Part 1:  Early December

Once again, I have arrived in Chile to spend my winter season in South America. This time my journey starts from Dulles Airport in Washington DC. Many of you know how I feel about flying: I don’t dig it. Ironically enough, the connecting flight from Dulles to Atlanta is the scarier of the two. The take-off is steep, with some turbulence and sharp banking turns, all of this seconds into the flight. My favorite question on an airplane has become, “Is this normal!?” It is usually asked in a strangled tone of voice because my anus is up inside my throat and my knuckles locked around the closest stationary object. I can’t believe people do this for fun. All this is done without the use of pharmaceuticals, by the way. These, I am saving for the big flight.

On to Atlanta. Here, I have a nine-hour layover in the airport…plenty of time to read most of a book, look for spies, think about massive hydraulic failure at 33000 feet, and talk a bit with my buddy Mike who had gotten me this ticket and made me fly from Dulles instead of driving to Atlanta like any sane person would. When I finally board flight 147 at 10:00 pm, it turns out to be the smoothest flight I’ve ever taken. This is perhaps because of a 10mg hit of Valium, a Dramamine, and a glass of Italian wine. I fly in first class, sprawled out in the barcalounger in the front of the plane with almost no turbulence whatsoever. I sleep through most of it and arrive in Santiago feeling refreshed. Until…

Somewhere in between Washington DC and Santiago, Chile, are my two very large bags containing everything I need to live here for four months. The one place that they very definitely are not is on the conveyor belt of incoming luggage for arriving passengers. I go to the Delta counter and fill out the form for lost luggage, then pass through the final stage of customs into the country of Chile with my carry-on stuff, and the clothes I stand in, quietly freaking out.

I’m met at the airport by my buddy John Cornwell and our friend Nicholas, driving our trusted van, Clod. You may remember Clod from past writings. We bought this van three years ago and it’s still hanging in there. John arrived two days ago, and has taken care of a few things that needed to be done…new water pump, timing belt, and oil change. It’s running great. We still need the revision technica, and then it will be legal. We drive out to Curacavi, to the house of the Lopezes, who have become my surrogate family here in South America. Monica and Roberto have a beautiful house here in the foothills outside of town. Monica and her youngest daughter Maria Jose run the little bed and breakfast café down south in Futaleufu, where we will spend most of our summer. Roberto and Nicholas (Nico) speak a little bit of English, and enjoy practicing with us. Conversely, there is no shortage for me to speak Spanish. The Lopezes have been incredibly helpful, hospitable, and just plain awesome for as long as I’ve known them. And Roberto helps me communicate with the folks at Delta to track down my bags. He gives me a shirt to wear until my clothes get here. Monica cooks us dinner, and we enjoy some food and wine as the sun sets around 10 pm. I play my guitar a bit, then John, Nico, Nico’s girlfriend Eliz, and I watch a movie on my laptop.

Next morning, we receive a call from Delta, and Nico informs me that my bags have arrived, and will be delivered to the house shortly. I meet the driver at the bottom of the driveway, and sign for my bags. Everything appears to be here. I can stop freaking out now. It turns out that my bags went to Salt Lake City, instead of Santiago. In airline techno speak, the airport code for both cities is almost the same: SCL for Santiago and SLC for Salt Lake City. A genius in baggage didn’t look at the tag very closely. He was probably preoccupied with the unified field theory of quantum gravity. It’s ok, I understand. Nico remarks, thank goodness the Santiago airport code isn’t the same as Japan or China.

In the afternoon, John and I drive west to Vina del Mar, a resort beach town to check out the ocean. Even though Chile is only about 150 km wide and spans thousands of miles of coast on the west, it has very few beaches, and I have seen very little of the ocean during my time here. Vina del Mar is perhaps its most famous beach. The highway winds down a steep hillside into the neighboring towns of Vina del Mar and Valparaiso. We are hoping for a little surf, but there is only shore break, so we settle for walking along the water’s edge down the entire length of the beach (it is not very big--one end is visible from the other, and bounded by rocky escarpments). It’s still early in the summer here, but it is hot, and the beach is crowded with men, women, boys, girls, families, kids playing futbol (that’s soccer if you’re American), playing beach paddle ball, sunbathing, a few braving the water (it’s still cold), men with portable coolers selling ice cream. In the concrete area between the street and the beach is an open-air market. There are tents and vendors selling everything from towels to jewelry to kid’s toys. A few people perform a bizarre kind of street theater I never would have thought of. Ready for this? Puppet karaoke! A boom box plays a horrid pop Chilean love ballad, and kids and families gather round as a puppeteer animates his dummy to “perform” the song. One of those things that is universal to all cultures and peoples and brings us all a little closer together: bad taste.

We return to the casa de Lopez in the evening. Over dinner, the conversation turns to politics. These days, a hot topic of conversation here in Chile is President Bush (speaking of bad taste). Many Chileans are having a hard time believing that we elected him again (kind of like me), and they are curious as to how we feel about him. As we know, Bush was here last week for the trade summit, and took several meetings with Ricardo Lagos, the president of Chile. Roberto had a few amusing anecdotes about Bush’s visit. He has a friend in the Chilean secret service that served on Lagos’s staff during these meetings. Bush was invited as a dinner guest to Lagos’s home. Apparently, Bush demanded that all the rest of Lagos’s dinner guests be physically searched and investigated by his men. Lagos firmly but diplomatically replied, no, they are my guests, I know who I invited into my own house, and they have my confidence. Bush came to dinner, and presumably no cavity searches were performed.

Bush and Lagos took a later meeting together, one on one, in Lagos’s home. Only present were Bush, Lagos, and a Chilean secret service agent who waited on the two. (No translator was needed--Lagos speaks fluent English.) They sat across from each other at a table, and much to Lagos’s horror, Bush began the meeting by putting his cowboy-booted feet up on top of Lagos’s table. Neither Lagos, nor Roberto’s secret service friend knew what to do, other than proceed uncomfortably, until Bush put down his boots as an afterthought, without apologizing, when others began showing up for the meeting. I think to myself, yeah, that sounds about right.

Although these incidents serve as the perfect metaphor to sum up our current American foreign policy, I’m left with the dilemma of how to speak about how I feel about my president to others in a country that doesn’t like Bush very much. A friend of mine from Tennessee once made an analogy…“It’s like having a fat and ugly sister. Yeah, I know she’s fat and ugly, but she’s still my sister.” I revise the analogy a bit. If I had a brother who was mentally retarded, and he showed up at a dinner party and, let’s say, pooped on the buffet…I’d probably be horribly embarrassed. But he’s still my brother.

And it’s still my country. I don’t like Bush very much. He habitually goes into other countries, metaphorically puts his boots up on the table, demands things that he assumes are his birthright, and makes us look bad. I tell Roberto that I like my country, it’s my home, but I don’t like my president or his policies either, and I didn’t vote for him. We all share a laugh, and he assures us that he likes us in spite of our retarded brother that pooped on the dinner table.

