Kayaks Across The Andes

By late afternoon we were ready to launch. Spelius and his Chilean wife, Rosie, took the lead in their German double kayak. One by one we pushed off into the fast-flowing river. We were soon racing along faster than I had ever traveled in a sea kayak before. The tangle of thick temperate rain forest along the river’s banks appeared to flash by. We scanned the river ahead for sandbars and other obstructions while at the same time trying to take in the breathtaking vistas that opened up around every turn.

Chris and Rosie Spelius survey the route.

Later, we dragged our heavily loaded boats onto a wide sandy beach on river right for our first night’s camp. The haunting call of an ibis brought the day to a close.

The next morning we had paddled for only about an hour when we began to detect a slowing in the river’s current as we approached the upper end of Lago Yelcho. Our six boats fanned out into a wide arc as we crossed the lake’s open expanse toward a rocky point of land thrusting out from the northeastern shore about five kilometers ahead. Numerous waterfalls streamed down across the vivid green mountainsides that rose steeply for thousands of feet on all sides.

At our campfire the night before, Spelius had mentioned one waterfall in particular, Cascada Escondita (hidden waterfall), that was just ahead. As we rounded the rocky point, we could hear the waterfall, but it still remained hidden from view. We paddled one by one into a deep cleft in the granite cliffs that led to the base of a thundering hundred-foot-high waterfall.

Back on the open lake after lunch, my paddling partner, Kinsey, and I began to feel like a finely honed team, even though expedition sea kayaking was a new experience for him.

Gracias Dios, the infamous Patagonian winds, had not made an appearance. Spelius and Rosie were far ahead, hoping to reach yet another idyllic campsite several hours ahead on the northeastern shore of the lake.

Suddenly, I noticed a disturbing change on the lake’s surface in the distance. “Kinsey, look!” I said, pointing with my paddle toward a distinct dark line on the water. A powerful wind shear was quickly bearing down on us. “Get ready,” I shouted. I snatched my water bottle and wool cap from beneath the deck bungee cords and stuffed them into the cockpit. I snapped my sprayskirt back in place just in time.

The wind slammed into us, and with amazing suddenness the placid lake transformed into rolling whitecaps. Two-foot-high waves broke over the bow and struck me full in the chest. “Rudder right,” I yelled back to Kinsey. We headed closer to shore, hoping for more protection from the squall.

Glancing back a few minutes later, I was alarmed to see that the other boats had not followed us. They remained in mid-lake, exposed to the full force of the wind and waves. The distance between us quickly widened, and we soon lost sight of the other boats.

Another hour of hard paddling brought Kinsey and me into the lee of a rocky point where Spelius and Rosie had pulled ashore. One by one, the others limped in behind us, clearly showing the strain of battling the wind and waves. They clambered out of their boats and hobbled across the smooth, glacier-polished granite that lined the shore. “Let’s go have a look around the corner,” Spelius suggested. The view on the windward side of the point was definitely not encouraging. The beach that he had hoped to reach was barely visible across a sea of whitecaps on the distant shoreline.

Discussing the days challenges

Spelius wisely made the decision to stop where we were for the night. It was hardly an ideal campsite, but everyone agreed it was better than heading back out into the dangerous conditions.

The wind continued to howl throughout the afternoon. “Cuervo must be unhappy,” Spelius mused as we lingered after dinner. Cuervo is the leather-backed monster that has long been rumored to dwell in Lago Yelcho. For generations, campesinos have warned their children not to venture near the lake at night.

The next morning the wind had vanished, and the lake was transformed back to the tranquil state of the previous morning. The Andes were reflected in the lake’s near-perfect mirror surface. We slipped into our kayaks and continued paddling west through the mountains, toward the distant sea.

That afternoon we passed beneath the bridge spanning the outflowing Rio Yelcho. The towering, ice-capped Andes were now mostly behind us. We were entering the lower, lusher coastal mountains. The riverbanks became more crowded with exotic ferns and bamboo.

The Rio Yelcho, swollen by innumerable tributaries, had grown into an even more formidable giant than the Futaleufu. It was exciting to be swept along by the river current again, but also a bit intimidating. The technique we’d learned back on the Fu, to maintain steerage by paddling faster than the river itself, became essential once again. Catching backwater eddies along the shore, a basic maneuver practiced by river kayakers when running whitewater, was often impossible in our long, slow-turning sea kayaks.

The next morning as we prepared to launch, I asked if there were any difficult rapids ahead. Told that there was no serious whitewater on this final stretch of the Yelcho, I concluded that it was safe for Kinsey, my less experienced partner, to take the aft cockpit and be the rudderman.

Cascada Escondita plunges out of the high Andes

At first, everything went smoothly. It was remarkable how quickly Kinsey’s kayaking skills had evolved. He had learned to always take the inside line approaching a bend in the river, and was careful to direct our boat down the smooth channels where the water ran deepest. We paddled continuously to maintain steerage as we moved swiftly down the river.

By mid-morning, the canyon walls began to steepen on both sides of the river as it narrowed and its current increased. Then the Yelcho made a tight turn to the left. We came around the bend and confronted a frightening situation. Straight ahead, the water boiled menacingly around a succession of huge, gnarly trees that had washed into midstream. Stunned, Kinsey and I both stopped paddling, and the powerful current quickly spun us sideways. Now we were out of control and being swept rapidly downriver, straight toward a minefield of deadly strainers.

The first obstacle, a massive tree stump with protruding roots, was only a few yards away, and there was no time to turn the boat back into the current. “Backpaddle!” I shouted. An instant later our bow shot past the first snag, missing it by inches.