also gannets and sooty petrels in large flocks that circle dizzily above our heads. Hibbs Pyramid, at 80 metres, is visible from a long way off, as, with a light head wind we paddle slowly towards it. Hibbs Pyramid appears as a tall, rocky eminence, but when we get closer we can see that the crags are broken and vegetation covers the hill side. There are seals resting on the rocks at Hibbs Pyramid as we approach. One huge bull male stirs himself up from a recumbent position and eyes us lazily before scratching himself indolently, then flopping back down to sleep again. The much smaller females plunge into the water and swim around our kayaks, coming up close by our bows to look at us quizzically.
Sanctuary Bay is a small hour glass of sand between sheltering reefs. The water paddling in is breathtakingly clear and huge fronds of kelp sway in the lazy swell. Our camp is on the beach near a freshwater stream but at the north end of the beach I find a steep little track marked by a fishing buoy that climbs five metres up into the forest behind the sand where there is the most sheltered and delightful camp imaginable. Soft green grass kept cropped close by animals under widely spaced eucalyptus and flowering bushes.
Wandering around the rocks from camp, I surprise a seal laying out on the rock platforms. I approach with sadness thinking it either dead or dying but in one quick movement, the seal is up and lumbering down the rocks stopping only when it feels a safe distance away to glance back at me before splashing with finality into the ocean. North of camp are razor sharp rocks on headlands and short sandy beaches bearing Tasmanian Devil foot prints.
Sanctuary Bay to Mainwaring Inlet:
Each morning I get up at 5:30 am, before the sun has risen and dig our food bags out of the boats where we keep them safe from the predations of Tasmanian Devils, Quolls and other nocturnal animals over night, and bring them back to the tent where I crawl back in and brew coffee and assemble a cold breakfast for Doug and I. It is a small nod to luxury, this little morning ritual of drinking hot coffee in a big plastic jug in the warmth of our nylon cocoon.
At 7:30 am we leave Sanctuary Bay and paddle west to Point Hibbs and once again paddle out into the rolling ocean swells. Although the swell height rises to seven metres and falls to two metres over the course of our trip, the swell never abates and is a constant on this trip. The wind too, which has calm intervals, is also a constant, so that the roar of wind, sea, surf is never lost.
On the south side of Point Hibbs is south facing Spero Bay and further south again, Endeavour Bay, both big surf beaches pounded by the southern swell. We paddle southeast gradually drawing closer to the coast, our immediate destination a deep gorge visible from many kilometres away where the Wanderer River which arises on the Central Plateau runs out to sea.
As we approach Hartwell Cove, the waves steepen but there is a clear line through, paddling first north, then turning back to the south behind a small headland and into Hartwell Cove where a small patch of sand allows us to land. The little cove lies at the confluence of three small creeks and ends abruptly at steepening ground. It is a good spot for a lunch break but would be a cramped and exposed camp in stormy conditions.
From Hartwell Cove we paddle a rocky coastline studded with bommies and reefs to High Rocky Point. The water is deep enough and the swell small enough for us to paddle between High Rocky Point and Montgomery Rocks. There are caves cut into Montgomery Rocks and seals lie on rounded granite domes. We are not far from our camp site for the night at Mainwaring Inlet.
The approach to Mainwaring Inlet is a mine field of rocks, reefs and bommies. We approach warily as the waves are steepening precipitously and we are unsure where the next one will break. Mainwaring Inlet is another of the the surprising landing locations on the west coast. The entrance is guarded by rocks and reefs but a deep water channel runs through into the sheltered water of the Mainwaring River. At kayak level, it is hard to see the deep water of the entrance which is only a narrow passage, but, Doug sees it, darts ahead and passing between two breaking reefs disappears into the inlet. Nick and I follow, and paddle almost a kilometre up the river to a small sand beach with dense forest behind.
There is a rough campsite above the beach on the northern side complete with a rustic and tilted bench and with enough room for two tents and a tarp. A short walk up the hill behind camp and down steeply on the other side leads to a tributary of Mainwaring River where fresh water cascades out of the hills. The water is cold, but a fresh water wash is refreshing.
