Gorgeous Herbert

When does a dedication become an obsession? Perhaps, as some people think, when it borders on lunacy. A fine line, and very debatable.

I was first introduced to the upper Herbert River by my friend, Les - There are some gorges further up, past the Top of the Road, and, whilst he supervised the Slalom Canoe Championships at Coldwater, I, mapless, and ignorant of the distance involved, fondly imagined I could reach the promised land. I did not, of course, but I did fall under the spell of the lovely river, and looked far up into the mountains from whence it came. Another seed germinated, of which I wrote in a previous newsletter - why not use a kayak for a faster descent? Two years were to elapse before J. and I pulled and pushed a Canadian past Yamanie and the Bends to where we imagined Smoko Creek entered the Main River.

This year we carried a fortnight's supply of food and left caches at upstream camps to feed us on our return. Another change of plan - we would not make long day journeys, but would travel only for a few hours around noon, eliminating the necessity of a day's rest, as in our 1977 venture. This system worked well, and, although the weather now broke, we made two walking divergencies, one, up Sword Creek, which proved rather flat and uninteresting, and the other up splendid Yamanie Creek to the magnificent Falls, which we had not seen before.

Onwards, making camp every few miles, until we came to the highest point of our previous expedition, only to find our surmise of Smoke Creek fell half-a-mile short, and that this water was only a secondary lead from the parent river.

Now, into the unknown; the wide valley gradually closed in as we established Top Camp, a lovely place, where a small stream trickled through a casuarina dell to join the placid lagoon of the river. Our supplies were running short, and I even began to dream of food, and we should have had to take another hitch in the belt if I had not thrown in a line and landed three black bream in twenty minutes. These helped considerably in our final walk up the river. First, the usual round stone walk and then we entered the gorge proper, with deep, green pools in glaring pinky rock, and some difficulty of terrain where the granite walls skirted the water. But we revelled in this glorious country, and walked on to a good landmark – a big rock that resembles a dog's head, which we calculated to be 38 kms from the Top of the Road and only 4 kms from where Blencoe Creek joins the Herbert. We were thrilled to be so near, and J, obviously bitten deeply by the Herbert "bug," said, "Why not make it the 'Year of the Herbert' and finish the whole gorge?" What could I do but enthusiastically assent, and so began the planning to complete the exploration of the 80 kms of the whole system - from Top of the Road to the Herbert Falls.

We had drooled over the Club's slides, maps and descriptions of the river at the Herbert Falls, so decided to do that section first. Canoes from Glen Eagle to Point A – at the head of the southward loop, then overland to Point B to establish a camp, walk upstream to the Falls and downstream to Point C.

After about 18 kms of easy paddling between sandy banks the river alters – spreads out and flows between small trees. These sieve the waters so thoroughly that forward progress with the canoe became almost impossible. So, back we turned to the western head of the loop, passing Wallaby Rock, named from the dozens of wallabies that run round its caves. It was also here we saw swans, several crocodiles, a flock of stilts and a few black bream. Crossing from "Exchange Camp" we left the canoe and shouldered packs to the camp above the Falls, full of wonder at the deep gorge and rushing water. Across the river, downstream we found some fine falls. After a short stretch of rock-hopping, the way became precipitous – a rock-climber's paradise – "long curtains" of rock barred our progress, and we roped up and tried to find a ledge wide enough to give us passage. Up into a horribly loose grass, sand and rock conglomerate, thankful of the occasional tree that made the going possible. Then down to a happier, solid rock shelf, above Sugar lump Rock, from where we had to rope down 50 ft. to even get our lunch drinks, and also where we could see the corner opposite Point B.

Back-packing from the Falls Camp, we took a wide arc and came to the river just below Point B. But here were sheer walls of over 100 ft. or more. Downstream, up and over the cliffs, and we luckily found a gully, at the foot of which was a rock-climb of only 30 ft. On a small patch of sand, beside a field of tumbled boulders we set up Tumblestone Camp, and proceeded upstream to Point B and the steep bluff opposite. This is wild country, great rock citadels like castles on the Rhine and shiny curtains of rock falling down to the deep pools. The next day we walked and climbed what surely must be the shining diadem of the Herbert River. After a roped traverse of a "curtain" we entered a wide amphitheatre, with two waterfalls chattering into the green pools; but, what was more surprising, was that egress from the lower lake was between vertical walls of pink granite. Climbing on top we were further astonished to find a chasm 3 km. long, with perpendicular walls over 100 ft. high, broken only in two places — a Grand Canyon kind ... TEXT CUT OFF ... Herbert placidly wends its way. We soon came to a curtain impasse.

End of the line? No, for back-tracking, we were able to ford the river and clamber on the cliffs of the north bank. We lunched high above the sluggish river, and, as we sat I noticed an extraordinary thing "Sea-weed" clung to a green-leaved bush on this perched shelf! In flood, the water must surge well over 100 ft. deep! Another kilometre further, another rock curtain barred our way, but a fortunate break in the wall of the Canyon gave us, once more, a drop to water level, a short swim and a climb up the south wall. Shortly after, we came to the end of the Canyon, easier walking, and to Point C, our objective.

On the next sector, the middle one, we dispensed with the canoe, stayed nights in the van on the summit plateau, and dipped down to the Herbert River in three separate trips. Camped below Blencoe Bridge, we traversed the east side of the Falls, then steep walls to descend to the Blencoe-Herbert confluence, and comparatively easy going to Dog Rock. Coming back we followed an un-named creek that became harder and harder until it culminated in a lovely circular pool with a flimsy shawl falling from its precipitous side. Back to the toil of grass and sand - and such a long way to Bessie.

The following morning, this time north of the Look-out, I again encountered grass and sand. A loose foothold and down I plummeted, to be held bypretty green-leaved bushes – stinging trees! Tingling, more with pain than excitement, I entered an open creek to be pulled up aloft a sheer wall of 35 ft., and made good use of the double rope. Soon I was again on the Herbert: in the next opening to that which I came down, thousands of fruit bats gave discordant cries as they wheeled gracefully amongst the greenery. Deep pools and diagonal bands of diagonal glaring rock became the somewhat difficult Terrain. But not so strenuous nor hot as the ascent up to the Blencoe Look-out, and it was with great relief I spied "Bessie" through the trees. North by west for a few kilometres and once more we plunged down the bankings to the Herbert.

Here is Big Pool - a hundred metres diameter of cool, green glass, and, upstream, the heat shimmering on a canyon of dazzling, well-washed granite. A sandy beach, betokening an idyllic swimming and camping place - is it any wonder that we dallied, when, through the bifocaled reasons of our laziness and duty to the Club, I came out with another good suggestion. Why not leave the exploration of the last 6 kms. to other members who could surely surpass our snail-like progress? No, beautiful as it is, we should not hog the Herbert, and as we splashed in the cooling water, several black bream, unmindful of the depredations of mankind, came to see what disturbed the water. Indolently, lovely and graceful as a Debussy Prelude, they glided up to us exhorting us to another altruistic resolution: to only fish under the duress of dire hunger. We would much rather see them dreamily swimming in their natural habitat. Rather surprisingly, we found a fairly easy ascent, full details of which we will leave in the Club archives.

Dedication? Obsession? We care not what you call it, but this we do know, that wonderful memories will haunt until we come again to the glorious gorges of the Herbert River.

J. & H.