A Raft With a View

The river's most dangerous section boils and rages for 10 km between steep slopes of impenetrable forest, and seeing it we realize why we were asked to sign such a staggeringly comprehensive insurance disclaimer. Most of the rapids in this treacherous gorge, where water levels surge rapidly after heavy rains, can't be done by raft. But while references to portaging in the trip notes conjured images of carrying the rafts down paths on the river bank, the reality in this boulder-strewn obstacle course is vastly different. It takes us two long days to traverse the gorge, from which we emerge bruised, tired and electrified. It's here that we truly slough off our normal lives; we might be journalists, public servants and businessmen out there, but in here we're hopelessly mortal, relying on our guides, ourselves and our next slippery foothold to get us through. Pat and our other guide, Dan, warn us that a fall here almost certainly means death, even as they have to leap onto wet rocks themselves to unsnag the rafts. We pull our little craft on ropes, use them as bridges to clamber over, tugging them as we inch backward along narrow ledges above frothing water. We push and pull them over boulders midstream, dropping them in the water on the other side and jumping into them one by one. Adrenaline flows as fast as the current, and we eat lunch ravenously atop a huge boulder onto which we've dragged the rafts, its surface so uneven we edge warily around them. At the rock's upstream end, where the water races furiously under the boulder, a river guide was once sucked under and drowned. That night the river booms through my dreams. We're through. Early the next day we're off again, stiff but elated. Wet socks, dirt in our cups of tea, even the plastic bags have long ceased to matter. First off is the ABC rapid, named for the raft full of camera equipment lost there by an unlucky TV crew, courtesy of a partly submerged log. No problem. By now we're at ease in our rafts; the blue one steered by Pat and dubbed the QE2 for its superior buoyancy and comfort; the Red Devil under Dan's control, a little leakier, a little lower in the water and a lot more daring under the 19-year-old guide's cool hand. Aboard the QE2 your chances of getting through a low-grade rapid without having to kick off a rock or get out and pull are much higher; in the Red Devil, we whoop with excitement as we shoot backward over small rapids. We race each other along open stretches, and glide in silence among perfect reflections, legs trailing in the cold water.

We are dizzied by the beauty around us, and then we reach Rock Island Bend. We've just rescued the Red Devil from being submerged, found the barrel of food that fell off it, and are more than ready for camp. But just before we get there is the Bend, which - since the photo of it by the late Peter Dombrovskis galvanized the anti-dam campaign - has become the river's iconic image, a tall island topped by a grove of trees clinging to its craggy head, a fine spray flaring around it. It is our high point; after that the rapids dwindle, and we paddle hard over long flat stretches for the next two days between sharp limestone banks where snakes lie warming in the sun. Finally, we swim into the Gordon, where the two rivers meet; a tradition, our guides assure us, though a painful one, for the Gordon, its waters released from a huge dam upstream, is even icier than the Franklin. The Gordon is flat and featureless in comparison, and by the time we reach the jetty where we're to be picked up by a yacht the next day, we're already missing the Franklin's language of fury and flow. Hot showers and beers are close, but there's more sadness than euphoria as we deflate our faithful rafts. The river has let us pass, but at a price - not in weariness or bruises, but in a twisting of the heart. Later that afternoon some tourists arrive on sea planes to visit a nearby waterfall, staring at our dirty clothes draped along the wooden walkway. Two different groups of people go by before we realize that none of us has asked them what's happened while we've been away. We're still in the Irenabyss, listening for the currawongs.