Mainwaring Inlet:
Weather keeps us at Mainwaring Inlet for a further two days. Our first weather day was rainy and windy, but that did not stop Doug and I from standing waist deep in creek water for a half hour trying to find the leak that caused my sleeping pad to deflate overnight. Exploring around camp, Doug found an old track cut through the bush that led from camp west through rain forest and heath to the coast. The roar of sea, surf and wind is a constant back drop.
On our second night at camp, some change in the timbre of the roar awoke me near midnight. The background pounding of the surf was the same as ever, but laid over the top was the sound of waves rolling up our little beach, well upstream of the open ocean. Down on the beach, I found the tide within one metre of the kayaks, and pausing for a moment, I watched as the water sucked back out for perhaps 50 metres or more. For a few seconds, the river bed was exposed before a wall of water rushed in to run far up the beach in an organised wave, a mini tsunami on a river beach in the middle of the night. Thus, midnight found us struggling to find a place to store the kayaks out of the reach of the waves.
In the morning, the sun was out, a brisk wind was blowing from the west and the swell was still running up and down the beach in an extraordinary fashion. Out at the coast, we found a tiny tarn surrounded by cropped green grass, whale bones washed ashore ten metres above high tide, and a continuous line of swell breaking all the way out to Acacia Rocks, two kilometres off shore. In the afternoon, we paddled as far as we could up Mainwaring Inlet which was only about a kilometre before logs choked the river. At the river mouth, lines of breakers were rolling in, and Doug and Nick surfed a tsunami wave back into shore.
Mainwaring Inlet to Mulchay Bay:
A big day paddling over 40 kilometres and passing Low Rocky Point. Low Rocky Point is the dividing point for the marine forecasts for the west coast of Tasmania, and, at the end of the paddle day we will be only one days paddle from Port Davey. Both of these things seem auspicious and lead to a restless night for me, but perhaps it is a mild case of nerves thinking about paddling back out to sea after witnessing the latest big swell event. Whatever it is, I am awake even earlier than normal, but go through the usual morning routine of coffee in bed.
Today is another one of those days where going out to sea feels like a journey in itself. The deep water channel out is clear of breakers, and it is easier to avoid the bommies off-shore as we head south instead of coming in from the north, but, we paddle all the way out to Acacia Rocks before turning to the south. The water is rough at Acacia Rocks, with rebound, and current, and swell all colliding together, but once we are paddling south, a couple of kilometres off-shore, the familiar feeling of the rolling ocean swell is almost comfortable.
There is a small light station at Low Rocky Point where the coast turns abruptly to the east. From Low Rocky Point, we paddle gradually southeast drawing closer to shore the further south we get. At our furthest point we are eight kilometres off land at Elliot Bay and, at our closest, 800 metres off Low Rocky Point. There is nowhere to shelter so we just have one brief stop near Low Rocky Point.
Gradually, we draw closer to shore where deep Nye Bay is cut by the Giblin River. The massive Giblin River, which runs a torturous course twisting and turning first north then south, arises only a half dozen kilometres from the northern reaches of Payne Bay, a big northern arm of Port Davey. Our campsite for the night is at the head of a small south facing cove where deep water runs between extensive rocks and reefs. We paddle south until we are nearly one kilometre south of the entrance and can see the deep water channel. The cove itself is about 600 metres deep and remarkably sheltered.
It is a pretty little cove, narrow and deep with steep sharp rocks to the east and west. The shingle beach is littered with large fronds of bull kelp driven ashore over the last couple of days. There is flat grassy area behind the shingle beach, a view south to the ocean, sheltering trees behind camp, and a freshwater stream. It is another one of southwest Tasmania’s surprising and beautiful camps.
Mulcahy Bay to Bramble Cove:
We all wake early in the morning. The wind is forecast to rise, we have a long way to go, but we should be in sheltered waters by the evening. Although we have only been out eight days, there is something about paddling this exposed coast that weighs upon your mind. Each paddle day seems to feature so many unknowns and the uncertainty of our daily existence becomes wearing.
