Alive at the Achibueno

I have approximately three minutes for internet here, just time enough to post a few photos of the Rio Achibueno and life therein. Still to come: story of the longest, rockiest river in history, where it rained goats, where I swam more than once, where the tarantulas lumbered where my ultimate dream of reading for three days straight by a fireplace and reading was finally fulfilled.

Seltzer Boating :: Chilean Creeking

Matt Smink on the first drop of the Siete Tazas

I find myself in the city of Talca, in Central Chile, with only one night in a bright and loud hotel to record the past week of creeking excursions on the Rio Claro. I will keep the descriptions minimal, not only because of my dirth of time but because I am really proud of these photos- definitely the best I've ever taken.It's incredible how many faces and expressions that water can adopt. The Maipo was sultry and fast and wide, the color of darkened leather. The Maipo's salted waves turned from glassy green to aqua to navy, mirroring the weather.

But paddling on the the Rio Claro was like pushing your boat through pools and chutes full of seltzer water. The water sparkled, bubbled and glinted as if the creek were gem-lined. The waterfalls were glossy and smooth at the entrance, and then they carreened forward as if some really big person filled their mouth with a ton of water, cheeks distended, and then spit it out with all his of force.Eric Bartl dropping in

The first day was an expedition through the middle canyon, a section known as the Entres Saltos. While hiking and scouting that morning, we had spotted five smaller clean waterfalls we were eater to run. We put in directly under the bridge near our camp site and stated paddling down. It was a canyon, but for the most part you could scramble out on river right and walk. The canyon was laced with class 5 rapids that were mandatory walks for anyone with a brain. The rest of the rapids were fun, tight lines full of boofs that all ended in the most beautiful, safe pools. There were a few swims- none from me- and the rescues were pretty simple (alright, most of them were. One girl swam right above a little drop that I wouldn't have wanted to swim over, but they got her right back in her boat.)

Haakon Samuelson setting up to plug the 6th drop

We ended up taking out before we reached the five drops we had been aiming for. A tricky double drop and waning sunlight stood in our way. It didn't bother me- I'm always the happiest one to reach the take out, even after such a blissful day of clear water creeking. That night I drank hot chocolate and read my book and fell asleep in my tent. And I woke up the next day ready to paddle the seven teacups.Zoe Ross in the seltzer. You can see her boat underwater in this photo

The seven teacups (siete tazas) is a run of seven beautiful waterfalls ranging in height from 3 feet to 2o, running through the black basalt chamber of the Rio Claro canyon. Once you drop in, the only way out is to run it. The walls curve out and then in, as if you were in the bottom of a light bulb. And speaking of common household imagery, it's as cold as a fridge in there.

Zoe Ross commits to the right side

We flew like a flock of angels down the falls, paddles and faces pressed up against sterns. The hole at the bottom of the slide tried to digest me but I survival surfed the out of it. I went over-vertical (aka ass over teakettle) off the the 17 footer. On the 20 footer I was so mesmirized by the fast approaching foam that I didn't tuck in time and Bam! Next thing I know my head sprang back and I bubbled around a while beneath the curtain before catching my roll. Tino said I looked as stiff as a toy soldier.

Halfway through the run....Experimenting with shutter speed

But whatever! I ran the Siete Tazas, and despite those small confessions I ran them pretty well, with no swims and limited misery!

Eric Bartl about to go deep on the 6th drop

The next day, we divided into two groups to run the sieta tazas again. While group number two set up to take photos and document every drop, group number one dropped into the river at a new, higher put in. I was in group one, and I sailed off the first clean drop at the new put in and followed gamely along behind the other technicolored ducklings. But we never made it to the siete tazas, and the photographers were waiting all day for a string of little bright boats that never came. It's a story for another day, but it's one HELL of a story. Melina Coogan dropping in to the disasterous upper "put in." Photo by Matt Smink

Finally, all the photos on this post (and on this blog, generally) are mine. (With the exception of the one above.) The final day at the Rio Claro, I shot from the wooden vantage points on the edge of the canyon to get these shots. Which means, of course, there aren't many of me. But I ran this shit! Alex Anderson on one of the middle drops

On the loose in Pichilemu

Here are some great moments from the scavenger hunt that I took around Pichilemu with Tino, Andy and Matt in an effort to learn some Spanish.....