Next day, John and I spend our day getting ready to drive the ten hours south to Pucon. We have to drive into downtown Santiago to get a few parts for the van. I hate driving in cities in general, and Santiago in particular. As much as I love Chile, I don’t care if I ever drive in Santiago again. People drive like mental patients, they lay on their horns as a polite form of greeting, the bus and cab drivers are clearly homicidal, and the guide signs and lane markers are seen more as traffic suggestions. These days, there is a lot of construction going on in the city. Actually, there is always lots of construction going on in this city. Kind of like Pittsburgh. Pennsylvanian friends: picture PennDot closing the Fort Pitt Bridge, completely shutting down the Parkway East, and diverting all the traffic onto Grant Street, without marking the names of the routes, only putting small signs that say “to Monroeville” every once in a while as an afterthought.

We get what we need in the city, then head back to the tranquility of the house in Curacavi. The daughters, Maria Jose, and the older Gabriela are home, having been away for a few days, and it is a nice reunion. Maria Jose, affectionately known as Negra, is taking an English class, and she practices with us a bit. She and Gabriela have cooked us dinner--sautéed beef and vegetables with seasoned rice, and salad--and we share the meal with some wine.

The conversation turns to travel. Roberto speaks of his past travels to the US. He asks us about the price of gas there. We tell him it’s gone up to about $2 a gallon. He can’t feel too sorry for us…here, it’s about a dollar a liter, almost four bucks a gallon.. This is a pretty typical price around the rest of the world as well. America: Quit Whining! I ask Roberto where the gas and fuel here in Chile come from. He tells me the natural gas comes from Argentina, and most of the petroleum comes from Peru, Ecuador, and mostly Venezuela. I ask him what he thinks of Chavez. We’re back to politics again, but I can’t help it, it’s one of my favorite subjects. Roberto seems to enjoy talking about it as well. I like Roberto. For those of you paying attention, you know that Hugo Chavez is president of Venezuela. Venezuela sits on top of the third most productive oil field in the world, just behind Saudi Arabia and Iraq. Hugo Chavez is a socialist. He remains immensely popular in Venezuela. He maintains his presidency with a popular mandate in spite of a failed coup in 2002. The poor people, who make up about 60% of the country, love him, the rich people hate him. Chavez is also president of OPEC. Needless to say, he is a controversial figure. Personally, I like the idea of taking oil money and giving it to the poor for food and housing, and I guess I have a soft spot for the underdog. Roberto remarks that the problem lies with the corruption of the administration. He makes the very good point that Venezuela is a very rich country, in with lots of industry, abundant in minerals and iron, on top of the overabundance of oil, but at the same time, has a 60% poverty rate. Something funky going on here. Is it the political ideology of socialism, or is it the corruption? I think it’s the corruption. Argentina is also in the crapper, financially, and it’s as capitalist as they come. I ask Roberto about Argentina’s state of economic ruin, and he remarks on the corruption of President Kirschner’s administration as well.

The next morning, it is time to leave Santiago and make the drive South. Curacavi sits at the midway point along the highway that connects Santiago with Valparaiso and the coast. This week, in fact, tomorrow, is a national holiday, the Festival of the Virgin. It has already begun several days ago, when people begin making the trek on foot from Santiago to the large church 70-80 km out toward the coast. The faithful catholics (which make up most of the country) walk in twos, threes, dozens, with backpacks, water bottles, tents, camping along the highway. They will close the highway later today, when there will be close to 500,000 people making the pilgrimmage, where they will eventually end up at a large historical church to pray for the Virgin Mary. Not sure what to make of this. The pilgrims walk out in the road, sometimes out on the berm, sometimes inches from the white line that separates the berm from the high-speed traffic, and sometimes out in the middle of the lane, not even looking, simply assuming the cars that are driving 80, 100, 120 km/hour will see them, slow down, and drive around them, and we do. It’s like a festival of faith, superstition, and natural selection, all rolled into one.

On to Pucon. After an eleven-hour drive, making good time, we make our way into one of my favorite parts of this country. Here, the vegetation is lusher, the mountains are steeper, and the water cleaner. The arid semi-desert climate of Santiago and the north have given way to the more temperate climate of the lower lattitudes, very much like the difference between southern and northern California. We’re in the Lakes region. There are seven major lakes here in Region VIII, and scores of smaller ones, all naturally formed. The little town of Pucon lies beside the Lago Villarica, and is overshadowed by a giant volcano, towering into the sky, permanently covered in snow, constantly smoldering, glowing orange on a clear night, and omnipresently looming over the town like a…um…giant volcano.

December is a great month to be in Pucon. Spring is just turning to summer. The weather is getting nice, the temperature is getting hot, and the rivers are still full of water. Tourists from many different nationalities can be seen wandering the streets, checking out the little shops. We will spend a week to ten days here, paddling some, visiting friends, and relaxing before work starts for us down south in Futaleufu.

Part 2:  Late December

Summer is getting into full swing in Pucon, and we spend an afternoon at the beach. We go with our buddy Marco (but everyone calls him Roco) to the large public beach that sits on the expansive Lago Villarica. The sand is coarse, black and volcanic. The water is cool but not cold. With us are Roco’s dogs, Rojo and Bruja. Bruja is, in fact, Roco’s dog. Rojo just started following him around one day, and now is his by default. I read a book on the beach, while John teaches Roco how to roll a kayak. Others look on, amused but not really incredulous; they’ve seen this before.

Soon the lesson is over, and Roco’s friend Roberto shows up with his kites. That image in your mind of your standard kite, with a roll of string attached to a piece of plastic stretched over a wooden cross-frame--not even close. These guys are serious about their kites. This one more closely resembles a parachute. It has two handles, aluminum with foam grips. Each handle is held vertically, two lightweight nylon cords run from the top and the bottom of each handle, about 90 feet to the cords that connect to the edges of the kite. The kite itself is nylon, and can be anywhere from 2 to 15 meters wide. This one is about 4m, green and white. It is aerodynamically designed to be controlled with the many cords that attach to each wing, all dovetailing down into the four cords that are driven by the kite-flier. Roberto takes the controls, and in no time, it is up and flying. With subtle movements in the wrist, he can control its movements from left to right, and up and down. Roco’s dogs freak out and start barking as soon as the kite takes flight, and Roberto teases them with low-flying dips in its trajectory. The dogs jump, bark, and try to chase it into the sky. It’s a pretty funny spectacle.

Speaking of public spectacles, Roco informs me that it’s my turn to fly the kite. He puts the handles in my hand, and explains how they work. Pulling back on the wrists, putting tension on the top strings, acts as a lift, to catch maximum air and gain altitude. Conversely, pushing forward on the top strings and pulling back on the bottom acts as a sort of “brake,” relaxing its hold in the wind and bringing it down. The idea is to get it to a comfortable angle in the sky, then alternately pull back and forth, left and right, with a uniform motion. This will sound like a rather odd analogy, but it’s a bit like snowboarding…the idea is to continue making smooth turns. If you point it straight downhill, alternately trying to put on the brakes, you only end up catching an edge and getting clobbered. Same with this kite. If you continue pulling “up,” and then putting on the brakes, the kite goes flaccid in the wind and falls in a tangled heap. This happens several times. Roco and John are laughing, and Roberto is patient and picks it back up for me at the other end, as I lift it into the wind for a few more tries. Roberto stands behind me, grabs the handles with my hands still on them, and demonstrates the controls as I hold on and observe. Soon, I am less spastic with my wrists and arms, and learn the subtleties of advanced kite flying. I get a feel for how the wind grabs it, and how each cord controls its movements, and within five minutes, I am making swooping turns and arcs, and freaking out the dogs. Far out , this is fun. A few kids show up to watch. I bring the arcs down low enough that the kids jump up and brush the kite with their fingers on its downswing. I spend the next 45 minutes controlling the kite, and wondering if I can bring one of these back to the states with me in the fall in March.

I have a little bit of work lined up in Pucon. Over the next 5 days, I play 3 concerts. The first is in a little bar/restaurant called El Bosque. It is actually run by an American named Scott. I like this place. Natural wood finishes everywhere, tasteful, ambient lighting, a good sound system, and a superb wine selection. They also have good beer here, which is a bit of a rarity in Chile. Most of the Chilean mainstream has yet to discover dark beer and microbrews. Cristal and Escudo are the popular brands of beer here, and are similar to the mass-produced piss water you can find in the states like Budweiser or Heineken. Much to my delight, there is a beer called Kross, and they have it in a bock, an ale, and a stout. The stout is superb, and much to my further delight, I read the label and see that it is actually brewed here in Chile. I wonder to myself if they will have this stuff down south in Futa this year, but somehow doubt it. I enjoy it while I can.

Soon it is time to leave Pucon, and begin the final leg of our trek down south. It’s always a little sad and bittersweet leaving Pucon, and we say our goodbye in the early afternoon and set out for the border. Monica has helped us to finally get our paperwork on the van more or less in order, and we are able to drive out of the country into Argentina legally. The crossing closes at 9pm, and we make it there only five minutes too late. The customs officers are all still there, sitting at their stations. But they deny us to cross. Just because they can. They tell us to come back tomorrow.

We drive back down the mountain until we find a cabana to rent for the evening at the nearest campground. Next morning, we drive back up and make the crossing. Chile and Argentina are separated by the formidable range of the Andes mountains, and we reach the customs station after a seemingly endless climb up and up over the winding road. The process for crossing the border is as follows:

At the Chilean customs station, we pull up and park. We go into the building with our passports and visas, John with the papers for the van. John goes to get the van passed, then we both present our passports and visas to the customs officer, who takes our visas, stamps them, puts them in a pile, then stamps our passports with the exit stamp. This is relatively painless, and we are out of Chile with very little fanfare. But we are not yet into Argentina. At this particular station, there is about 25k of winding road separating the Chilean station from the Argentine station (which leads me to conclude that the line on the map separating the two countries is 25k wide in real life.) We reach the Argentine station and begin the process again. This time, we take our passports to the desk, present them to the officers, who give us Argentine visas to fill out. (Hint: when going to a customs station, bring your own pen. They get irritated if you ask to borrow one of theirs.) We fill out our visas, which are scrutinized along with our passports, then they stamp our passports with an entry stamp. John still must pass the van. The lady working customs looks out the window and sees our kayaks strapped on top of Clod, and has problems with this. She asks why we didn’t declare our kayaks when we left Chile. John tells her they didn’t ask. We’ve never had to declare kayaks before. She doesn’t like it. She needs to look in the van. She asks what is in those long bags. We tell her paddles. She has a big problem with kayak paddles, apparently, and tells us we needed to declare those, too. Not sure why she’s picked our paddles as objects worthy of declaration…our van is loaded down with all of our personal stuff, along with a few things we’re carrying with us for Monica for her café in Futa. The customs officer also seems to have a huge problem with Monica’s electronic coffee maker. She tells us we can’t cross with it, it is a big problem. After some more explaining, John talks the lady into allowing us to declare the kayaks, the coffee maker, and the paddles on the vehicle form, and the lady begrudgingly agrees, and lists these random objects as items for declaration. This will not make a difference for us, because we will be crossing back into Chile later with all these things still with us. The only real outcome of all this extra red tape that I can see is a temporary satisfaction for the South American sado-masochistic fascination with paperwork.

We descend the pass down an equally endless series of switchbacks and curves, ending up in what is a cool spring day in the Argentine mountains. The road is lined with brilliant yellow flowering bushes, interspersed with white and purple lupins. It makes for a gorgeous drive, and gas is a lot cheaper, especially as we drive further south, because it is government subsidized. Six hours later we are in Esquel, the small town across the border from Futa. We say goodbye to paved roads, and drive over the last 40k on the gravel road that brings us to the border once again. At the Argentine station, they search our van again, making sure all the things on that declaration paper are still there, stamp our passports and send us 100m up the road to the Chilean station. Here, we get new Chilean visas, and this officer searches our van yet again. Good thing I left my crack pipe at home.

We drive the final 9k through the rain into what is now the very familiar town of Futaleufu. I run into old friends that I haven’t seen since last year, and it’s like coming home.

And speaking of home, it’s time to find one. John drops me and all my stuff off at the Casona, a hotel here in town out of which Expediciones Chile will be running its trips, where I will be working. He has to take the van another 25k further down the road to Bio Bio Expeditions, the company at which he will be working.

And now here I am. I continue to run into old friends and acquaintances. They ask me, donde vives? (Where do you live?) I answer, en mis zapatos. (In my shoes.) They crack up. And this isn’t quite true. We had stopped in at Sur Andes, Monica’s little bed and breakfast, to drop off the things we had brought down, and chatted with her sister, Carmen. She was overjoyed to see us. Hoooooola, mis corazones! The little barn in the grassy yard behind Sur Andes is empty until January, and the upper loft is set up as a bedroom. I’m welcome to stay here until I find my place.

Having spoken with Pablo, another guide, and PR man for ExChile, who is also in need of a place, we decide to go in on a house together. I spend the next day gathering leads from people I know in town, finding which houses are empty and for rent. There aren’t that many. I get some names and phone numbers, and let Pablo do the talking and calling. Being a native Chilean and all, his Spanish is just a little better than mine, and he can probably get us a better deal. Which will hopefully be soon.

It is technically summer here, but you would never know it by going outside. Moving from Pucon down to Futaleufu is a bit like moving from Northern California up to Northern Washington, or even Vancouver, BC. In the three days I’ve been here in Futaleufu, it has stopped raining for about 4 hours. The air temperature is in the forties, and the wind is strong enough to make the roof shake. The powerful gusts permeate the barn and blow up through the wooden slats that make up the loft’s floor, and lying still in my sleeping bag, I can see my breath. On the mountain peaks surrounding the town, there is a fresh coat of snow, which actually creeps down below the treeline. My first day of river shooting starts the day after tomorrow, and I secretly hope that it decides to warm up just a bit. But I don’t count on it. This is, after all, Patagonia.

Part 3:  January

This Old House

I’ll start with the roof. Before being covered in corrugated tin sheets, it was originally tiled in wooden shingles, overlaid in a pattern of cross-locking squares. I know this because the tin sheets have blown away across town in what has been the biggest wind storm I can remember in my three seasons here, leaving the original wooden shingles once again bare in the sun.

After arriving here in Futaleufu about three weeks before and sleeping in the loft of Monica and Carmen’s barn, it was time to find a place to live. I embarked on the search with my buddy Pablo Gonzales, another guide for Expediciones Chile, who was also in search of a house to rent. I had gone around town asking the locals if there were any houses empty and available. I was eventually put in touch with one Juana Segel, a lady who lives down the road at the Rio Azul, who owns several houses here in town. She showed me this one. It had everything we would need for a summer here in town, and it was fairly cheap. Pablo agrees at once, and we find ourselves living here for about 60,000 pesos a month, and worth every centavo. (It’s about 600 pesos to the dollar…you do the math.)

The house is a two-story structure. Not a typical house style common to this town. Its roof is steep and pointed, and vaguely reminiscent of a scaled-down version of the Bates house from the old Hitchcock film. It is old, even by Futa standards. I’m guessing it was one of the original dwellings from when this town was settled back in the 20s. The outside is sided with wooden shingles much like those that once made the roof, darkened and weathered from decades in the Patagonia rain and sun. Like most houses here, it is a simple wood-framed structure, with no insulation, and the interior walls covered in only the cheapest fiber-board. And like most houses, the floors are hardwood. Those in this one are weathered and worn from decades of use. There is a small wood burner in the living room, a table and a chair in the kitchen, and little other furniture. Pablo occupies the downstairs bedroom that adjoins the living room, and I take the upstairs. I have a window that looks north, and another that overlooks the street to the east. The view is spectacular either way. And I find my little attic bedroom charming.

I have time to throw my stuff in the house and set up a sleeping space, before it’s time for me to go to work. I spend the week before and up to Christmas shooting a whitewater trip for clients. I have time to sleep a bit in the house, but not much else. I’m busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. My days are spent on the river, shooting, and my evenings are spent editing and producing. At the end of the week, I have produced a respectable piece of art, and the clients buy it, making it a very merry Christmas for me, indeed. The post-production phase is still a bit on hold, involving some software issues that are tedious, frustrating, and ultimately, not very interesting. Let’s move on.

This Old House, Part Two

The house abuts the sidewalk, and the main entrance is around the side. Only the richest of the rich here in Futa have lawn mowers, so the grass is tall. Behind the house is a small yard, and a barn. The lot next door is fenced in, and usually there is a horse. The horse is shy and so far won’t let me pet him. Back behind the barn is another house, also owned by Sra. Segel, and about to be occupied by her daughter Karena, and her husband Alejandro. They are nice people. They are working on the inside of the house, getting ready to move in. Saws and hammers can be heard running out back during the day.

After the hecticity (I’m not sure if that’s actually a word. The only alternative I could think of is “hecticness,” which doesn’t quite fit, either.) of Christmas week settles down, and the clients have gone home, I have a bit more time to settle into the house. I string my rescue rope between the corner of the house and the barn, making a clothesline to dry my river gear. I go to the local Ferreteria (which we’ve come to call the “getting stuff” place) and get our propane tanks filled--one for the kitchen stove, the other for the Califon. A Califon is the most common form of water-heater here in Chile. It is a metal box that is usually mounted on a wall, with a gas hose that connects to the propane tank. The water line goes into the Califon, which, if the pilot light is lit, turns on automatically when the hot water faucet is turned on and water begins to pump through. The gas flames flash-heat the water as it flows through an internal structure similar to a car radiator, and the water comes out hot. So we now have a shower.

I get my bedroom a bit more organized upstairs, and make use of the only other piece of furniture left here in the house. It looks to be an ancient school desk from the 1940s; stained dark brown, random markings still visible, made by a bored student who is probably somebody’s parent or grandparent by now. It has a hole for the inkwell, and a carved indentation for the pencil across the top. This becomes my workstation for my laptop; I set up my Coleman camp chair in front of it, and the upstairs is now my office, as well.

The Wind

Sometime in the middle of the night, I awaken to the sound of wind. This is nothing unusual here. The wind is almost always strong, and every house here has managed to stay standing in it for decades. Some nights it is strong enough to vibrate the house. Like this night. The wind gradually increases in intensity, and the standard vibration is punctuated with short bursts of actual shaking and visible movement of this apparently fragile structure in which I’m trying to sleep. The more powerful gusts produce alarming sounds of screeching metal, along with that squealing sound an old 16 penny nail makes when you pull it out of a piece of old oak with a pry bar. As I wonder if I should maybe go downstairs or something, that wrenching squeal explodes into what sounds like a train-wreck about 6 feet above my head, followed by the fluttering sound of sheet metal flapping in the wind and then landing in the gravel street below. There went a piece of the roof.

In an exercise of denial, I pull the covers back up over my head (with an image in my head of Wile E. Coyote holding up a little black umbrella and closing his eyes as the pile of rocks descend upon him) and sleep in fits and starts through the dawn. Sometime after first light, in another powerful gust, I hear a second sheet of tin let loose and fly off. And when I’m up and working on my computer around 10, a third. I go outside, carefully looking both ways for sheets of flying metal, before stepping out my door into the gale. If it weren’t for the wind, it would be a beautiful day, partly cloudy, upper 60s. I collect two of the sheets (the third one is nowhere to be seen) that had flown off. Each one is about 4 feet by 8 feet, and weighs about 70 pounds. I stack them behind the house.

I am about to go out to get some breakfast, when Karena and Alejandro come from the house out back. Alejandro is limping, and his foot is wrapped in white cloth. Karena is helping him walk. She asks me shyly if I could drive them to the hospital in the van, which is parked on the street in front of the house (which just barely missed getting clobbered by flying pieces of the roof). Without hesitation, I tell them sure, let’s go, no problem. I ask what happened. Alejandro explains that he had been working on the house, and cut his foot on the electric saw. He tells me this with a sheepish grin, and is much more relaxed and calm about it than he probably should be. He’ll definitely need some stitches, but he’ll be fine. I drop them off at the hospital, and continue with my day.

Casa Andrea

My next stop is my favorite store in town, the Casa Andrea. This little supermercado (Don’t let this term fool you. The large supermarket, with aisles and aisles of food you can pick out and put in your cart, doesn’t exist here.) is a small, local family-owned grocery store. Everything is on shelves behind the counter, which encircles the entire perimeter of the inside of the store. You ask the ladies for what you’re looking for, and they get it down from the shelves and put it on the counter for you. Today, I am getting 10 liters of gas for the van. Casa Andrea is also only one of two places they sell gas in town. They sell it from a shed out back. You pay for the gas, and they send Walter out with his wine jugs and a funnel. Walter is a joker, and usually asks me about John. I tell him John’s fine, he’s working at the camp down by the river. Walter tells me to tell John to come and say hi. I’ve passed this message to John several times, but John has been avoiding Walter. Walter usually gives John a world of crap for having gained weight. “Hooooola, gordito!”

As I pay for the gas, Sra. Luzmira asks me how my wallet is holding up. She asks me this because a few days ago, I was here, and the little zipper on my wallet broke. She looked at this, and immediately told me to wait. She ran into the back room, and ran back out carrying a needle and thread. She took my wallet, and within minutes, had sewn up the bottom part of the zipper and handed it back to me. I show her that it’s holding up fine, and thank her again. I go outside where Walter is bringing out the jugs of gas.

The wind is still fierce, and people can be seen walking up and down the street struggling to maintain equilibrium. A man in a baseball cap is crossing the street carrying a pane of glass. A powerful gust takes his hat off his head, and within two seconds, his hat is halfway down the block. He is still carrying the pane of glass, and it is all he can do just to hold onto it. I take off running and eventually catch his hat. I run it back to him, and he thanks me. I stroll back to the van, where Walter is pouring the second of the two jugs into Clod. In mid-pour, Walter’s hat flies off his head and eventually comes to light in the corner of the town plaza on the next block. I chase it and bring it back to him, where he is cracking up laughing, along with many of the folks on the street who are apparently enjoying this spectacle of a 6-foot blond haired gringo running down the street chasing everyone’s hats. I take my leave of Walter, thank my audience, and continue with my day, feeling a bit like Buster Keaton. I half-expect to next see a guy crossing the street with a ladder, and another carrying a tray of pies. But this is a bit much to hope for. I get while the gettin’s good.

Happy New Year

The days progress and the wind dies down to its normal levels. It is New Years Eve, and I spend a pleasant evening at a family-run hotel called El Barranco. I have known Juan Pablo, the owner, and his son Juan Jose (who goes by Juanjo) for the past two seasons. They are great people, and they invite me and a few other friends to have dinner with the family that evening.

El Barranco is probably the nicest hotel in town. It’s dining room/bar/common area are all furnished in hardwood…the floor, the tables, the walls, the ceilings…with a natural finish. The lighting is tasteful and ambient. The place is gorgeous, with the tables exquisitely decorated with candelabra centerpieces for the occasion.

I spend most of the evening before midnight hanging out in the kitchen talking to Juanjo, Maria Jose, Carlo and Daniela, who are doing most of the cooking. We are drinking pisco sours. The pisco sour is to South America what the Margarita is to Mexico. It’s definitely the mixed drink of choice here. It’s made with lemon juice, sugar, an egg white, and of course, pisco (which is to South America what tequila is to Mexico), all mixed in a blender. It is usually served in a tall, thin goblet, much like a champagne glass, and the rim is dipped in powdered sugar instead of the salt common to a Margarita. They serve the hotel guests dinner around 10:30, then invite me to play a few songs on my guitar to bring in the new year. I happily oblige.

2005 is counted down, and ushered in with hugs and kisses all around, along with glasses of champagne. And after it all settles down, it’s our turn to eat. I’m learning that any family, or group of people that run a hotel or restaurant traditionally eat after all the guests. Our meal is the same as the guests. We start with ceviche, which is a salad made with raw salmon and lemon juice, then move on to the main course of filet mignon wrapped in bacon, with sautéed vegetables. Then raspberry mousse for dessert. Juan Pablo opens a good bottle of wine, and the meal finishes up around 3am. We all exchange a toast for the new year. They thank me for bringing my guitar and sharing my music. I thank them for inviting me and making me feel welcome.

This Old House, Part Three

or

It’s Just the Wind

Sra. Segel shows up a few days after New Years to survey the wind damage. I point out the missing pieces of metal that once covered the roof. She agrees, yes, they are gone, alright. I ask her what she’s going to do. She tells me she’s going to tear down the house after we move out in March. Sounds like a good plan to me. It has rained since then, and the roof has not leaked, so water will probably not be a problem. However, this house may have other issues.

This is one of the oldest houses in Futaleufu. Pablo and I are in the living room, casually chatting with our friend Ada, who has stopped over. It’s late afternoon, a sunny day. In mid-sentence, Ada stops. Her eyes widen, and her face turns pale as she gazes over our shoulders to the kitchen behind us. Pablo asks her what’s up. She tells us she has just seen someone who wasn’t there. Nobody is in the house with us, but Ada saw something that freaked her out. Someone had walked out of nowhere, peered around the corner, then was gone. Ten seconds later, there was nothing to see, nobody was there, and Pablo is now freaked out as well. I am neutral. Could have been anything. The mind is a complex entity, and plays tricks.

The next day, Pablo tells me he was having trouble sleeping last night. He had gone to bed early around 10pm, but was laying awake thinking about what Ada had seen, and could hear me working and walking around upstairs on the second floor until about 1am. I am afraid to tell him what I am about to tell him. You see where this is going, don’t you? Might as well let him have it: I wasn’t in the house last night. I was over across town watching a movie with friends on my laptop until about 2 in the morning. Whatever it was he was listening to that night upstairs in my room, it wasn’t me.

Pablo is even more freaked out now. And I don’t know what to think at this point. I try to remain neutral. This house makes a lot of noise when it’s windy, which is most of the time here. It could have been anything he was hearing upstairs. This is what I am telling myself the following afternoon as I am alone in the living room, and the stack of dishes piled on the side of the sink fall over with a crash. Well, the dishes were stacked a bit precariously, and could have fallen over anytime. And this is what I am telling myself as the same thing happens to me the next day.

Pablo has talked to a few people about our house. He has found out that this house has been vacant for some time. None of the locals wanted to rent it. That would explain why it was so cheap. I attribute this to the house being a shithole, rather than being haunted. Pablo’s not so sure. And at this point neither am I.

I’ve always prided myself on being a rational thinker. When people ask me if I believe in ghosts, I tell them I’ve never seen one. I neither believe nor disbelieve. And I can’t form strong opinions based on the subjective experiences of others. I don’t have as hard a time contemplating the existence of ghosts, so much as the idea that IF (and I do mean IF) a person dies and their soul remains a conscious and cohesive entity free to experience the mysteries of eternity and the vastness of the infinite outside the shackles of a finite physical form, then they have nothing better with which to occupy their time than to knock over stacks of dishes and spook the living with footsteps in the night. But then again, what do I know?

A few local friends (who are perhaps a bit more in tune with the spiritual than I) have suggested the animal test. A domesticated animal such as a dog can sense things that humans can’t. They suggest that if we bring an animal into the house, and it seems comfortable, then the house is probably just old. But if the animal is freaked out, or uncomfortable, then there might be something else going on.

I wonder if the dead cat on the roof in the plastic bag counts. A few days earlier, I noticed a bad smell behind the house. As it turned out, a cat had picked a spot under the crabapple tree next to the house to die. The smell becoming exponentially worse with each passing day, I had to take action. I got a trash bag, held my breath, and crawled under the tree to peel the cat’s corpse from the ground. After sealing the bag with a knot, I sprinkled baking soda over the ground to help get rid of the smell. We tried leaving the trash bag out next to the curb for the garbage men to pick up. This proved unwise. The town dogs apparently find the smell of decomposing cat appealing, like hors d’oeuvres. After sealing the cat in a new bag the next morning, Pablo put the bag on the corner of the roof until the garbage men came a few days later. In the meantime, no other animals have come near our house.

Except a rooster that occasionally hangs out in the back yard. And how do you tell if a rooster is freaked out? I mean, if we were to go and physically chase down and catch a rooster in the back yard, and then deposit him in the living room, wouldn’t he already be freaked out? And once he calmed down, how would we know if his subsequent behaviors are the result of his rooster senses detecting a foreign spiritual presence, or simply of his need to peck something or have a poop? I believe the rooster is out of the question for the animal test.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking about getting a different place to live. Our friend Daniela, when she got here for the summer from Santiago, was looking to rent this place. She almost took it. But several locals that she had become friends with warned her not to take it. They wouldn’t tell her why. Other locals speak vaguely of someone having died here, and of “presences.”

Whether this house is “occupied,” (in spite of the screaming protests of every synnapse in my rational left-brain) or not, I have practical reasons for wanting to leave. I like to sleep well. It’s one of my visceral pleasures. And this house is noisy. There are still pieces of loose metal on the roof, which is about 3 feet above my head when I sleep. When the wind blows, this place sounds like an ancient roller coaster, creaking and groaning in waves, crescendoes, and bursts.

And my mind is starting to play tricks. After lying awake until 4 am listening to this and thinking about everything else, I begin to hear (or imagine) things beyond the scope of wind noise. I hear flashes of whispered voices in Spanish that come from all directions. I begin to wonder what will be staring back at me if I shine my headlamp into the wooden corners of this night-darkened upstairs room. Or what I will run into when I turn the corner of the steep wooden stairwell. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck stands up at random moments during the day and night. As I sit here typing this at my ancient wooden little desk, I wonder if at any moment I will feel a cold hand touch the back of my neck. I resist the urge to look back over my shoulder at the rest of the room, thus giving validation to these primal fears. And I wonder if that shadow over in the corner of my eye just moved, or if it was just my imagination.

Maybe something funny is going on in this house. Or maybe I’ve just been listening to too much of this crap from superstitious locals. Real or not, I walk around with dark circles under my eyes, and need some sleep. I haven’t lost this much sleep since Bush was re-elected. And this is almost as scary.

Part 4:  February

A New House

Things have gotten a little less weird around here since the last epistle. Pablo and I promptly moved out of the old house, having found this one, complete with roof and walls, for exactly the same price. Neither of us ever did actually "see" anything in the old house; there were definitely some strange vibes going on in there, not to mention a cacophany of noise from the stray loose pieces of sheet metal on the roof every time the wind blew. But I guess we'll never know if the old house was "occupied" or not.

The week that we moved out, deconstruction commenced on the old place. It is now a foundation, a pile of rotten boards, and one stray wall still standing, that they haven't gotten around to tearing down yet.

Meanwhile, our new house. Much nicer, much sturdier. It doesn't shake as much when the wind blows. It has furniture in the living room. A couch, two chairs, and a rug that really ties the room together. I, with the help of a guy named Carlito, have taken the little cast iron wood stove from the old place, and put it in here. It has a very nice fenced-in back yard. And a shed out back in which we stash our gear and firewood.

____________________________________________________

I Make a New Friend

Note, I said a little less weird. Time to introduce you to Pedro. There's something about my personality and demeanor that attracts people like this. Don't know what it is. Everywhere I travel, these people seem to seek me out.

The first day I ran into Pedro, it was near the town plaza. (Here comes a cliche...a thousand apologies...) I am walking down the street, minding my own business. The day is a little cool, and overcast. There are a few people out walking, but not many. On the opposite corner stands Pedro. He has stringy black hair, scruff of a beard; he wears dirty jeans and a blue jeans jacket, and carries a dirty green army-looking knapsack. He looks to be in his late-twenties. He spots me immediately. He flags me down and runs over to me. He shakes my hand. So far so good. Hand shaking is perfectly normal.

Ever meet somebody, and shake their hand, and they forget to give your hand back, and keep shaking it for an uncomfortably long time? And you don't want to be rude and pull your hand away before he's done shaking it? And you wonder, as he's conversing, if he even remembers that he still has your hand? And you feel vague pangs of guilt for not being able to fully concentrate on the conversation, because he's still holding your hand? No? Maybe it's just me.

-He asks me, how am I doing, dude? (This is all in spanish)

-I tell him, I'm good, how are you?

-He says pretty good. He comments on how empty this town looks. Like a ghost town, is the phrase he uses.

-I say, yeah, well, it's cold out, and not too many people are out walking around.

-He asks me where I am from.

-I tell him the United States.

-He asks me what part.

-I tell him I was born in Pennsylvania.

This continues with the semblance of normal conversation, after he gives me my hand back. But there is something odd, and a little desperate in this guy's disposition. I mean, apart from the awkwardly long handshake. His eyes are glazed red, which would signify (a) he had been crying, or (b) he's a drug addict. He appears in a jolly mood, so I'm guessing (b).

Now, I don't automatically dismiss someone just because they're on drugs. There is a large percentage of the population that enjoys getting high or goofy once in awhile, and that doesn't, ipso facto, make them sick or dangerous. Ninety nine times out of a hundred, it's just the opposite. There is nothing wrong with a nice buzz once in awhile. It is apparent, however, after a bit more conversation, that this guy has bigger problems than being stoned.

The conversation continues with him asking me what I do. I explain, in a guarded fashion, trying not to reveal too many details, that I'm a musician, and a videographer. This is apparently one of the coolest things he's ever heard.

-He explains to me that he just got here off the bus, he's from Santiago, and he wants to stay here in Futaleufu forever.

-I think, (oh, good.)

-He explains to me that he's pretty bored.

(Oh, good.)

What does this guy want? He's obviously not a thief or a mugger. The next logical step is for him to ask me for money. But this never comes.

He instead starts asking about the women here in town.

-What do I think of them? Are they pretty?

-I concede that I've seen some pretty ones around.

-He asks me how many of them have I shagged.

(Jesus, dude.)

-Ok, I gotta go.

-No! Wait wait wait! Sorry. He asks me if I have a girlfriend here.

-I explain, no, I got a girl back in the states.

-He asks if she's named Barbie.

-Ha ha. Haven't heard that one in about three days, dude.

-Get it? Ken and Barbie? That's funny!

