First Glimpse of the Tarn Valley

Reeling from a 6-hour jet lag followed by 4 hours of sleep the next night, I make a mistake reading the map that cost us at least three hours of driving time. We head for St. Etienne instead of St. Enimie. We call François and let him know we'll be late. "Ou la la!" he says. But no matter, we're still on, though the put-in will be at 15H (3 PM) instead of 10 or 11. François greeted us in the unlit doorway of his ancient stone outbuilding, wielding a ring of large iron keys. I immediately like him, his ageless eyes looking out from a creased and bearded face. He speaks almost no English but is used to getting his point across. We have selected the 72 km trip, the longest one offered and usually not until much later in the season.

Don't even think about kneeling

After going over the route, the dams, the portages, hazards and landmarks, we look at the boats. Oh God. Polyethylene canoes designed much like a sit-on-top, with molded seats and footrests. At least a hundred pounds, though their website says only 86. The flat, corrugated bottoms didn't look too maneuverable and proved not to be. I select one of these for Amy and myself and Carp picks a solo sit-on-top, which is pretty good, but alas is not a canoe and even worse, means that I have to take most of the gear in the canoe. All the boats were a nice lemon-lime two-tone.

The price was extremely reasonable. At 18 euros a day (under 20 bucks), it was far cheaper than anywhere else. The price not only included bateaux, paddles, life vests, waterproof barrels and wetsuits if desired (we brought out own), it included a shuttle to the put-in at Ispagnac, one from the take-out at Aguessac, and a motor-portage around Pas de Souci, which I interpreted as "no worries", but Amy pointed out could mean "threshold of fear". You might ask a goldfish after it'd been flushed down the toilet what it would be like to run that stretch. It was a total boulder sieve. In real canoes, we could have easily portaged the ½ kilometer ourselves, but that friggin rental would have required rolling logs and winches so the motor portage was well appreciated.

Ah, four days of good current and a tailwind.

Hal yearns for a pole

But I get ahead of myself. We put in at Ispagnac or Espagnac, depending on whether you believe the spelling on the map or the sign. Proper spelling seems to be optional on all the landmarks around here. It's overcast and threatening to rain as we load up the boats and shove off into the crystal clear waters of the Tarn. There is a higher put-in a few kilometers up at Florac, but its class III-IV and beyond our skill level, especially in these boats. The sit-on-top had room only for the waterproof barrel, which we loaded with all the food. Amy and I took the two tripper packs, a 5-gallon lidded bucket and a large dry bag. Loaded, the boat weighed well over 200 pounds. Everything was tied down but the dry bag between Amy's feet and a length of rope, tucked under some gear.

Afloat at last! I don't remember much of the scenery from those first few hours; I am preoccupied with making this barge respond as we drop through multiple class II drops with some bordering on class III. We make a poor showing as my frazzled brain tries to apply normal paddling technique. Had I been used to paddling a submerged log, I would have been better off. Trying to turn the boat by stern sweeps largely results in just going faster in a straight line. Within the first two hours of the trip, we enter a class II-III rapid. It starts as a wave train that curves to the right, then spills into a mid-river rock, which must be passed on the right. Carp goes first, flitting around in that little mosquito of a craft and turns to wait below. Following his line, we try to cross over to the right, ride the current next to the wave train and safely avoid the rock. No dice, we can't get over far enough and we hit the wave train. Water pours in over the low gunwales, filling Amy's compartment first, then the middle compartment second. My third compartment stays pretty clear of water. The hollow construction of the boat provides plenty of flotation, but all down low and the boat wallows to one side then the other. Of course, we wash right into the rock and spill. Ice cold water, I am very happy to have my wetsuit on. I shout at Amy to swim clear of the boat while I grab hold of the rear toggle. She swims over to Carp, who has already rescued the dry bag and he paddles her ashore while I swim to shore with the boat. He goes out again and gets a loose water bottle. All told, we lost a length of rope and a chapstick from my pocket. It's late in the day; leaden skies and we just took a cold swim. Sean swings into action again and fires up the stove for some cocoa and presses some warm dry fleece onto Amy. I am glad that he knows just what to do and doesn't mind parting with some dry clothes. We're soon back on the river but I'm still feeling chilled and ask that we start looking for a campsite. Not a bad idea anyway, since it will be dark in about two hours.