At 7 am, we lift first one boat, then a second, then a third into the water. No dragging the kayaks on this beach which is rocky at this tide height. I stand knee deep in the water holding the kayaks until we can all get in and paddle south to pass the mouth of deep Mulcahy Bay. We paddle past, in bumpy conditions, past Briar Home Head and Svenor Point. The entire marine chart from Low Rocky Point to North Head at the entrance to Port Davey is marked “unsurveyed.” The topographic map has more information and depicts a rocky coastline liberally splattered with rocks and reefs.
West Pyramid, at 87 metres high, is visible from far to the north. Earlier, we had discussed paddling inside (to the east) of West Pyramid so we could get a closer look at South East Bight and Davey Head, but as we approach the swell is standing up, there are reefs and bommies sporadically breaking and we are unable to visualise a navigable route from kayak height. Instead, we pass close by the Coffee Pot, an unusual rock feature with a pronounced spout and some very rough water. This would be a terrible spot to capsize as the wind has picked up and we can barely keep sight of each other as we pass by Sharksjaw Reef.
Conditions ease as we hit deeper water and we pass to the south of North Head, Point St Vincent, and Point Lucy. There is a moderate to strong westerly wind blowing and it is hard to work out which of the features to the east are the Breaksea Islands. A westerly bearing pinpoints a group of rocky islands that run north south for about two kilometres and, even from a distance, they seem vaguely familiar from various photos I have seen.
With the sails up, the surrounding hills and mountains seem to be flashing by but the scenery is certainly spectacular. Tall grey jagged cliffs line the northern coastline below Davey Head, and Payne Bay to the north stretches away further than we can see. Mount Milner marks the northern edge of North Passage, and we skirt around the northern end of the Breaksea Islands and are immediately into waters sheltered from the incessant swell.
We drift gently into more and more sheltered waters, the kayaks now skimming smoothly with the wind behind. As we pass to the north of Turnbull Head, Bramble Cove, a large sheltered bay on the north side of Bathurst Channel comes into view. There are three small beaches scattered around the northern edge and a larger beach at the northeast acme of the bay. We choose a small beach, just to the north of Datum Point to land the kayaks on a gleaming white sand beach. A stream runs in from the north and to the west, a defined track leads up and over one small headland, down to another tiny low tide beach, and finally, all the way to the summit of Mount Stokes at 484 metres.
Near Milner Head we had whizzed past a big group of paddlers with Roaring Forties, the local tour group. “You must be the paddlers from Strahan,” one paddler says. Over the week that we spend in Bathurst Harbour we will come to catch a small glimpse of the marine telegraph that runs between boats and people in Bathurst Harbour. News travels. News of tourists being air-lifted out for medical emergencies, broken outboard motors, weather windows and forecasts, and even three unknown sea kayakers on a journey down the west coast.
The strong westerly wind is a portend of the next days weather when a “strong and vigorous cold front” is predicted. Uncertain of what the weather will be like the next day, I change into walking clothes and set off on the track up Mount Stokes. The unsigned track climbs from the northeastern end of the beach over a headland, crosses another small beach where I jump a freshwater stream and then follows a spur ridge north and then east to a saddle between Mount Stokes and near by (and higher) Mount Berry. The track is fabulous. The views start the minute you begin climbing up the spur ridge and never let up.
From the summit, Bathurst Harbour and Port Davey are spread in a tableau. To the north is Mount Berry, to the west Mount Rugby, below me and to the south are Mount Parry and Mount Mackenzie. Bathurst Narrows is a thin line running east into Bathurst Harbour, and Melalueca Inlet, an even thinner line, running down to Melaleuca Lagoon. On the south side of Bathurst Channel is Mount Nichols and the Pasco Range. To the southwest, Spain Bay, where we will be in a weeks time, and farthest south, it is even possible to see Flat Witch Island in the Maatsuyker Island Group. It is a stunning view and without a cloud in the sky, a magnificent introduction to Port Davey and Bathurst Harbour.
Nick and Doug soon join me and we spend a half hour on the summit looking around before descending to camp. It is 7:00 pm by the time we have established camp and cooked dinner. A very full but very satisfying day.
