DULKARA MARTIG
Packrafting adventures in the Kimberley
Ifirst heard about the Kimberley from Ben Weigl, during the first New Zealand packrafting meet-up in Murchison in January 2016. Red rock, Aboriginal art, crocodiles, amazing fishing, interesting and varied paddling, in one of the most remote corners of the earth.
We were an eclectic team of five from all ages and walks of life, brought together by our shared love of packrafting and remote wilderness travel.
Brad and Marg flew in from Anchorage, Alaska, excited for some sunshine after a long, cold winter. Sebastian, also known as the ‘‘French Dundee’’, lives in Darwin and has been on several multi-week solo adventures through remote parts of Western Australia. Ben came from his home in South Australia, and I flew in from New Zealand.
From Darwin, we had the option of driving 1000 kilometres or catching another flight to Kununurra. We did the latter. From there, we chartered a small bush plane and flew for more than an hour into the Northern Kimberley, landing on a dirt runway beside Drysdale River Station.
Our plan was to packraft about 150km of the Drysdale River before crossing an escarpment on foot to reach the Carson River, then paddling as far as we could before the river got too small or we entered saltwater crocodile country. We had around 12 days to make it to Kalumburu, a town on the Timor Sea where we were due to fly out from.
From Drysdale station, we rattled down a dirt road in a truck to a calm pool by the river. A tree with markings on it highlighted how high the river could rise in the wet season. The station owner mentioned that the high water line this season was at least 20 metres higher than the meandering braid we would start paddling. We’d timed our trip perfectly.
We started floating downstream through thick pandanus and paperbark, with squawking flocks of corellas swooping overhead. Our first camp was a red rock ledge. We soon settled into river life, with crickets singing, frogs croaking, birds chirping, and freshwater crocodiles sliding under the surface as we collected drinking water.
Solea Falls, along with a few other rapids in the lower gorge, forms a good geographical barrier to saltwater crocodiles in the Drysdale River. The Drysdale is predictably random, a jigsaw puzzle of long stretches of stillwater, waterfall rapids, and sections where water flows through dense pandanus groves, turning into class II wave trains before popping out into pools up to 7km long.
We negotiated tree sieve rapids, larger drops and technical boulder gardens. Some sections were as flat as a lily pond, windless and without current to help us along.
While scouting a steep, technical rock garden rapid, a large freshwater crocodile leapt out from under a rock Brad was perched on. It was hard to know whether we should be more intimidated by the boulder gardens or the crocodiles.
We regularly stopped for shade and a swim, and to release some air from our packrafts – otherwise, they’d pop in the hot sun. Most days, we saw freshwater crocodiles – usually two beady eyes on the surface before a big thrashing sound as they darted off into the pandanus.
On our first day, a jabiru flew overhead, its big wingspan stretched out for us to see. A couple of days in, we caught our first black brim. Each evening, we set up camp on the sand or hot rocks and cooked dinner over a fire.
On our fourth morning, we saw our first cane toad, an invasive species that has only just made it to the Drysdale River. Brad later recorded: ‘‘The ground in front of us seemed to hop in all directions. The cane toads in the track were thick and freaky, baseballs and softballs that were hard to tell from rocks in the moonlight until they moved just before we stepped on them.’’
The Kimberley has the first signs of human impact in Australia. You can still find rock formations and rock art that is at least 12,000 to 17,000 years old, depicting spirits, festive scenes and other wanjanas.
The Carson is a totally different style of river, shallower and clearer. It’s narrow, winding its way through pandanus, with fruit bats, freshwater turtles and loads of fish.
The Carson would spit us out close to Kalumburu. Without any natural croc barriers, salties were a constant possibility. I felt uneasy as the pools got bigger and we got further downstream.
We opted to be conservative and take out upstream of the old Carson Homestead, where the river started getting bigger. It felt weird when travelling by packraft was so much more efficient than travelling on foot.
Myself and the Alaskans opted to travel at night, to avoid the intense midday sun. In Brad’s words: ‘‘The day before had nearly done us in. Cutting away from the river crosscountry over stony ground through head-high speargrass under heavy packs and an Australian sun that smote like a hammer had caused a collective meltdown.
We had been saved by a water hole where we lay fully clothed for two hours before heading back into the heat. My feet were now black and swollen, and a tinge of fear had crept into my mind. I’d been hotter, I’d gone longer and much harder, so why was I suffering so badly here in the Kimberley?’’
We finished our journey by walking 80km on old dirt roads into Kalumburu. Local children gave us surprised looks and asked how we got there. The road wasn’t due to open for another few weeks, and we were the first visitors in six months.
The local reporter wrote: ‘‘Word on the street early this Kalumburu morning was that a strange group of backpackers had arrived in town. I went to investigate, and lo and behold, I found a New Zealander walking out of the shower at the campground. On Thursday 26th April, Dulkara Martig walked the final 20km stretch of the Kalumburu Road, making her the first tourist to arrive in town for 2018. She headed straight to the store for an ice cream!’’
It was hard to know whether we should be more intimidated by the boulder gardens or the crocodiles.