Kayaks Across The Andes

To get back in control, we had to get the boat straightened out. Kinsey jammed the rudder full left and backpaddled on the left while I swept forward desperately on the right. With agonizing slowness, the big sea kayak swung around until it was pointed downstream again.

A quiet moment on the beach

The river had finished its curve to the left and started twisting back to the right. Scarcely a boat length ahead on the left, boiling whitewater revealed the next strainer, a half-submerged tree trunk. Now that we were pointing downriver and had steerage again, I thought we were home free. But once again, I’d underestimated the power of the river. Even with Kinsey ruddering full right and both of us paddling as hard as we could, the current swept us straight toward the log. The moment we hit, the full force of the river slammed into the upriver side of the boat. A split second later, we capsized.

For long moments I hung there upside down, in a state of disbelief. Years of surf-zone paddling had taught me not to panic or reach too quickly to release my sprayskirt. I realized, though, that the chances of successfully rolling the big double kayak with an inexperienced partner and all our gear were pretty remote. Besides, what was happening to Kinsey now that we were upside down? I prayed that he had not been swept underneath the log. Then my head brushed against gravel on the river bottom, and I was galvanized into action. I released my sprayskirt and burst to the surface.

My partner had already done the same and was clinging to our overturned boat. Fortunately, the current had swept us away from the snag without either of us getting trapped.

We swirled downstream, surrounded by floating gear. All our companions had made it through the labyrinth with no problems. It was comforting to spot my old friend Bob, an expert kayaker, paddling back upstream toward us.

Now the crucial task was getting to shore and out of the cold, glacier-fed river as soon as possible. Brian paddled up and I grabbed the stern carry toggle of his kayak with my free hand. This human-towrope technique had worked many times before to get capsized kayakers and their boats out of the ocean surf zone. But in the strong river current, the heavy load attached to Brian’s stern kept him pointing straight upstream. He was a strong paddler and pulled as hard as he could, but long minutes passed and we made no progress toward shore. Meanwhile, we were swept past another series of strainers, which fortunately were piled up against the shore.

“OK, Brian, give me your towrope,” I yelled. My fingers were getting numb, and it took concentration to secure the line to our bow and his stern. That allowed Brian to swing his boat sideways in the current, and we began inching toward shore.

When we neared a big eddy at the river’s edge, I let go of the swamped boat and swam the last few yards to shore. I was so exhausted that I could barely stand. I’d been so busy during those long minutes in the water that I had hardly noticed the cold, but now I began to shiver uncontrollably, close to being hypothermic. Doug helped me pull off my soaked clothes and gave me a dry sweater to put on. Brian fired up his camp stove and soon had hot soup brewed for Kinsey and me. After a few minutes, we felt our energy returning. Bedlam erupted, however, when Jonathan suddenly leapt to his feet. “Something’s biting me!” he cried. We discovered a pair of black leeches latched onto his lower back. Then, Kinsey plucked another voracious blood-sucker from his leg. We decided it was time to be moving on.

Gradually the coastal hills diminished and the river grew more peaceful. The glacier-capped mountains were far behind us on the eastern horizon. Once again the river current slackened as we entered a wide delta. The westerly breeze carried the unmistakable scent of salt water, so we knew the sea wasn’t far away.

Then the wind picked up again, and ominous black clouds filled the sky. After a week of clear skies and sunshine, Patagonia was about to reveal its dark side. Thinking of our experience on Lago Yelcho, everyone was anxious to get off the water as soon as possible. Brian spotted a little cove ahead nestled at the base of a low coastal hill. We made a dash for it.

Piles of driftwood and flotsam stacked high above the waterline confirmed that we were in the tidal zone now. We knew that along this coast, the tide rose and fell more than 20 feet when the sun, moon, and earth aligned as they were now during the nearly full moon. Without pausing to unload the heavy boats, we dragged them a good distance up the grassy bank. The wind continued to increase, and rain began to fall in earnest. We had our tents set up and a rain fly rigged over the camp kitchen in record time.

Darkness arrived at the same time that the tempest engulfed us. Powerful storms can charge up the Chilean coast from Antarctica at any time of year. This one arrived with the awesome potency of a great polar weather system. We stood around a warming fire in our rain gear and wolfed down a feast of hot pasta and sausage created from the last of our provisions. A bottle of red wine was passed around the circle of new friends.

The storm rose to near gale force, and everyone made a dash for shelter. Throughout the long night, the winds shrieked, driving the rain straight through the seams of my old backpacking tent. I used the sponge I’d brought from my kayak to mop up the pools of water that formed on the tent’s floor. I prayed that the stakes I’d driven deep into the soft delta soil would hold. Still, I was grateful that the deluge had waited until now, on what we hoped was our last night in the bush. Soggy sleeping bags earlier in the trip would have been much more troublesome.

We all emerged from our tents in the morning and scanned the sky hopefully, searching for signs of clearing weather. The rain had diminished to heavy mist, but the open ocean beyond the mouth of the delta remained a devil’s brew of whitecaps and breaking seas. The thought of remaining stormbound here for days to come, out of food and just a few hours’ paddle away from a hot shower and dry bed, crept into everyone’s mind.

However, the worst of the storm appeared to have passed, and by mid-morning the weather had improved markedly. A conference was held, and everyone voted to push on and try to reach Chaiten. We launched our kayaks and paddled out through a maze of delta channels between our camp and the open sea. Conditions outside were better than expected, and we were able to reach deep water without encountering breaking waves. For the moment at least, Balboa’s Mar Pacifico was true to its name.

Lago Yelcho during some quiet moments..it would erupt in wind tossed waves later.

From the mouth of the Rio Yelcho, we paddled up the coast for less than an hour before coming to Chaiten. A final challenge awaited us when we reached the beach in front of town. The full moon had produced an extreme minus tide, which meant we had to lug our boats and gear across 200 yards of wet, slippery rocks to reach high ground.

The pain of re-entry was soon forgotten, however, once we reached our residencia for the night. The patrón had built a roaring fire in his ancient wood-burning stove, and soon the whole lobby was crisscrossed with lines on which we hung our wet gear to dry.

Later that evening a local wilderness guide joined us, and pulled his treasured charango, a traditional Chilean stringed instrument, from his well-worn backpack. He sat next to the warm stove, beneath our drying clothes, and began to play. “Mountains older than time . . .” he sang, “born of earth, wind, and sky.”

As we had just passed through the Andes in our sea kayaks, his words rang true. Thanks to Chris Spelius, our group had discovered for ourselves the part of the water route across South America that had always existed, but which Magellan failed to find. Michael Powers is a widely published adventure photojournalist who lives in northern California with his Chilean wife, Nani.