A week of stormy weather begins as a sunny morning with brisk westerly winds. Leaving Bramble Cove, we sail and paddle east along Bathurst Channel, the easy conditions allowing us to relax and enjoy the scenery. At Clayton's Corner, we make camp under huge spreading tree ferns and 40 metre high gum trees but the “busyness” of Clayton's Corner is a culture shock after the preceding ten days of solitude. Over the three nights we are camped at Clayton's Corner yachts and power boats come and go with deadening regularity. Tourists are delivered to shore, where they walk a short distance into the woods before collapsing at the picnic bench, guides lay out elaborate morning teas, yachties get drunk in the cabin; it seems at some point that every boat within 100 kilometres visits the old house in the trees.
The weather is rainy, cold and blustery with westerly winds that tear across the water. In between storms we walk up Mount Beattie (multiple times), explore the small bays to the north, and paddle into Melaleuca. On our 12th day out, on another stormy, wet and windy day, we pack up in drizzling rain and paddle north to Bathurst Narrows. Doug and I laboriously carry our loaded kayaks across a shingle beach to a grassy ledge at the mouth of an unnamed creek on the eastern side of Mount Rugby. While Nick paddles further west to a camp at Bramble Cove, Doug and I walk to the top of Mount Rugby.
It is a Tasmanian track: narrow, overgrown, muddy and slippery, more akin to bushwhacking than walking a constructed trail. At the first saddle, at about 400 metres (above sea level) we get a view east into Bathurst Harbour before the cloud lowers and rain begins. The rain sluices down all the way to the top, although it would not matter, the vegetation now holds so much water we would be drenched anyway. I have worn my paddling clothes up as I don’t see any point getting my dry camp clothes wet and muddy, but Doug wears his camp clothes and these are not only soaked through but caked with mud by the time we scramble, carefully, onto the slippery boulders at the summit. There is no view, there have been no views for the past hour, so we shake hands and turn immediately and walk back down. Huddled under a tree near the the shingle beach we started from, we eat an energy bar, and then descend the last 50 metres to carry the boats to the water again.
In the four hours we have been on the trail, the wind has increased and is funnelling from the west down Bathurst Narrows, and the tide has also turned and is running like a river into Bathurst Harbour from Port Davey. It will be a long paddle to camp in Bramble Cove, at least the rain has stopped, although the clouds remain low. There is something so familiar about this scenario - we spent so long paddling into the wind training for this trip - that muscle memory takes over and we simply paddle west undeterred by wind and current.
As we paddle north into Bramble Cove, an orange and white splash on the beach resolves itself into a kayak, and a green coated figure, becomes Nick, down on the beach to help us unload our boats and carry gear up to camp. Near dusk, the tourists from a big cruise ship are ferried to shore where a table with drinks and snacks is quickly erected. The tourists stroll the beach past our camp, foreign creatures to us, dressed in fancy clothes and smelling of expensive cosmetics. Our experiences are worlds apart. They drink wine and feast on the finest foods while we drink creek water and eat meals prepared and dried at home. Whose experience is the more meaningful? If you believe, as I do, that meaning comes from “the happiness of pursuit” we are the more blessed.
South of the Breaksea Islands, Spain Bay is sheltered from the prevailing conditions but generally only visited by yachts and power boats on the evening before departure from Port Davey as these larger craft dash back to Recherche Bay during brief weather windows. On another drizzly windy morning we paddled from Bramble Cove over to the Breaksea Islands and spent a pleasant half hour exploring the sheltered eastern side. The islands are broken by tunnels and caves but conditions seldom permit entry into these as the western swell pounds the islands almost continuously.
From the Breaksea Islands we paddle past Shanks Islands and explore a cave at Knapp Point before paddling into Spain Bay and making camp. We locate a large established camp site under the trees where we can put a tarp up as more rain is expected. Multiple creeks run out onto the beach supplying tannin stained water and a track behind camp leads up to a 40 metre hill side overlooking Stephens Bay and the scattered and rocky islands off shore. It is two weeks since we left Strahan and we are anxious to paddle back out onto the wild west coast and continue our journey. Weather forecasts as usual dictate our schedule. Our next paddle day will be a long one and will take us around the rugged South West Cape with no guarantee of landing until we reach Ketchum Bay.
