There are times when a place calls a traveler´s name. Whether by word of mouth or by the site of a picture, a seed is planted in the mind and it grows, grows, grows and manifests into an oak-sized idea--one with sturdy branches pointing towards a destination. In my case, Futaleufu.
The inception began the first time I sat in a kayak. I heard paddlers, like Ryan, talk about the big waters of the Futaleufu River and I had always wondered if my skills as a boater, or my wandering feet, would take me to this small town/big river in southern Chile. Well, turns out they did. Here´s my story.
Ever south bound we approached Chaitan--a volcanic war zone in which half the village was buried under tons of gray ash from the 2008 eruption. A land of stark contrast to the lush green forests and emerald blue coastline we had been driving through for miles upon miles in our rickety, old bus (yes, we have taken a few more buses since leaving Pucon). The high way, or meandering dirt road, intersected this erie world making us wonder if we had skipped planets while we dozed in and out of sleep. The mountain slopes were gray with destruction, the once green forest floor taking on the appearance of a giant ash tray. Ruined trees, with their lifeless branches set in a stiff, unyielding, rigor mortis, haunted the valleys with their ghostly shapes. And the rivers that once ran clear, bright, and blue, now cascaded downward--a substance resembling diluted milk. Hot, sulphuric gasses still floated skywards from the cratered remains of what use to be a mountain top--a constant reminder to the village of Chaitan that destruction still lurks under ground.
A night in Chaitan. A morning walk through the dried basin where the sea bound lahar had carried thousands of tree-corpses to their beach side graves. Pack our backpacks, load onto another bus, drive south--passing a road sign, ¨150 km to Futaleufu.¨
Entering the valley and home of de Rio Futaleufu was like stepping into a fictional land--somewhere so lovely that my mind, until now, has only seen comparisons deep in my imagination. Utopia! A wide valley with vibrant green fields and forests, sustained by arteries of rivers and creeks pulsing their way towards turquoise lakes and bringing with them life, so much life. Goats, horses, and cows grazed methodically around rustic log cabins situated happily through out the valley floor. Gauchos, frozen in time, coaxed their horses along the ever-narrowing dirt road. All this and more, so much more, surrounded by massive, glacier-coated, granite peaks.
I saw my first peek of it through the trees. A quick glimpse of blue. It flashed and danced through openings in the thick, road-side brush, never fully showing itself, as we flew down the dusty dirt road. Finally, nose pressed to the window, I saw it clear, and unobscured, for the first time. My heart beat fast as I instantly fell in love with the Futaleufu River.
Two days later I stood along its banks with a borrowed kayak and unyielding nerve. Our first date. Like any new start taken quickly and passionately, what was about to happen would either be an epic love story or a huge regret. A small group of us had gathered in the canyon that day to experience this torrent of white water. Six in a raft, including David (who tried to mask his concern for his adrenaline-seeking girlfriend)--and one other kayaker, Marselo--a local who was assigned to save the crazy gringo woman when she swam. Poor Marselo! He had the look of a doomed man when I told him I had not kayaked in over six months and that the only boat I had called mine was a small play boat (not exactly an ideal boat for big water). Dios Mio!
While the rafters received their safety briefing, Marselo and I paddled around in an eddy. A stern-looking man of few words--most of which was broken English--Marselo ordered me to show him my onside roll. I flipped over and rolled back up. He ordered an offside roll. Again, I rolled. He asked for another and another, meanwhile critiquing my form (with few words and much pessimism). Insulted by his blatant mistrust in my ability, I asked him if he thought my roll wasn´t good enough for the Futa. A cocked head, raised eyebrows, and shrugging shoulders translated what he didn´t want to say with words.
We scouted the first rapid ¨Entrada¨ from the shoreline. Marselo doing his best to force sobriety on me by telling me this was ¨a bad rapid¨, a class v with large, boat-eating holes. Little did I know at the time that a spot had been reserved on the raft for me if I chickened out. Marselo was trying to get me in that raft.
As we walked back to our boats Marselo asked if I was scared. I lied and said I wasn´t. As we sat in our boats and adjusted our neoprene skirts, he again asked me to roll. I knew it was as good as it was going to be so I told him ¨no¨ I would save my energy.
¨Si, save your energy to swim.¨ Was his ill-tempered reply.
Tired of his pessimism, I promised Marselo that I would not swim that day.