I love hot baths, anywhere, any time

This hot springs was called Banos Colina, in the Andes mountains. The road up cut into the side of the mountains like a ribbon; our truck and trailer wobbled dangerously close to the edge. The air was so terribly cold; our skin was at once steaming and freezing. We soaked until the stars lit up and the mountains were drenched in alpine glow.

Where all the talent in the family went

My sister Anna is a musician of haunting talent. Her latest CD is a masterpiece. It was produced by the same guy who produced Patty Griffin. Incredible. The songs will knock you flat on your face. For more info on Anna and her latest CD, including how to pre-order, click here.
Do you love the macabre album artwork? check out more of my cousin Ali's artwork here.

Rejected

In the course of my life, I have not often had the opportunity to give flowers to random boys. But I always thought that if I wanted to, I would be successful.

Turns out that's not true. In an effort to learn Spanish, my school took to the streets of Pichilemu and embarked in a hilarious scavenger hunt. I was teamed up with the other staff. One of the challenges was to hand a flower off to stranger. And although Tino really, really wanted to do it...c'mon. That would have been way too easy for him:Things like this are significantly more difficulto for me: note: this is not my hand.

When I saw these two Mormon missionaries coming my way, I knew my moment had arrived. Thinking that they would not only be polite and english speaking, but delighted to receive a little bouquet from a Rubia, I ran up to the boys and asked in Spanish if one of them would like a beautiful flower.

Turns out....he didn't:


This is not like when me and Tyler Bradt gave a pair of missionaries in Salt Lake City a vivid and detailed description of the type of activities Mormons frown upon as an example of why we did not choose ourselves to follow their religion. (For the record, they asked for it, they were harrassing us.) This time, I really just wanted to give the nice American boys a flower so my team could score 20 points and move on to ordering Churros. Wow, was I rejected! Missionary karma?

Chile Daze::Video

Yeah! Thanks video class this is fun! But stop using Jack Johnson he's gotten lame.

Piles of glass and light

The waves today were huge piles of glass. The day was bright and clear, but cold, with a hard wind whipping up whitecaps and blowing the sand in curtains across the beach.

I geared up, hiked my boat out to the far end of the beach near the point break, and pushed my way into the surf. The water was choppy and bottle green. The wind blew a hard mist off the waves, sending a hail of stinging droplets fiercely into my face. The waves were piles of shattered glass and the wind was blowing tiny splinters off into the sky, sending a spray of rainbow into the air.

I cannot even describe what it's like to be battling your way through the waves, passing through the slender opening in the gloss and foam, heading farther out towards the horizon where the big waves shudder and bend. The waves were big today, and tubing. I managed to stay out of the crush of the pile, the force of which is easily enough to blow you out of your kayak and leave you out at sea with the sharks, with your paddle and kayak and own meager self to look out for.

I am getting better. Today I caught the green of the wave, the smooth underside that glints like jelly in the sun. I rode it until it dissolved into fat marbles of water and air and became a gigantic aerated pile. I bounced and carved on this pile all the way in to shore, until the wave finally bubbled to nothing on the sand with a defeated hiss.

More than once after being picked up by one gigantic aqua curler, I shot towards shore at full speed and was delivered sometime later onto the beach. I was thrust up on the sand and left there like a piece of mail, sending a flock of tourists running. There's nothing like being far out to sea and riding one single wave all the way in. It feels like the planet's wildest public transportation system.

Riding out waves and bouncing on foam piles out there in the sun glints, cold gale, shark fins and rainbow sprays was some of the most fun I've ever had.

This Old Man

This old man was most enjoyable to shoot. He stood still for minutes with that gleam in his eye, blowing smoke in my face as I messed with the light settings on my camera.