On our second day at Spain Bay, we walk over the heath covered hills south of camp and down to wave swept Stephens Bay. Doug scrambles up onto a rock wall by the sea and, as he begins to climb down, a hand hold pulls and he plunges from four metres up onto rocks and sand below. I have just arrived on the beach and watch with horror this catapulting fall. Small incidents such as this, no big affair near civilisation can be devastating accidents out here. I run, as fast as I can towards him and find him, shaken on the ground. Helping him up it is obvious that he has hurt one wrist badly. It swells almost immediately, is tender to touch and hard to move.
“Do you think it’s broken?” he asked. Truthfully, I don’t know. Fractures are hard to diagnose unless compound or displaced without scans and X-rays. We need, however, to believe it is not broken, so that we can complete the rest of the journey. With more confidence than I can truly claim, I say “I doubt it.”
We walk the beach of Stephens Bay all the way to Chatfield Point at the southern end but no-one has any appetite for scrambling further around the rocks. Doug is shaky much of the way and I rig a splint from a strap cannibalised from my back pack to support his arm from below. Overnight, Doug plunders the first aid kit and swallows pain killers as the throbbing of his wrist keeps him awake.
Over the next day, a few yachts and power boats move over to Spain Bay preparatory to departure for Recherche Bay. There is a short window of good weather forecast and no-one, least of all us, wants to miss it. I help Doug launch his kayak into the calm waters of Spain Bay during the day and he paddles around testing his wrist. I’ve strapped his wrist firmly with sport tape and dosed him with anti-inflammatories and, with some care he discovers he can paddle. He had suggested I tape his hand to the paddle, but this does not seem necessary.
We share the camp our last night at Spain Bay with a big group of paddlers with Roaring Forties. They are friendly people, but the sudden influx of 12 people to our secluded camp in the trees is a bit jarring. The lead guide turns out to be from a small town in British Columbia just 40 kilometres from where we used to live and we swap stories of skiing deep powder in the Selkirk Mountains during Canada’s long winters.
Ketchum Island:
It is a joy to paddle out of Spain Bay early on a sunny and calm morning. On the north side of Hillard Head the seas are calm and it feels somehow cheeky to paddle through a narrow gap between Hay Island and Knapp Point. The water is clear and long forests of kelp wave gently below us. Around Hillard Head there are steep cliffs that drop 150 metres into the ocean, they are dark and misty in the low lying sun. This far south, the sun always feels like it is on a winter trajectory, barely clearing the horizon and arching low across the sky rather than overhead.
Doug paddles slowly and tentatively at first but as we pass East Pyramids and Sugarloaf Rock, steep rocky islets in a breaking sea, he gains more confidence and our overall speed increases. To the south, 240 metre high South West Cape is a long tongue of land that protrudes into the Southern Ocean. When we turn the corner at South West Cape we will have finished the west coast and will be paddling east along the southern coast of Tasmania.
The westerly swell is incessant and constant as our course from Cape Hillard gradually trends southeast toward South West Cape. It is a day of incredible marine and bird life. Large pelagic fish are jumping clear of the water. Sooty Petrels soar around and around our kayaks in dizzying orbs, dolphins are shepherding schools of fish then cutting through to catch a meal, albatross soar and dip over the wave crests, gannets fly curiously overhead, circling back to fly lower and lower until they seem to graze our heads. Although I enjoyed our week in Port Davey, nothing compares to the exhilaration and elation of paddling the west coast.
A few kilometres north of South West Cape we reach McKays Gulch. We had hoped to land here for a short break out of the kayaks but, once we are close to the entrance, we can see the swell breaking across the entrance when the bigger waves come through. It is lumpy where we are sitting but we hang out for a bit assessing our options. We could get in, but the timing will be tricky, and after watching another large set of waves roll through we decide to forgo landing. Edging away from the cliffs to try and find smoother water, we float off-shore, trying to stretch our cramped legs and backs and eat a little something.
