Hawkesbury River: Slowly down the river

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This was published 9 years ago

Hawkesbury River: Slowly down the river

The view from the kayak.

The view from the kayak.Credit: Scott Bevan

A leisurely paddle down the Hawkesbury is a passage through time, writes Scott Bevan.

For the firm of muscle and strong of will, it is possible to kayak the Hawkesbury River from Windsor to Brooklyn in a matter of hours. After all, hundreds do that every year in the Hawkesbury Classic paddling race. However, there is another - arguably more pleasurable and surely less painful - way to kayak the 111 or so kilometres down the river: slowly.

The Hawkesbury cuts through time. From Windsor, the river unravels towards the sea across flood plains and through spectacular sandstone country more than 200 million years old. Along its banks, the Hawkesbury tells the story of the earliest days of British settlement. This area blossomed into a food bowl for the colony. The river cradled a flourishing trade, as steamers carried passengers and goods up and down the Hawkesbury. The river was a lifeline for settlers, and it remains a timeline.

Ruins of Merrymount downriver from Ebenezer Church.

Ruins of Merrymount downriver from Ebenezer Church.Credit: Scott Bevan

Yet, as long as you're not competing in the Hawkesbury Classic, the river can also wash away time. As Mark Twain's river explorer creation, Huckleberry Finn, discovered when he rafted down the Mississippi, days can swim by "so quiet and smooth and lovely". With Huck's example, and the Hawkesbury's seemingly sluggish waters setting the pace, I allow three days to paddle to Brooklyn.

I launch the kayak on South Creek, just a few strokes from the Hawkesbury's waters. Looking upriver, I see Windsor Bridge and a showboat that would look more at home on the Mississippi. Maybe Huck is here. I turn right and begin paddling downriver.

On the banks, there are reminders this has been, and remains, rich agricultural country, with rusting sheds and the distant thrum of a tractor. But orchards and market gardens have been progressively replaced by "ski gardens". Weekenders, caravan parks and camping grounds sprout along the river, providing power boat enthusiasts and water skiers with easy access to the water.

This is no secret river; its waters are very popular. I hug the banks and watch out for boaties and skiers. Most are friendly. Four young blokes in a speedboat even offer me a beer. A few, however, seem intent on swamping the kayak. If you're seeking a serene paddling experience, avoid holiday long weekends.

A couple of hours' paddle from Windsor, perched above a languid bend in the river, is the oldest church in Australia. Ebenezer Church is more than the final resting place for many of the area's pioneers; it is also an ideal rest stop for a kayaker. While the sandstone church may feed the soul, there's also a cafe to feed the stomach. I have a Devonshire tea, piling the scones with home-made jam.

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Downriver from Ebenezer, I pass the ruins of a large colonial home, Merrymount, and the first of the sandstone escarpments. From here, the landscape becomes more theatrical as beautiful view after beautiful view glides by.

Finding somewhere to land can be challenging, not only because Mother Nature often forbids it. So do proprietorial humans. A common sign on the banks is "Private Property". So any plans of pulling up on the banks and camping where you will are scuttled.

I spend my first night at Jerimuda, a bed-and-breakfast between Sackville and Lower Portland. The house itself is on a ridgeline, but the property has a jetty and ramp, making disembarkation easy.

The owners, Kevin and Jenny, will meet you on the bank and drive you up the hill. After a day on the water, I'm to sleep on a waterbed, which is blissfully comfortable. Jerimuda offers stunning views over the river. I can see where I'll be paddling tomorrow, and it provides a glimpse into the past.

This country belonged to the Dharug, Guringai and Dharginung people. The river was called Deerubbin, which seems a better name than what the colony's first Governor, Arthur Phillip, devised to honour the distant Lord Hawkesbury.

The next morning, I paddle past more "ski parks" and camping grounds covered in a rash of tents along the banks. There is also a sprinkling of historic homesteads, looking like old matriarchs glaring imperiously through their verandas at the helter skelter of skiers, as if to say, "In my day, the river was for working, not for playing on."