The short story of the deathcamp waterfall

Again we went searching for the waterfall, hoping the recent sunshine would trigger the snow melt we needed. Below the cliff where the Yeso creek cut through the gray scree, water was pumping between its banks and roostertailing off the rocks. When we arrived at the end of the road, the sun was high and the temperature was mild. Besides the crumbling barrack's of the camp, below the old pits where the bodies had long ago turned to dust, we found the waterfall flushed out and good to go.

It turned out to be an extremely trick drop, about 35 feet with a narrow entrance only two feet wide. All the water pushed through the channel, and drove sharply into the sharp basalt wall, then bounced off and flung itself down to the pool below. The entrance looked just a toilet bowl, and I knew at once that I did not to be the contents that it flushed down.

David, Tino and Stephen committed to the drop. Haakon and Clay jumped off the lip with their throwbags and swam through the icy pool to the banks to set safety. I sat above the entrance with my fish-eye lens and waited. My hands were shaking. A cross between anxiety, high altitude and thirst made the barometer in my head plummet every time I stood up and I was afraid I'd pass out there on my precarious perch. Stephen circled in the eddy a few times and then looked up at me. He mouthed the words, "I'm. So. Scared." I made some meaningless gesture with my fist against my heart that was meant to inspire confidence. And then he paddled out and dropped through. He sunk into the entrance, completely subbed out and disappeared.

A few moments passed of my heart thumping like a rabbit's hind food and then someone called out that he was alright although the line had not been pretty. As you can see I got an entirely uninspired photo of Stephen, partly because it was out of focus, partly because I couldn't get close enough with the wide-angle and partly because he totally subbed out. I climbed out of the crater and went around bottom to photo Tino's first attempt:Tino went down stern over teakettle, landed on his head and was ejected upon impact. I wondered if Dave would still run it after bearing witness, but he was already marching up towards the top eddy. Not sure how he did it, but Dave sort of styled it, plugged deep and bounced up intact:Watching the successful run, Tino hiked up and ran it again. This time he went smashing into the basalt wall upon entrance, and this happened:
When bad things happen to good people....yeesh! Meanwhile, Eric and I yanked Stephen's boat out of the pool with a rope, and Stephen was gunning to run it again. His line was better but he landed with a resounding snap. His AT paddle snapped cleanly in two.: But Stephen's $450.00 accident didn't stop Tino from climbing out and going for a third run. And thank goodness because I got this sweet shot:Thanks to Tino, Dave and Stephen for running the sketchy new falls in the cold altitude so I could take some pictures.

Sunken blues, heavenly blues

from the mountains to the beach....everywhere is blue and life goes on.

High altitude waterfallin'

A most unrelaxing turn of events

It is my last night in Pangal and Lorenzo's house, and so I decided to take a bath. I was covered in salt and sulfur from the day's adventure. Miles and miles of cliffside roads with a rickety trailer had frayed my nerves and the air high up in the Andes was dry and bitterly cold. The students would not stop making noises the whole day. I mean, when they weren't talking, they'd just make noises. I needed a hot soak.

The kids were all asleep and far away and the house was quiet and shut down for the night. I brought in The Wind Up Bird Chronicles and The Best American Poetry 2002 and a few episodes of arrested development on my Ipod just in case I was in there for hours and finished the two books, or lost interest. The bathtub was deep and just my size, and a pale blue color, like toothpaste. I set my books down and my shampoo and filled the tub up with hot water, then slipped in.

I barely had a moment to release my breath when I noticed the tarantula. It was hunkered on the wooden doorframe, preventing my escape from the bathroom. It was facing the other direction, pretending not to notice me. But it knew I was there. And it knew, just as I knew, that it held all the power in this moment.

I decided to adress it directly. After all, I couldn't just leap naked out of the bath and go running down the hall, which was my first impulse. Besides which, this was the only bath tub I would see until Christmas. And for some reason I'm never truly relaxed unless I'm in the bath or I'm wearing a clean pair of socks, and I'd very nearly run out of those as well. And so I spoke to the beast.

