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The Rio
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The Rio
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[machu pichu]
Until today I didn't think life could get any better than this. Kurt, John and I have been having the time of our lives on the Rio Huallabamba; an un-run river in the jungles of Peru. Incredible scenery, dramatic gorges that go on for days, completely remote and inaccessible except by kayak, the Rio Huallabamba has surpassed our wildest expectations.
[early on photo]
At first it seemed that Murphy's Law was working overtime to sabotage this expedition. People withdrew as priorities changed until it was just the three of us. We could always count on John. He wouldn't have missed this trip for anything. John had to juggle his clients' trips like a magician to pull this off. Kurt hadn't missed a Peru expedition yet but his flight to Miami got canceled due to a thunderstorm and he had to scrambling to get another flight. So John and I flew on without him counting on Kurt's innate talents to bring us back together.
Fate was smiling on us when John and I flew into Tarapoto. The scene was like something out of a Mad Max movie. Motorcars descended on the airport all vying for our patronage. We hired a motorcar to see the sights and met Albert and Maya Twist by accident. Instant friendship. John and I hung there to wait for Kurt. Sure enough, the next day, Kurt showed up and the expedition was back on track. We figured the bad luck was finally behind us, all we needed to do was find the river.
Finding a put-in was a feat in itself. We had a vague idea where to find the headwaters; somewhere in the vicinity of Rodriguiz de Mendoza.
[maps]
With no topo maps of this part of Peru (just aerial photos) we were kind of winging it. But hey, we figured every river flows downstream so all we needed to do was find the drainage (easy) and then find a tributary big enough to float a kayak (not so easy). Eventually we should reach the Rio Huallabamba. It was that or a hellish hike through the jungle.
So the plan became: Get to Rodreguiz de Mendoza, find a creek, head downstream. How tough can that be. There are creeks all around the town so somebody should know how to get there.
A long bus ride, some lucky connections, a couple of token sardine impersonations in a minibus, a detour to the ruins of Kuelap and a frightening drive with Miguel put us in Mendoza a few days later. Not surprisingly, everyone claimed to know the best way to the river but no one in Mendoza really knew much except one dwarf who the entire town ridiculed until it became clear he really had the goods. The dwarf saved us from a multi-day trek through the jungle that would have bypassed some of the best canyons.
[Kuelap]
Rio Huamanpata, Rio Huambo, Rio Verde, Rio Guambo, Rio Huallabamba; everyone has their own name and tells us a different story. We've heard about a mysterious waterfalls, snakes, fever and the impenetrable jungle. Experience has shown us that all the information is unreliable at best and we will just have to discover it for ourselves. But then, that's the adventure.
In the end, we found the put-in almost by accident, right where it should have been. The first 100 meters looked mellow enough. Since then, it has dropped and dropped and dropped (1,500+m), going from continuous Class IV V to pool drop today. Four days with never a dull moment.
[put-in]
A long day of Class IV brought us to our first portage. I was still getting used to the weight of 14 days of food. 90 pound boats are slugs. I misjudged the small eddy I chose for stopping. Downstream I spotted a thank-God-eddy at the lip of the falls. But as I pulled into that eddy I hit a submerged rock and ricocheted back out into the current. Instantly, the tail end was sucked under as I did a rear pirouette that fortunately landed me upright but at the lip of the falls facing upstream. I could see the gaping maw of death reaching up from below. A 12 ft falls right into a boulder and tree choked sieve. My mind screamed, "This is it, I'm dead."
I can see why people say, "They saw their life pass before them." It's amazing how many thoughts can go through your mind in one or two seconds. Family. Loved ones. Friends. Regrets. Joys. Curiosity. Wonder. At some point my mind surrendered to the inevitable and I felt complete calm.
Even though my mind was on its own chaotic journey, my body was on automatic pilot. My arms wheeled as the boat drifted slowly backwards. I accepted death but my body was having none of that. And then, the river surged and I was deposited into thank-God-eddy.
I couldn't even stand up when I got out of my boat. Kurt and John were watching from the opposite shore. They thought I had done all this on purpose and were getting ready to join me completely unaware of the near tragedy. Their side of the river would require rappelling into a cauldron. A 20 minute crawl through the jungle and across cliffs confirmed the passibility on my side. Not easy but passable.
We spent the rest of the day portaging. We named that drop "Eight Lives Remaining" and joked a bit about other close calls. That was the closest I'd ever come to death. I was so sure I had no chance.
We camped right below the portage. John cooked. I fished. Kurt kept us laughing.
[camp]
The next day began with a few kilometers of easy water and then came "Rumble Through the Jungle," a rapid that seemed to go on all afternoon. When the whitewater subsided, John emphatically stated, "That's the end of the whitewater." But the end of the day brought us to our second portage, an ugly boulder and tree choked mess we named "Sticks and Stones". We skipped the lead in and ran the rest ending at another fine camp with sunshine, no bugs and clear drinking water.
[white water shot] [camp two]
Long continuous rapids were still the rule with short calm sections. At every rapid we'd tease John about his prediction that we would be stuck with flat water for the next 150 km.
[white water shot]
The volume slowly increased. A large cave in the limestone disgorged an underground river. Tributaries flowed in. The water was always clear. At the end of the day we camped on a spectacular beach. The beautifully sculpted bed rock had enough sand filled potholes to provide the perfect camp.