It is still four kilometres to South West Cape and, as we paddle south along 200 metre high rocky cliffs, it is all too easy to ruminate on how tricky the afternoon’s landing might be. In our minds, McKays Gulch was an easy landing possible in any conditions we would choose to paddle in, the reality has been significantly different.
But the scenery is too impressive to waste any energy worrying as we paddle past South West Cape and finally look along the south coast of Tasmania. It feels as if we pick up speed as we pass Karamu Bay, Wilson Rocks, and the deep and broad Wilson Bight; but it may just be that the swell feels almost behind us now and we paddle down the waves instead of up the waves. Near Telopea Point, a school of dolphins swims beside us. There is no doubt they know exactly where we are and are curious. They ride along the fronts of our bows, dive under our cockpits, surface close enough for us to touch them. A few times I have to stop paddling and throw in a back stroke fearful I might strike a dolphin. We are laughing with glee and grinning at each other in rapturous delight.
As we turn north, the dolphins continue east and leave us. At Ketchum Bay, we land on a small and sheltered beach but there is only a murky dark trickle of water and no where to camp. To the east, Ketchum Beach has a stout surf wave, but further east, Ketchum Island provides an easy landing on a white sandy beach fronted by deep water, waving kelp forests, and two excellent tent sites behind the beach.
The water off the beach is warm enough for a real swim after a very late lunch and a cup of tea. Doug is very thirsty, perhaps due to the medication he is taking for his wrist. Soon, he has drunk all the water we had brought with us from Spain Bay including my spare drink bottle I keep in my kayak. I am tired, but get back in the boat and paddle east and then back west looking for water. I end up back at the little cove to the west where I manage to collect a few litres of very murky and muddy water. Boiled up, it is suitable for drinking, and I give Doug almost all the water I have left, saving just enough for breakfast.
Deadmans Cove:
In one day of paddling we cover almost half of the length of the south coast of Tasmania and it is an amazing day. The wind is light, the swell has continued to drop overnight and now feels more behind us, we are surrounded by wildlife, both marine and avian, the scenery is stunning and we even get a lunch break out of the kayaks in Louisa Bay.
Doug’s wrist is still swollen but drugged up he is able to paddle and we leave early again paddling past the cliffs of New Harbour Point with the sun low in the sky. New Harbour is massive and deep, running almost three kilometres north where a long sandy beach fronts the ocean. On the eastern side, Cox Bluff is a very prominent headland over 300 metres high, and Cox Bight, is huge: seven kilometres wide, six kilometres deep and backed by the mountains of the Bathurst Range.
On the east side of Cox Bight we paddle close to stubby cliffs and rocky islets into Louisa Bay where Louisa Beach shines in the sun and Louisa Island stands rocky and austere at the southern entrance. Anchorage Cove provides an easy landing on small sandy beach with kelp forests waving on the rock reef and a good creek a short walk away. I am desperately thirsty after giving Doug all my water and the first thing I do upon landing is walk the 50 metres to a deep tannin stained creek fill two water bladders and drink my fill.
We paddle past the south side of Louisa Island which is a labyrinth of caves and grottoes, clear water, kelp forests and reefs. Further east, near Havelock Bluff, the dolphins return, again swimming under and around our kayaks. A flock of Sooty Petrels takes off as Nick paddles east and they swirl dizzily around and around and around us. Havelock Bluff is high, 430 metres, and there are deep caves incised into the cliffs. I am getting tired, two days of too little food and water, but, as we pass Lousy Bay, the dolphins appear again, these marine friends that brighten my mood and lessen my fatigue. At Purrar Point, as if knowing their work is done, the dolphins dive one last time and swim off to sea, we turn to the north and are soon paddling into Deadmans Cove, a small sheltered bay with a view to Ile Du Golf.
Deadmans Cove is not easy for kayaks to land or camp. There is only a very little bit of sand at the lowest tide and the beach itself is rounded cobble stones, slippery to walk on, and harsh on kayaks. We manage to get the kayaks ashore on the eastern side of the cove, and I, with great difficulty, stuff my kayak into the bush sliding it home on a mossy log. Nick and Doug build platforms from fallen logs for their kayaks above the high tide mark.
