|
|
|
| Current Issue |
|
|
| Resources |
|
|
|
Rafting the Chasm of Peace in Tasmania
| Article
# : |
10526 |
|
|
Section : |
LIFE
|
| Issue
Date : |
1 / 1993 |
4,890 Words |
| Author
: |
Richard Bangs; photos by Pamela Roberson
Richard Bangs and Pamela Roberson have worked on assignments
on six continents. They are coauthors most recently of Island
Gods. Bangs is the founder of SOBEK Expedition, an
international travel-adventure company. That has become part
of the California-based Mt. travel-SOBEK. His Riding the
Dragon's Back won the Lowell Thomas Award for the best travel
book of 1989. Roberson is a fine arts and locations
photographer who specializes in minority cultures and
wilderness areas. Currently, Bongs and Roberson are working on
a new book Mountain Gods. |
On New Year's Eve a little more than ten years ago, I joined hands with a group of strangers on a bridge spanning the Stanislaus River in Northern California. It was a nonviolent protest closing a long battle against the New Melones Dam. The Army Crops of Engineers closed the floodgates in 1979, and by 1982 the most popular river run in the West was entombed under a 24-mile-long "lake."
At around the same time, a battle was waged to save a not dissimilar limestone-encased waterway, the Franklin in south-west Tasmania. The Franklin is scarcely known; fewer than five hundred people had negotiated its rough waters before 1980. Isolated Tasmania, traditionally governed by populist predevelopment politicians, was suffering from high unemployment and a sagging economy. It was widely believed the cheap electricity a troika of dams could provide would attract much-needed industry and provide a new affluence. Yet, somehow, in a sleight of logic that remains elusive, the fight to stop the dams on the Franklin became a cause celebre among Australians, who rallied in peaceful protest. A government was toppled. Tasmania's last wild river was saved.
THE START
Now, I was going to visit the Franklin. Shortly after Christmas I was met in Tasmania by John, who would lead our little expedition, and Andrea, a world-champion kayaker. Two days later, with a party of twelve, we traveled the Lyell Highway to the put-in of our trip: a tributary of the Franklin, the Collingwood River.
It was a blustery, lachrymose day. The gauge on the concrete bridge abutment read 1.2 meters, giving me pause. The guidebook I was carrying stated the river should not be attempted if over 1 meter. John, unconcerned over the water level, merrily rolled out the rafts. I would paddle with the other two Americans on the trip, Steve Marks, an agent at the Hollywood talent agency ICW, and Pamela Roberson, the trip photographer. Than John gave us his orientation, and we all buckled into our one-size-fits-nobody plastic helmets and slipped into our met suits and booties--all except John who, seemingly impervious to the weather, wore only a pair of shorts over his striped long thermal underwear and wool socks in his sandals.
By 12:30 I was sailing on a river of primal intensity on a frail chip of a raft. Above, a block cockatoo, a harbinger of bad weather, screeched in the wind, and below, the river slurped, appearing as dark as the bird as a result of the tannic acid eluted from the
...
Read Full Article
Look for this article in Ask.com
|
|
