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.
PC: DB
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.
PC: DB
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.
PC: DB
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.
PC: DB
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.
PC: DB
Bathurst Harbour, Melaleuca and Spain Bay:
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.
PC: DB
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.
PC: DB
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.
PC: DB
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.
PC: DB
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.