Twenty yards into Entrada, I was upside down about to attempt my second roll. My first try was shattered by a lateral wave that pounded me back over. Bad timing. I did manage, however, to get a gulp of air before re entering the airless world (which, I must say, was much more quiet and peaceful than the above world in which I was trying to get back to). As I reached my paddle towards the surface for another attempt, I wasn´t thinking about what a gnarly swim I might have to take, or about the chances of having myself and all my equipment recovered by the raft, no, stubborn pride kicking in, I was thinking about Marselo´s smug face and my promise. Man, I would look like an ass if I had to swim at the top of the first rapid!
I swept my paddle high and snapped my hips hard, and rolled up panting--looking less like a hardcore kayaker and more like a drowned kitten. I made it through the first rapid--barely--and was greeted by a smirking Marselo.
¨Welcome to the Futa.¨
Still breathing irregularly, I nodded my head.
¨You still want to go on?¨ He asked.
Again I nodded.
¨Okay.¨
Puente Colgante, Alfombra Mágica, Pillow, and many more rapids came and went--my feigned confidence growing into the real thing. I was tackling my biggest river yet and there are few words to describe the feeling. There are moments and pleasures in life that make a person feel excitement and alive. For me, kayaking is one of them. As I write this narrative my pen flies, and a smile shines on my face. I am a school girl eager to chat about my latest crush. Giddy. Elated.
The water was big and turbulent, and the canyon was deep and beautiful. Even Marselo had warmed up to me--giving me plenty of high fives and fist-bumps. All was perfect. I was beginning to think that the six month absence from the water, and all the paddling I had done in my imagination, had made me a better kayaker when Marselo´s smile (which he had finally shown) disappeared and he motioned for me to catch the nearest eddy. We had arrived at Mundaca--my class five giant.
Awaiting a pep talk, or more pessimism, I was surprised when Marselo told me that I had to choose my route. As if unwilling to take on the responsibility of deciding my fate, he made me pick.
¨We go left, take chicken line, but it is hard and trouble, big trouble, if you fuck up. Or we go right. We go big. It´s big, big, and you can´t flip or you get eaten by Mundaca.¨ He put his hand in the air, turned his palm upward, and wiggled his fingers towards himself in a ¨come hither¨motion. He was impersonating a breaking wave--a sticky one that might hold a boat in its grasp against a boater´s will.
Decisions, decisions. Since I was in South America about to do my first class v rapid, I decided that I would rather mess up going right, going big, rather than messing up on the chicken line.
The chaotic scene of turbulent water that ensued is hard to describe. I will say that it was awesome--in the true definition of the word. I paddled, or should I say, braced my way through Mundaca. A rowdy rodeo of downward explosion of hydraulics that bucked me left and right. And then came the hard fight to push left before being fed into the mouth of Mundaca itself. As I urgently paddled, feeling the gap between myself and this monster of a wave quickly close, disaster struck. I flipped. No thoughts had time to run through my brain--well, maybe a one syllable word--I was back up in a flash--fight and flight instincts joining hands. I had messed up. I paddled deep and hard, but my flip had thrown me off my safe line and I was being catapulted into mundaca´s belly. Marselo described it as big, but even with all his pessimism he didn't do it justice. Well, at least I went big.
I was in Mundaca´s palm and its fingers closed over my head as I hit the wall of water. What force! Holy hell! I was thrown backwards and pummeled endlessly. Mundaca held fast and I reached my paddle towards unknown currents in a desperate attempt to get pulled free.
Finally I felt a tug as friendly green water pulled against my paddle and released me from Mundaca´s vice grip. I rolled up, wide eyed and exhilarated, to the sound of cheering and the sight of David´s relieved face. He had just witnessed his girlfriend getting swallowed alive. What shocked me more than Mundaca itself was Marselo´s huge smile and his comment; ¨Your roll is good.¨
Later that day Marselo asked me if I was scared. ¨Of course I was!¨ I replied. His smile was big. ¨¡I knew it!¨
My love for water and adventure met at the banks of the Futa--the dream fulfilled for now. I want to come back one day and do the infamous upper section--no place for a paddler without a strong brace to keep from flipping. There is talk in the air about future plans to dam this great river and others in Chile. It appears that clean energy does come at a cost. My hope is that the citizens of Chile do not give in to the pressures and promises of progress, that the roads remain dirt, and the landscape rugged. I hope they fight and preserve these wild, precious treasures of Patagonia because its loveliness can not be replicated or replaced. And I truly hope that one day I will return and once again travel the road to the Futa.