-Yeah, dude, you're a funny guy.

-So Barbie's alone in the states, and you're all alone here?

I'm starting to get an idea where this is going. Why me? I'm just trying to walk from the cafe back to my house.

-Yeah, so?

-So how do you know if Barbie hasn't switched over to "Kevin," or "Scott," or someone like that?

-Dude, I'm not having this conversation with you.

-So you don't have a girlfriend here in town? Do you...(he starts saying some slang i don't get, and making vaguely suggestive hand gestures around his crotch.)

-Dude, I gotta go. Good luck. See ya later.

-No! Wait wait wait! Just kidding. Just kidding.

Never trust anyone who says, "just kidding." New rule. Pedro makes some more small talk, and desperately tries to be nice. He calls me his amigo, and is overjoyed to have met me. And I'm too nice to tell him to piss off. It'd be like kicking a puppy. I can't do it. He's a sad, lonely, desperate guy that wants a friend. He picked me. What can I do? I tell him, really, I have to go. Nice to meet you, and good luck. I take my leave. I wonder if I'd seen the last of Pedro. I walk across the plaza, and look back over my shoulder. Pedro has engaged some other hapless passerby in conversation. The poor sod.

Two days later, Pedro finds me again. It is late afternoon, warm, clear skies, with a half-moon in the daylit sky. Pedro is hanging out on the corner, in fact, the same corner as the other day. His eyes are red and crazed. He is currently engaged in some conversation with some kid, looks about 14. The kid is looking a little tired. I am walking down the street, minding my own business.

-Ken!!!

(Oh, god.)

-How're you doing, Pedro?

-Very good, my friend. Hey, I have a question!

(I'm sure you do.)

-Sure, man. What is it?

Pedro points up to the half-moon.

-Why is the moon half-full some days, and full others, and crescent sometimes, too?

-I explain that it has to do with the position of the moon in relation to the position of the sun.

-He asks if it is the shadow of the earth?

-I explain, no, that's an eclipse, a different thing. The phases of the moon come from the moon's position relative to earth, and the angle from which we see the sun shining on it.

This is one of the coolest things he's ever heard. The kid also seems interested, or perhaps he's just happy that he's no longer the object of Pedro's conversation. (Run now, while you can, kid. I'm taking one for the team.) The kid doesn't run.

-Pedro asks me how I know so much about science. Am I a scientist?

-No. But I read a lot of astrophysics in my spare time.

It's true.

-So are you an astrologer? What's your star sign?

Oh, boy. Here we go. I want to explain to him the difference between astronomy and astrology. I want to explain to him that astronomy is the objective scientific study of the movement of planets, the formation of stars, planets, and galaxies, the construction of the solar system, and the intricate workings of gravity, quantum physics, and energy, along with all their cause-and-effect relationships. Whereas astrology is the subjective study of the effects the heavenly bodies have on human personalities and events of daily life. I want to explain to him that astronomy is legitimate science, astrology is goofy superstitious horseshit. But my spanish isn't quite that good. I have to settle for sarcasm.

-My sign? I'm a feces.

I guess that joke is only funny in English.

-Huh?

-Never mind.

At this point, I am apparently gaining Pedro's confidence. He decides it's time to take a bold step, and bring the friendship to the next level.

-Ken, I want you to be the godfather of my kids.

This takes some explaining. Since I wasn't familiar with the word padrino at the time, he explains that he wants me to be present at the kids' baptisms, and care for them if he dies. Ah. Godfather. Now I get it.

-I ask him, so you have kids?

-No.

But when he does, I get to be the godfather.

-Really?

-Yes. Really.

-Godfather, eh? I'm honored. You just met me. You're a trusting guy.

-Yeah, but I know you've got good energy. You're an angel. I know. I talk to angels.

Ah. Angels. I look over at the kid. The kid shrugs, as if to say, Don't look at me.

-Dude, I'm not an angel. I'm just a guy walking down the street. I gotta go.

-Where are you going?

I'm on my way to see the lovely folks over at Sur Andes Cafe, but I'm not telling him that. The last thing I want to do is give this guy any details of my personal life. I point vaguely...

-Down that way.

-Cool! Let's go. I'll walk with you.

(Oh, sweet Jesus.)

Now Pedro is following me through town. I longingly pass by Cafe SurAndes. It is growing dusk, and inside is bathed in warm light. Through the window I can see Monica and Maria Jose baking in the kitchen. So near yet so far. I don't dare go in. Pedro is still following me. And talking. And talking. I try the ruse of not understanding Spanish. This just makes him talk louder. I have tried to convince him several times that I am not an angel, but I'm not sure if he is buying it or not. During our long walk through a good part of town, Pedro relates to me the following points of information:

-I am now his new best friend.

-He talks to angels on a regular basis.

-Sometimes they talk to him in dreams.

-An angel appeared to him in a vision, and told him that a gigantic tsunami was going to wipe out Chile in the year 2012. But Argentina would be alright. So if you're in Chile in 2012, have your passport ready.

-Hmm. How long ago was this?

-About two years.

-Ah.

-Sometimes angels come in UFOs.

-He sees UFOs on a regular basis, as well.

-The angels from the UFOs tell him that humans need to realize that all the energy of the universe is interconnected, and adjust their behavior accordingly.

-Humans have lost their connection with nature, and thus have lost their place in the cosmic design.

Actually, I happen to agree with these last two points. But I don't need to hear it from angels in UFOs. Relentlessly, the sermon continues...

-The UFOs (and presumably, the angels driving them) come from one of the stars in the southern cross constellation. Couldn't quite figure out which one.

-When the world ends in 2012 (except for Argentina), the UFOs will take him up with them.

-He knows this because he has accepted Jesus as his savior.

-His psychiatrists do not believe him.

-The angels have told him to stop taking his medication.

This is a guy whom I would love to see have his own radio show. But this is not a guy whom I want emotionally attached to me, following me down the street talking my ear off. This has gone on for close to an hour now, and I am weary.

His voice drones on, and my thoughts wander. Why me? This happens to me on a regular basis. What is it about me that attracts these guys, like moths to a lightbulb? He's so excited, I can barely get a word in edgewise. There is no way out, apart from stopping in the middle of the park, shaking him by the lapels, and saying "STOP TALKING!!! PISS OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!!" But this is not an option. Like I said, it'd be like kicking a puppy. I can't do it. I think, what does he need? Well, I don't have that.

It is full dark, and I have somewhere to be. I don't want him following me home. In fact, I don't want him to even know where I live. I tell him,

-Dude, seriously, I have to go.

-He asks me if he is boring me with this stuff.

(Yes.)

-No. It's just that you're a complicated guy, and this is a lot of information you've given me.

-Why do you say I'm complicated?

-Well, you talk to angels, you see UFOs, and you receive prophecies, for starters.

-My psychiatrists don't believe me. Do you believe me?

-If you say so, I can't argue. I don't know, dude. I wasn't there. I didn't see it.

-So you only believe what you see?

I want to explain to him, I believe what I see, or what I can deduce from objective information. But my spanish is not quite that good under pressure.

-Something like that.

-Well, you've got to have faith.

-Yeah, you told me.

-Have faith, believe in the energy of the universe, feel the connection with nature...

-I know, dude. It's been nice meeting you. I really have to go. I wish you luck in your search. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for. See you later.

I finally wrench myself away from the conversation with every ounce of my remaining will and strength. All the energy and lifeforce has been sucked out of me. I wonder what to make of Pedro. I feel pangs of guilt for having spurned his offer to be my new best friend. I rationalize it as simple survival. It was either that, or spend the rest of my life in this conversation that probably would have lasted until one of us slashed our own wrists.

The pangs of guilt come from this soft spot deep down in my soul I have for the Freaks. Society's dregs. The rejects and the misfits. Those poor bastards that can't find a place in the social construct. The loners and weirdos. Incapable of conducting appropriate conversation, and unable to maintain normal social relationships. The sad, the lonely, the desperate. So many of us are only one step away from being one of them. (Ok, maybe just me.) And this soft spot of mine shines like a beacon to those that see with the right kind of eyes.

Jesus said, "Whatever you do to these, the least of my brethren, you also do to me." Part of me really does believe that maybe some of these weird outcasts are a little closer to the divine than most. And it has been a common theme in underground literature throughout the course of human history that the mentally deficient, the ranting wanderers, and the drug addicts, annoying or not, are privy to certain information and perception of true reality that the rest of us lack. Most of the old testament was written by these raving shirtless unshaven desert hermits that somehow knew about the fall of Jerusalem 600 years before it happened, and its subsequent rebuilding two millenia later, wheel of fire in the sky or not.

Pedro has left town. I have no idea where he went or if he'll be back. I wonder if I'll ever see him again. I wonder if he was some divine being in disguise, sent by Whomever to test my moral fortitude. Or, if he was just an annoying ex-mental patient that latched onto me like an energy parasite. I spend the subsequent months savoring my spiritual solitude, and trying to replenish my lifeforce, because the next one of these guys is probably scheduled to come along soon. Perhaps I'll run into Pedro in Argentina in 2012. Until then, God bless the Freaks.

____________________________________________________

The Rio Michimahuida

This is a river I'd been hearing about since I got here two years ago. The few folks I know that have run it speak very highly of it. The time finally came for me to run it.

Five of us were on this mission. We drive to Chaiten the evening before, and sleep at the hot springs. Next morning, we set shuttle. We leave our van, Clod, down at the bridge next to the road at the take-out. We load up Nate's truck, and head up to the put-in.

Most of the people that have done this run, do it in two days, spending a night on the river. It is very remote, isolated, and it is a long stretch. We have decided to do it in one. We are all competent class V boaters, capable of boat-scouting drops that others might want to look at from shore.

We take the road up past the hot springs, another 15-20k. The road climbs, winds, narrows, diminishes in quality, descends, curves, and climbs some more. Incredibly enough, we pass a small ranch with a house out where it seems improbable that anyone would live. And shortly after we pass the ranch, the truck begins to make noises. Uh oh.

We check out the truck, and it turns out that the belt that drives the water pump and the alternator has come off, gone. The fellows from the farm come over and check out the truck, once again proving my theory that wheresoever you shall open the hood of a vehicle, no matter how remote the location, three or more chileans shall gather.

It turns out that we are right near the put-in, and Nate decides to stay back to take care of his truck, sending us out to do the run. So the mission is down to four. And as we put on, I realize that, interestingly enough, we are four different people representing four different continents. There's me, of course, representing North America. From down under, there's Josh, from Tasmania. Stan is from South Africa. And Europe is represented by this crazed German named Simon. The four of us set off downstream into what will become my new favorite river.

The headwaters of the Rio Michimahuida begin way up in Region 9, somewhere in the large Pumalin National Park, from the glaciers that cover the Michimahuida Volcano. From where we put in, all the way down to the coastal flats where we will be taking out, it drops through five distinct canyons in all.

The water has the greenish-gray hue of glacial silt. I'm guessing it is half glacier melt, and half rainfall, because the water is cool, but not freezing. For the next 7 hours on the water, we do not see a single sign of even the faintest human presence. This is pure wilderness.

And the whitewater is spectacular. I am guessing the flow somewhere between 1700 and 2000 cfs. (For you non-whitewater folks, "cfs" is a measure of water volume, and it stands for "club-footed squirrel." It's a technical term, I'm not exactly sure what it means, but I've learned not to ask certain questions...) And when the walls close in and the gorges start, the paddling is like two Upper Youghs (but at 3 feet instead of two), two Top Youghs, and three Russell Forks, all thrown together and amped up a notch. For you non-paddling folks, that last sentence is completely esoteric, so let me try again.

The drops are steep, technical, and bouldery. We boat-scout everything, eddy by eddy. Simon and Josh usually go first, which is fine with me. I like it when someone else wants to drop into something and be the guinea pig. That way, I can either say, "that looked pretty good, I'll take that line," or, "that looked a little sketchy. I'm trying this line instead."

This is our rhythm as we drop through the canyons, which are very intense and continuous. The water twists and drops around boulders, through chutes, and over ledges. There are a myriad of good boofs, and plenty of cool slot moves, if that's what you're looking for. Only four drops all day we get out of our boats to scout; drops that we can't see the bottom from the top. Most of these are good to go as well, you just can't see the line from your boat. One of these is this one, that drops about 10-12 feet next to a giant tree trunk that is wedged against the left wall. Stan took the photo.

The drops come quickly, one horizon line after another, drop after drop. And then the canyons open up into some of the most spectacular, pristine wilderness I've ever seen. The banks are lined with thick bamboo, giant ferns, and gargantuan broad-leafed ground plants the size of beach umbrellas. There are coyihue trees that grow out over the river, gnarled roots attached to mossy rock walls, that form a sort of canopy over the water. Side creeks come in with crystal clear water that you can drink from. Up high, some of these form waterfalls that drop and cascade for thousands of feet before reaching here. We can see ibuses and cormorants flying along the water's surface. And then the walls close back in, and it's time to drop into the next gorge.

We round the last bend under the shadow of a giant glacier off to the southwest, and reach the bridge at about 8pm, as the sun is reaching the horizon. We are exhausted from I'm guessing close to 30 miles of paddling in one day. But worth every minute. Fantastic.

We go into town, where Nate has befriended a local rancher named Fernando. Fernando has taken a spare piece of leather, tied it into a makeshift belt, and it has worked to get the truck back down into town where he found a new belt no problem. We all share some beers and eat dinner at a small, hole in the wall seafood restaurant in Chaiten. Tonight they are serving merluza, a mild white fish that the lady cooks right there in the kitchen, with mashed potatoes and salad.

And driving back to Futaleufu, listening to African Techno-groove on the stereo under a sky full of stars, I realize that days like this are the reason I came to Chile.