[cave]
[sculpted camp]
Just before dark we noticed that thousands of honey bees were clinging to John clothes drying on a clothes line. The night was clear and warm prompting Kurt and John to sleep out in the open. At 4:00 am the canyon cooled enough to condense a drizzle out of the humid air. You could still see the stars but the drizzle was enough to roust us from our slumber. It seemed easier to get up and fan the fire than to dig out the tents.
As dawn began the bees returned. At first it was funny. Everything that was blue was covered by hundreds of bees. When that became thousands we became concerned. Before long there was a constant cloud of bees around every piece of gear. They weren't stinging but their presence was frightening.
[bees]
If the bees attacked we would be screwed. We began frantically packing up as best we could just to get off the beach. Finally, I had the two rear floats stuffed. Then I ran around the beach grabbing bags and loose items, ran to my boat, jumped in, threw the pile on my lap, sealed the skirt and seal launched into the river. As I paddled away, the cloud of bees dispersed. 50 meters away I popped my skirt and a cloud of bees emptied my boat.
Kurt had tried the same tactic but he didn't have on neoprene pants and got stung a few times on his legs while fleeing the camp. John was off the beach a few minutes later and we felt lucky to have escaped to cleanly. In every calm section we would pop our skirts and a dozen bees would fly away.
I thought we were free of the menace until we scouted our first rapid. By the time I had repacked my boat and finished scouting the bees had found us. There was a new swarm around the boat. I'm worried that this will go on indefinitely but after a few more scouts and miles of boating the bees are gone for good.
About midday we reach John's Rapid. Somehow the exact moments of tragedy were burned into my memory but the rest of the day has blurred. Just an hour after the accident I can't remember much other than the bees.
As Kurt and I float along afterward we begin talking about all the positive things John brought into our lives. All the times we laughed. Like the time we were crammed into the minibus. John jumped into the front seat and wouldn't budge. 15 mad Peruvians and John just leaned back and said, "Vamos."
Kurt's last image of John is his standing on shore with that huge grin and fisted salute yelling encouragement. I clung to the same image. In the prior rapid, John had persuaded me to skip the sweet line and run some grunge for his camera.
Death and dying is not something we had a lot of practice in. We clung to images that made it less fatalistic. A beautiful bird had been following us and Kurt mentioned that he believed that John's spirit had united with the bird's. That bird or one just like it seemed to always be present after that. I felt that John was watching over us.
We pledge to publish John's guide book. It had been John's focus for years. We fret about informing John's family and friends. We wonder if we'll ever kayak again after this trip. Already, rapids that would have been fun are freaking us out. I want to scout everything we come to.
When we reach the Rio Jelache the relief is overwhelming. We presume we are out of danger. Kurt asks, "Do you want to camp here?" It's beautiful but all I can focus on is exiting the canyon. A hundred meters below the river turns a corner. Maybe we'll see the end of the canyon from there.
I respond, "Let's just go down to that corner. If we can go another 15 minutes let's do that. If not, we can paddle up here and camp and deal with it tomorrow." Kurt agrees.
As we near the corner we notice a Class VI that seems to dash all hopes of success. The river is squeezed between cliffs. No chance of kayaking. Portaging through the impenetrable jungle will take days maybe weeks. We are devastated.
We realize the current is too strong to easily paddle back upstream. After closer examination I decide to try and scale the cliff and peek around the corner. I've got to see how bad it is. I climb around the first buttress and then it's easier going to the edge of the jungle 60 ft above. From there I climb cliffs covered with slime and wet leaves. One slip and I'll be thrown into the cauldron below. A few hundred meters later I find easier going and a sand filled pothole where we can camp. I look up and say, "Thanks John." Somehow thinking that John is watching over us gives me comfort.
I return to Kurt. "We can get through this. I think we should unload the food and sleeping gear and climb to this pothole I found. Then tomorrow we can come back and get the boats."
Kurt asks, "Why not just portage the boats now."
"It's too much. We're going to need all the remaining time just to get us and our gear to camp. Believe me, it's not trivial." Two hours of delicate climbing brings us to the sand-filled pothole carved in the limestone that's just big enough for a tent and a place to sleep. John would have loved this place. It's spectacular.
So, here we are, about 100 kilometers into the trip at the most dramatic camp we've had. We seem to just refer to it as The Big Class VI. Brilliant birds are everywhere. The macaws have a major colony nearby and fly overhead repeatedly, screeching to remind us to look up. We're in the middle of an enormous chasm; boulder-choked, impossible to kayak and just barely possible to portage. Tomorrow we expect to climb back and retrieve our boats. Hauling boats across the cliffs should be interesting. It took all the climbing equipment we had just to get here with our food and sleeping gear.
But, we must retrieve the boats, there's no choice. This is not the time nor place to lose a boat. Without kayaks we will be marooned. Hiking out is not an option. Even a helicopter wouldn't help. Crossing even a hundred yards of jungle is supremely difficult. I can't imagine us hiking miles. The only realistic way in or out of here is by kayak. We got ourselves in here and only we are going to get ourselves out.
The huge rapid kicks up a swirling mist in the moonlight disguising the power of the river. There's just enough light to be mesmerized by the large waterfall dropping into the river directly across from us. I reflect on the day. I'm not religious but I can't help asking myself, "How is it that the hand of God reached out and plucked me from certain death that first day and now John disappears in an innocent-looking rapid?"