The South Coast track passes by Deadmans Cove and there is a big campsite on the southwest side of the cove which is virtually inaccessible to us, but, up a steep track, we find a clearing where an old hut once stood and set up camp in the late afternoon. The first thing I see at camp is a Spotted Quoll. Devilishly cute but seriously unafraid of humans. The Quoll wreaks havoc on our gear over the next few days no matter how careful we are with food and garbage. It chews three holes in Nick’s tent, tears strips out of four or five dry bags, and eats a big hole through our rain tarp and even chews the foam out of my paddling helmet.
As the days pass, Deadmans Cove begins to feel appropriately named. Bush walkers travelling east to Cockle Creek come and go, while our camp becomes a fixture, a place for walkers to stop and chat before heading east to Prion Beach. Every day the wind blows and there is either a strong wind warning or a gale warning. The sound of the surf and the wind, the driving rain, the flapping tarp, all these things begin to send us a little crazy. I feel like the toll of this trip on our gear, our minds, our bodies is beginning to mount. Nick gets bitten by a jack jumper ant and his leg swells from toes to knee, Doug’s wrist is still swollen and bulges over the tape I put on at Spain Bay, and, in what feels like the final piece of absurdity, while we are sitting around camp listening to the wind blow, two of Nick’s tent poles spontaneously snap, one right after the other.
South Cape, Southeast Cape and Sullivan Point:
We left Deadmans Cove as the sun was rising over the South Cape Range. There was no wind, and the swell had fallen to normal southwest coast heights. Out at sea, we were still paddling up and down the great ocean swells. I remember looking behind me at one point and watching Doug slide down a big wave, his entire kayak sitting aside the height of the wave.
Deep in Prion Bay, the surf was glistening in the early morning sun, waves threw spray to hang in wispy tendrils from Hen and Chicken Islands, there were deep shadows along the Fluted Cliffs leading to South Cape, where currents ran fast and conditions were lumpy. As we crossed South Cape Bay, the dolphins returned and swam beside our kayaks again. It is easy to anthropomorphise these playful creatures of the sea, kayakers and dolphins seem to have an affinity: we both love wild places and untamed seascapes.
At South East Cape we paddled past as close as we dared, feeling very much the sadness of this magnificent adventure drawing to a close. I expected the swell to diminish around South East Cape, but, as we passed Whale Head, tall waves rose up again and, as we paddled north to the Tasman Sea, we all sped up, paddling fast, catching one last ocean wave to ride north along Big and Little Trumpeter Bay , Second Lookout Point, First Lookout Point, the land and sea becoming more tame, less wild, with every kilometre we travelled.
At Recherche Bay, after almost 50 kilometres of what I rank as the best ocean kayaking of my life, light northerly winds enabled us to pull up our sails and relax for the last few kilometres north to a beach of stunning white sand backed by tall eucalyptus. We landed through small surf and dragged the kayaks ashore. I swam one last time in the cold refreshing waters, we set up camp for one last night, we walked the squeaky white sand beach as the cold moon of night dropped over the ocean.
Southport:
Paddling north to Southport, I eschewed a cagoule for the first time and the last time. The sun was warm, but short lived; by afternoon, another cold front would sweep across Tasmania bringing strong winds and driving rain. We enjoyed our last mornings paddle past long sandy beaches, sheltered lagoons, and scattered islands. At the entrance to Southport we were not quite sure where we needed to land so took one last bearing and paddled in slowly, almost delaying the end of the trip, until we pushed the kayaks up onto a deserted beach.
A couple of tourists drove by, but otherwise, there was no-one around, no-one to witness the end of our journey. I propped my camera on a dry bag and took a photo of the three of us standing beside our kayaks on the beach as the clouds gathered behind, but my favourite photo is the one I snapped of Nick and Doug immediately afterwards, holding paddles like spears and hamming it up for the camera, both of them with full beards testimony to how long we had been away. My companions, my friends, the people who make our most poignant and memorable trips possible. My love, my thanks to both of you.