I stop for lunch at the Paradise Cafe, on the bank opposite the junction of the Hawkesbury and Colo rivers. As it accepts water from another river, the Hawkesbury seems to broaden, much like my stomach after eating a pizza. I paddle off lunch by trying to keep pace with a houseboat on the run to Wiseman's Ferry. The towering escarpments along the banks are distractingly beautiful, as the afternoon sun burnishes the rocks and polishes the tree trunks until they glow. The light shows up the patterns and calligraphic marks on the rock faces, inscribed by time and water.

The village of Wiseman's Ferry is true to its name. In the distance, just beyond where the Macdonald River meets the Hawkesbury, I see the ferry. There are two punts along this stretch of the river, but "Wiseman's ferry" is the oldest, having been operating in one form or another for more than 180 years.

The man whose name is tied to the ferry, Solomon Wiseman, was transported to New South Wales because he was caught with stolen goods on another river, the Thames. Yet his fortunes changed with this river. The Hawkesbury, and his ferry service, helped make Wiseman a wealthy man. A legacy of his wealth is just five minutes' walk - even carrying a kayak - from the boat ramp to the village. His grand home, Cobham Hall, is now the Wiseman's Inn Hotel.

In the bar, I sip a beer while inspecting my paddle-blistered hands. Then I notice the thick sandstone blocks forming the walls and think about the blisters the convict labourers must have suffered hewing these. I swallow my complaint. I stay in one of the pub's motel rooms, which looks how my muscles feel. It's seen better days.

The next morning, a few tendrils of mist rise from the river as I paddle down Trollope Reach, named after a famous visitor to the Hawkesbury, the 19th century British writer Anthony Trollope. He compared the Hawkesbury to the Rhine and the Mississippi and declared "the river scenery as lovely as any which I ever beheld".

The lower Hawkesbury is still lovely. The river slices through two national parks, Dharug and Marramarra, and along the banks are thick curtains of mangroves, which part in places to reveal shacks. A few prawn trawlers are moored at wonky jetties.

Somehow nature gives the impression it still has the upper hand along the lower Hawkesbury. At times, I feel as though I have the river to myself. I hear only birdsong and the gurgle of my blades in the water. The river is tidal, so when the tide is running out, those blades in the water feel sweet and light. But when the tide is against me, I feel as though I'm paddling through molasses.

I reach the village of Spencer for lunch, devouring a burger on the jetty and joining the boaties who have moored here to watch the river and time flow by.

It is just a few hours' paddle to Brooklyn. The river yawns ever wider, and the human presence becomes more pronounced, with a string of homes on the shore and jetties poking into the water. Tracing the shores of Milson Island, I spot the bridges on the M1 and old Pacific Highway. I'm almost finished. But first, I paddle over to a piece of maritime heritage. Near some oyster leases is the wreck of HMAS Parramatta. The destroyer was there in the earliest days of the Royal Australian Navy, but she was eventually sold as scrap and ended up here, rusting in the mud.

As I paddle with ever greater enthusiasm towards the bridges and on to Brooklyn, I feel as free as the white-breasted sea eagle sitting in a tree high on the left bank. The sun slips behind the hills, and the river's skin dimples as the breeze freshens.

Looking around, I think of the celebrated poet Robert Adamson, who has netted the rhythm and soul of the Hawkesbury with his words. He writes in one poem, "I could easily disappear into/this landscape". I sense what he means. For the Hawkesbury has encouraged me to go with the flow and, for a few days, feel as though time doesn't matter.

TRIP NOTES

GETTING THERE

Windsor is an hour's drive north-west of Sydney.

KAYAKING THERE

It is easier to have your own kayak and lifejacket. You can hire a single kayak from Berowra Waters Marina (berowrawatersmarina.com.au), near the lower Hawkesbury River, for $120 overnight.

Able Hawkesbury River Houseboats (hawkesburyhouseboats.com.au) at Wisemans Ferry hires kayaks from $30 an hour. However, there are restrictions on where you can paddle the hired kayaks.

Take plenty of water and snacks, and paddle within your own limits.

MORE INFORMATION

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