"You enjoy your spot on that doorframe, and I'll enjoy my bath, and we'll both live to see another day." And then I turned to my book and read three pages. Then I looked back at the wall. The spider had not moved. I read another half a page. I wasn't relaxed at all. Suddenly the burden of bath-time duties such as soaping and shampooing seemed exhausting. Whenever something touched me, like the shower curtain or the little beaded string on the drain, I would jump and flinch.

And then the unthinkable occured. I gave a check on the wall to see if the tarantula was still posted there. He wasn't. He had broken our little truce and taken off, no doubt inching his terrible body, remarkably reminiscent of a big hand of a hairy man, across the floor and into my bath. I shot out of the tub but then realized I had no where to go. When there is a tarantula in the room but you can't see it and you don't know where it is, it might as well be everywhere. Suddenly the pile of clothes I had left so carelessly on the floor was a potential spider nest. Even the books stacked on the shelf had created an unintentional fortress. Tarantulas, like all frightening things like ghosts or bats, can scuttle up a wall or across a ceiling just as easily as they can scuttle across the floor. No place was safe from this big guy.

So what can I say? That I 'sacked up' (a new term I learned from the kids) and remained in my bath and read from my book and washed my hair like a true soldier? Forget about it. I was out of there quicker than my head-first tumble down the stairs the other day in front of Lorenzo. I took only what I needed and I fled. I hope that the tarantula is in there foaming up with Aveda shampure and enjoying the Haruki Murakami novel, because one of us really ought to.

Desolation, continued

The days that followed our excursion to the death camp were very dark. The moon was completely hidden in the sky and as I waited until 10:30 when I could put the kids to bed, I felt like I was floating in the middle of a vast ocean. I was sitting alone down near the closed up restaurant. A siren screamed into the night from somewhere, I still don't know where, and the cats were howling so loudly I thought surely it must be one of the students trying to scare me. Occasionally someone would appear out of the night, the pale patch of their face illuminated by a headlamp, but no body spoke to me. It was a relief to finish my work and climb back to the camp, where the kids were loud and running around. I could feel the life start to drain back into the night. At 10:30 I put them to sleep, unlocked the swinging bridge and climbed high into the mountains.

I fell asleep but did not wake up the next day for class. Instead I slept the whole day. I did not leave the house, which is a dark cave built into the mountain, in fact I did not even put my head out the window for a breath of fresh air. I dreamed I was standing on the mountainside watching a meteor erupt in the sky, and a ball of fire consume the entire world. I woke up with a desperate need to walk down to the camp and be around the students, sit at the restaurant and drink a cup of coffee. But it was too late, it was 8:30 in the evening when I woke up. The house was dark cold, my eyes did not adjust well, and there were tarantulas crouching in the shadows.

I had dinner with David and Tino and Lorenzo and Pangal and their mother, Gordita. But I could not shake the feeling of isolation that had curled around me in my sleep. Even the tarantulas did not stir me, because I felt like I was not really even there. I sank back into sleep at midnight, covering my face so the spiders would not camp out above my mouth as they tend to do, attracted to the warmth. Again my mind shatters into splinters and each piece crawled off and had a wild dream. The mosaic of those wild dreams was like a twice-exposed reel of film spinning through my sleeping.

When I woke up the next morning it was sunny, and I ran down the mountain soaking in the light and the air, desperate for a day with less weight.

My name is Muti, and I want some more Jelly-Bellies

We stayed up late last night and ate bag of jelly-bellies and a bucket (literally) of Flan. I've never seen anything like it. Here is Pangal, Lorenzo and Tino seeing who can sound more like a gringo. I say Tino wins:

Cave, Spider

We are sleeping in a house that is very much like a cave. Tonight it is very cold out, and the tarantulas are marching through the cracks and from the dark corners, seeking out the heat. I first spotted one above Tino's head as he lay down to sleep, and then in the bathroom as I was brushing my teeth. I worry about falling asleep, that one will climb onto my face and I will wake up to it hovering over my mouth, taking a steam bath in my breath.