"Camping Sauvage" (camping like savages)

While keeping an eye out for a good campsite, Amy and I perfect a decent technique to turn the boat. When Amy paddles on the right and I'm on the left, I tell her to rudder right by extending the paddle out front and to the right, and we turn right. To turn left, I rudder. An occasional cross draw, back paddle etc. and we seem able to stick to our line through some tricky stuff.

Now "wild" camping is prohibited on the Tarn as well as most places in France. Some really good news that was disguised as bad news was the fact that we were paddling off-season. This meant that the public campgrounds were all closed. Therefore, we were required to camp anywhere we darn well wanted. Of course, being off-season also meant we were the only ones on the river. Such a shame.

We found a nice sandy beach for our campfire, with flat, level grassy shelf up in the trees for the tents. Perfect. We couldn't ask for better. Nothing like cooking over a campfire to soothe the spirits. It began to soak in that we were doing the impossible, wilderness camping in Europe on a remote stretch of a beautiful class II river.

After a long and well deserved sleep, the new day finds us refreshed and eager to paddle, though the start was none too early. Daylight and a clear mind allow me to appreciate my surroundings for the first time. The valley and gorge have a dreamlike quality. The rocks were the same as home, the waves and lines of passage were too. But to descend such a mild river between the enclosing ramparts and towering spires of the gorge were incredible. The vertical cliffs hemmed in the steep talus slopes leading to the river's edge.

Amy walks on water

At first glance, it looks wild and untouched. A lingering view reveals a human touch to the lichen covered rock outcroppings. On these slopes, centuries of peasant labor went into the construction of stone walls to support small level terraces of earth, presumably to grow grapes or olives. I could picture vineyards draped across the steeps, the small stone outbuildings scattered here and there filled with produce or implements. Occasionally, castles loom over the river, no more than a walled cluster of stone houses sprouting from hillside outcrops. Cascading torrents and waterfalls seem to be a necessary feature for a castle to germinate. Many abandoned, some occupied, they all share the same stone walls, shingled with the same flat stones. The only color is the painted doors and shutters, usually a muted and weathered green. High above the living quarters, nestled at the foot of the vertical rock walls, we see small churches, their bell towers adorned with the Roman cross. Later we realize that these aren't churches, but sentry buildings; they overlook the approaches to the settlements and the bells would sound an early alarm. It is in this valley that one begins to understand the simple but tedious medieval life.

Sean explores a cave waterfall

An unanticipated disadvantage of to paddling off season presented itself on the second day. We were getting used to the long lunches that business owners seem to enjoy and we heeded François' warning about the stores closing at noon in St. Enimie. So our late start on Thursday meant we couldn't make it to town by noon. No big deal, we thought, we'd just wait. And wait and wait. Nothing opened. We didn't realize that he meant they didn't reopen at all until the next day! So I went into the one bar that was open, ordered a few country ham and cheese sandwiches, some cocktail fruits and a few beers to go. There. That should last us until tomorrow when we reached the next town. Unfortunately, neither La Malene or St. Rozier had open grocery stores at all. The boulongerie (bread store) and the butchers were open in La Malene, also a gourmet gift shop that had a few food items on the shelves. We took the last bag of noodles, the last box of rice and a can of strange mushroom and gnocchi in sauce. We bought fresh baguettes and some great cuts of meat. That was it for open stores. By the end of the trip we were eating jelly from the jar with a spoon.

Reading rapids, making miles and watching history scroll by made for a surreal four days on the river. I could imagine our campsites on sand bars were the same ones that wandering traders used when approaching the strongholds. Footprints in the sand still reveal what kind of game was available. Strange cleft-hoofed tracks makes us think of feral pigs. Hairy looking vines on the trees makes me recoil, thinking of poison ivy, but it’s just English ivy.

Stone. Everything is made of stone. Bridges, houses, roofs. Walls, wells, walkways. And all native. It is impossible to tell where the blocky sedimentary bedrock outcrops leave off and the house walls begin. The buildings seem to have sprouted there on their own.

Medieval town of La Malene

All too soon the valley widens, stone turns to stucco and the two iron bridges of Aguessac signal the end of the trip. We have done the impossible: wilderness camping and river tripping in France.

More:
Tarn Info
Peter's Report on the Dordogne, another great river in France: Dordogne
François Boulot's site: Canoë-Canyon