My mistake, looking back, lay in a woefully misplaced self-confidence. Emerging unscathed from rafting on Patagonia's mighty Rio Futaleufu, I was soaring on adrenaline and bravado.
Now, paddling a single-seat kayak on the Rio Espolon, a comparatively placid tributary, I grew distracted by the passing vista of Chile's forested valleys and snowy Andean peaks. Unwisely ignoring the river's ever-changing moods, I hit an unseen eddy line, teetered off balance and plunged headlong into the frigid water.
I have never understood the mathematics of fluid motion, but in two minutes I learned more about the raw power of rivers than I could have in a lifetime of scholarship. Wrenching my face skyward to breathe through the spume, I swung my legs downstream to avoid crushing my head on solid granite. For 500 metres, the surging current bumped me painfully over extruding rocks.
Ahead, however, the Espolon surged over a shoulder of boulders and took an abrupt turn, forming swirling pools that disappeared in a dark, deep abyss — a churning, vertical circle of water.
Getting caught in a hydraulic can prove fatal: It traps the unlucky swimmer in an endless series of underwater spins. Experts advise curling up the body to reduce its surface area, but the outcome is largely dictated by the water's mood.
Interminable seconds passed. I tried to stifle my panic, holding on desperately to the air in my lungs. At last, my life vest kicked into play and I rose to the surface, spluttering and shaken. Within seconds, a rescue kayak had hauled me out of the maelstrom. I clambered slowly on to the bank, trembling with cold and fear. Then relief took hold and I broke into a fatuous grin.
I had come to southern Chile with my partner, Ianina, 1,500 kilometres south of Santiago in the remote province of Aisen, to descend Patagonia's steep-incline rivers from the Andes to the Pacific Ocean. We aimed to finish up by kayaking among abundant sea life on Chile's Pacific coastline.
For me, the adventure began at the village of Futaleufu, which sits upstream from the river of the same name. Rafting aficionados who know little else about South America are sure to have heard of the Futaleufu, abbreviated by veterans to "the Fu." In Mapuche, the local native language, its name means "grand waters"— an apt moniker, as the Fu's adrenaline-pumping Class V rapids have become a byword for Patagonia's outdoor challenges.
The rapids, whose technically demanding "wave trains," a series of standing waves that were long considered too dangerous to navigate, were first conquered in 1985 by former U.S. Olympic kayaker Chris Spelius. Spelius returned to set up Expediciones Chile, an outfitter that shepherds first-timers through an intensive introduction to Class V rafting.
We met our fellow oarsmen — 10 Californian accountants on an annual all-male shindig — and sat attentive as guides outlined the finer points of river dynamics, team technique and safety.
Our nerves were jangling as we headed down to the river. To add to the challenge, three weeks of torrential rain had left the Fu swollen and menacing.
In truth, the first morning's practice was undemanding: We even had time to admire the Futaleufu's craggy canyon, its gulleys carpeted with alerce and arrayan, a cinnamon-barked member of the eucalyptus family.
By the first afternoon, we had manoeuvred Class IV sections of the Fu and by the end of the second day, we had even mastered our first Class V sections — emerging soaked but intact.
Rafting with Expediciones Chile is not a steady progression from point A to B. Rafters either chose to stay in a permanent camp or, like me, in the village of Futaleufu, moving back each day to raft different sections of the river where rapids suited our learning curve.
The real challenge, faced at the end of the third day, was Wild Mile, a fearsome stretch of interconnected rapids, complicated by choppy counter-currents, whirlpools and overhanging rock walls that left little room for error.