I slept for most of the day and had a long, elaborate dream that the whole world caught fire; tomorrow I think I need to come down from this mountain.

A place for ghosts and terror

Today we took the truck up to the desolate mountain scape that runs along the Yesough creek. The road snaked for an hour along the cliff side as we climbed higher and higher into the scree. When finally the road dissolved, we resolved to go looking for the waterfall on foot. We were far away from everything and extremely isolated.

What we saw when got out of the car was a long stretch of shale and gravel that led to the foot of the highest peaks. The mountains had blue glaciers high up on their slopes like mouths full of broken teeth. There were barracks all around us of crumbling cinder block and metal rebar. Through the holes in the walls we could see graffiti scrawled in white paints- names followed by a a year in the 1970's.

"This is one of Pinochet's death camps," Said Lorenzo, one of the two Chilean brothers in the truck with us. He pointed to the craters in the earth that 25 years ago served as mass graved. Thousands of people were held here, he told us. Concentration camp. And then there were murdered. "Bad spirits here. Do not pick anything up, if you see a bone or something- do not pick it up. This is a bad place."

We poked around a little. We felt like little chickens in a huge pile of ash. There was one little building obviously set apart from the others; it still bore remnants of color on its walls and the metal fence around it was in tact. It was the church, and on its walls inside bore the last scratchings of Pinochet's victims. "This is the last time I will come to you," read one. "I'm leaving all my money here. Please. Por Favor."

I'm on a bridge!

better above it than beneath it, or, my first time walking off a river

(notice the bags under my eyes....yeah...)

My first run in Chile was the lower section of the Maipo river. I've ran it last March with no problem at all, in fact it was a delightful run with big waves and a canyon section where the river channels into a geological gap of slick stone walls.

Now that it is spring in Chile and the snowpack is melting off and feeding the Maipo every time the sun comes out, the river is a different story. It is a few meters higher and a whole lot faster. In fact, it was the fastest, most continuous, and brownest river I've ever been on. The eddy where we put in was pocket sized and we all had to hold on to eachother's hands and grab loops to keep from being swept downstream.

The rapids started immediately and just didn't stop. Now, it is important to note that the river is safe. There are some manky pourovers and holes to avoid, but I went over one of those pourovers upside down and was able to roll up immediately. Intimidating yes, but consequences, not so much. Still, I wasn't used to such a strong, fast current and I could not seem to get my balance. I wobbled left, wobbled right, wobbled left, and when David led me to the left around the pourover, I couldn't get there in time so I steered right to avoid going right over the rock and flipped. I whipped up and caught an eddy a littleways downriver, but I was shaking like a sewing machine and felt something rising up in my throat like I was going to burst into tears. I kept thinking about the canyon coming up, the place where the river narrows and pushes through the narrow, high stone walls. I was so incredibly frustrated with myself.

I had the skills, but I did not have the confidence. After running the first mile of river, which were the most difficult rapids on the run, I didn't want to be on the river anymore. So I walked out.

Except for we didn't exactly walk out, more like we crawled, hauled, climbed and scrambled. We were relatively deep into the gorge, and between us and the road there was a hill so steep it surpassed hill and became cliff. It was made of sticks, thorns and was studded with rebar. Tracy came with us, and together we had ourselves our first taste of what it actually means to walk off a run with two kayaks in tow.

Kids with boats + immagration +customs = are we there yet?

It was a 10 1/2 hour flight from Dallas to Santiago. Andy and I each had three seats to ourselves, so we stretched out, fell asleep right after take out and woke up right before landing. I hear it wasn't this lux for everyone....

Immigration was a flurry of lines and forms and visas, but the real fun began at customs when we all had to balance our boats, bags, gear bags, and paddle bags on rickety little carts. Here we are, almost done with our journey but not quite: