“Yeehaw” flooded my ears in tandem with a full body dousing of cold water. I had two breaths in which to reorient myself before our raft, filled with flailing arms and legs, paddles, screeches and smiles, collided with the next wave of the rapid. Our co-paddlers pulled as a team through the wave and into the placid pool beyond. We had just met, coming together for a multi-day adventure to navigate a series of rivers from the Chilean Andes to the Pacific Ocean. In a country as narrow as Chile, boating from a river’s source in the mountains to its terminus in the salt water of the Pacific in just a few days is a real and exciting opportunity.

Our journey on the Río Toltén started on the calm waters of Lago Villarrica, the lake at the base of the volcano Villarrica and on whose shores lies Pucón, the town we’ve been calling home most recently. The group consisted of a young Dutch couple caravanning through South America for ten months, a Chilean woman accompanied by her two children (ages 4 and 11), her partner, and her best friend, plus the two of us. Besides the paying guests, we had five crew. The coordinator and capitan Rodolfo, co-captain and head chef Nico, yoga instructor Luciana, and support crew Magdalena and Michaela for a total of 14.

I have to admit that I had my reservations when I saw the kids. I wanted to have an open mind but I couldn’t help but think that they would be in the way or slow us down.  Then a funny thing happened that first day. As we settled into the tightly shared space, we started to get to know one another and we worked together to propel the raft safely around obstacles. The English speakers called up their Spanish and the Spanish speakers found their English and together we began to learn about one another. I found myself feeling a growing connection to the members of our group. Maite, the 11 year-old girl, shyly sidled up to me and tried out her school English. In keeping with my innate impulse to teach, I struck up a conversation with her. It turned out that she spoke English enthusiastically and gained confidence as I encouraged her with questions.

The exuberance of our youngest member, four-year-old Adolfo, was infectious. He quickly got his sea legs and clambered about the raft, frequently exclaiming loudly, “¡Qué fantástico! ¡Mira! (Look!) ¡Qué lindo! (How beautiful!)” By the time we hit our third set of rapids, which shoved our craft into a tangle of low hanging branches and threatened to sweep little Adolfo into the water, everyone reached to protect him, comically neglecting our job of paddling the raft out of harm’s way. 

At day’s end we disembarked at our first campsite, a tranquil, riverside spot where we were met by our wonderful support people and a delicious spread of fresh, nutritious snacks and cold beers, followed by a filling dinner. I fell asleep to the river’s lullaby singing in harmony with the birds.

Group camping has a funny way of quickly breaking down barriers. We had known one another for less than 24 hours, yet here we were sleeping (and in some cases snoring) in close proximity, padding around tousle-haired and sleepy-faced in our pajamas, and sharing a communal bathroom. Together we greeted the morning with yoga and stretching before fortifying ourselves with a hot breakfast. Why does food always seem to taste better when it is prepared and eaten outdoors in nature?

For our second day, those who chose to could abandon their seat in the raft and wiggle into a sea kayak. Maite, with our encouragement, decided to try kayaking for the first time. The plan for the day was to cover nearly a marathon distance of 35 km. Fortunately, we had an assist from the river’s current. Unfortunately, we also had a serious headwind for most of the day. Sadly, Maite had to return to the raft since she was too light to make progress against the force of the wind. But I felt as proud of her for giving it a try as if she were one of my own children. As the miles stretched out behind us the landscape began to change. No longer was the seemingly ever-present volcano looming over our shoulders. We traded pine-covered hillsides for fertile fields, hawks for ducks, steep river banks for rocky beaches, and burbling water for intermittent sounds of humans at work beyond the shoreline.

Rodolfo, in his own kayak, joined the six kayakers in three tandem boats and left the raft group in Nico’s capable hands. Throughout the long day he gave each of us ample opportunity to lead the way. I felt his trust in us to choose good paths in the water, taking advantage of the currents, avoiding whirlpools and strong eddies, and negotiating the rocks and shallows. Occasionally when the river forked we would regroup and consider our options. We trusted Rodolfo’s knowledge of the river but also came to trust one another as we learned to “read” the river. When one of the boats tipped and spilled its paddlers into the cold river, Rodolfo quickly pulled them to shore and we and the other dry paddlers rustled up dry clothes to lend them. Our faith in each other strengthened our connections. Once again, I went to bed, exhausted but elated from the day.

We broke camp the next morning, anticipating the final stretch of river before encountering the ocean. Nico, Micaela, the two kids, and their mom chose to travel the last section by road. Those of us in kayaks set off in the cool morning mist, enjoying the quiet of the river. After a time we started to notice new changes. At first I caught a faint whiff of salt in the air. The river widened into a delta. A few seabirds began to show up and the current we had grown accustomed to was confronted by the push of the incoming tide. Soon we could hear waves in the distance and at last we rounded one final river bend and saw our destination—the small fishing village of La Barra at the confluence of the Toltén River and the Pacific Ocean. The members of our group who went by truck to the beach landing greeted us as if we had been voyaging uncharted waters and unknown lands for months. Our reunion was joyous, sincere, and celebratory. We hugged and high-fived. It was hard to imagine that just a couple days prior we had been a group of strangers.

To our surprise and great good fortune, co-captain Nico arranged for us to have our final camp on the property of Joel, a member of the indigenous Mapuche community from the Lago Budi area. Nico was befriended by Joel at a transitional moment in his life and looks up to him as a tutor, mentor, and source of wisdom and inspiration. When we arrived at Joel’s home, we were met by a small herd of cows milling around on the patch of grass we were going to use for our tents—needless to say, we inspected the grass carefully after shooing the cows away and before pitching our tents. 

Though the Mapuche people live with their feet firmly planted in the 21st century, many continue their traditional way of life. They have a deep respect for Earth and all its plants, animals, resources, and beauty. They live simply and cooperatively, connected to their history, to the land and water, relying on the abundance of their environment and in harmony with the natural world. On his land Joel has a ruka, a traditional wooden structure with a thatched roof and dirt floor, which is used as a place to gather, cook, perhaps sleep, and tell stories. He invited us to use it to warm ourselves and cook dinner over the wood fire. Joel joined us and told us that he is his community’s keeper of traditional songs in Mapudungun—the language of the Mapuche. We fell silent as he graced us with three gentle, soothing songs. He then asked us to introduce ourselves. In the gloaming, we spoke in turn, with the light of the fire illuminating our faces. We spoke our names and then in the warm, womb-safe space of the ruka, among new friends, we shared our hearts, our hopes and dreams, and in some cases even our tears.

Sometimes when a group of strangers join an organized excursion they become acquaintances and fellow travelers, but nothing more. Sometimes it is even annoying to be with other people—they may go more slowly than we’d like, they may complain or be needy. Once in a great while, if you are lucky, you get a group that just clicks and you come away with new friends and an emotional bond. Differences in language, age, culture, and background don’t cease to exist but they do become irrelevant when we focus instead on empathy, love, and caring for one another. 

Perhaps it was the ruka, a place whose door faces east in order to capture the positive energy of the sun each morning, whose very design is based on the flow of the air and the connection to the land. Perhaps it was the team-building effects of paddling, camping, and sharing meals together. Perhaps it was the model set for us by the harmony, trust, and kindness of the crew, who also became our friends in a short time. Perhaps it just was the nature of the personalities that happened to be in this place at this time. Or perhaps it was all of these things. Whatever the source of this feeling of togetherness, for us, the trip transported us far beyond “from the Andes to the sea.”  

Note: If you’d like to see one of Joel’s public performances (he has done many around the world), check out this YouTube video. To see one of the songs he sang for us, click here. We give Joel heartfelt thanks for sharing his home, his ruka, his wisdom, and his songs with us.