The 100 Day Sabbatical

I walked out onto the balcony in complete awe: Patagonia. It reminded me of the tall, green island mountains of Kawaii, mixed with the untouched wilderness and fresh air of Alaska. Today was one of the days I had been looking forward to most: I was going to brave the white waters of the Andes in the heart of Patagonia. A group of strangers and I would traverse over 8 sets of rapids with a little raft and big hopes for a thrill. About 30 of us boarded a bus that took us through the thin mountain roads to Río Futaleufú. The bus was so bumpy that people joked we were getting ‘the Chilean mountain massage.’ When we arrived at the river, it was exhilarating – and loud. I don’t think I’d ever seen a river this fast and thunderous before. The current was crashing up against the rocks and the undercurrents were clearly strong. I looked up at the massive mountains towering all around us, covered in part by rock and in part by tall thin pines. Once again: wow. After we got into our wetsuits and teams, there was a brief chance to introduce ourselves to one another as we carried 4 different rafts down the hill toward a designated put-in point. My team members looked a little nervous and I glanced them a playful little look like, This will be okay, right? I mean, we won’t die or anything today? Slight smiles in return: Too late to ask now. The closer we got to the river, the louder it got. In fact we could barely hear a young guy shouting over its sound as we got closer: He was trying to brief us on what we were about to experience but all I could really make out was that his name was “Max” and he was our river guide for the day. We arrived at the base of the mountain and put the raft into the river. The water was crystal clear, and rushing fast. It was so clear it looked like there was no space between the raft and the rocks. Our group took a selfie together and then hopped in. This was happening. Max helped us paddle away from the sandy shore and out into the current. Our speed picked up immediately and I wished there had been a longer training session, or really any training session at all. The waves were so big that at times we were under them without any way to pull up our oars out from under it; other times our raft was up so high up on top of a wave that paddling was useless; we were simply swiping the air. Hitting a wave sideways was scary, and we’d soon find out that going over a rapid set backward was even scarier. But the mountain air was fresh, clean and cold. Even the sprays of water on my face and wetsuit body made me feel alive. Speaking of alive, that was the goal today. Just don’t fall out, I thought. As the first set of rapids approached we all, including me, tensed up. Where was the lowerside of the waterfall we were approaching? All I could see was a cliff. The raft dropped. We were in the falls and falling. At this point there wasn’t much to do but hold on as water poured in from all sides. And then, as fast as it started, it was over. Back to a fast and flat, glassy river. I opened my eyes and realized they had been closed the whole time going over the rapid and I was simply hugging the floor in fear rather than helping my teammates. Good news, everyone else was doing that too. Poor Max was the only one with his oar even in the water. But, I’m sure he was used to this. As we heard the two groups in front of us do, we all held up our oars into the air and put them above our heads in the middle to cheer: oohhuppp! No one fell out and set 1 of 8 was conquered. We did it! Our group loosened up a bit and slowly jokes and laughter followed. When Max yelled “forward” we’d row in unison, “stop” we’d cease any paddling, and “get down” meant we were about to hit a rock or waterfall so big that our best chance of staying in the raft was to hug its floor. The river had class fives but the first several sets we went over were threes. Every time we approached our next set, Max would proudly announce the name of it: “This is widowmaker, this is the man-eater, this is the death wish.” Thanks Max, I could do without the names. After two hours on the river that felt no more than twenty minutes, it was all over and we were pulling our raft up onto a peaceful beach. That was simply thrilling, and I wonder if it’s what flying would feel like. A group of Chilean staff greeted us with homemade empanadas and hot coffee on the beach. I warmed my hands with the mug, took a sip, and looked out over the raging river we had just conquered: It wasn’t that we weren’t afraid, but that we didn’t let fear keep us off the river, or from having the adventure of a lifetime. Max walked over, “How’d it go?” he asked. I looked up, hair soaking wet and shivering from the wind hitting my water-soaked wet suit. “Great!” I said honestly. Max was from Minnesota, same as me. And he was also from a lot of other places, same as me. Last year he had experienced what he referred to as a mid-life crisis (but wait, he was only 26) and decided to move out to Colorado to learn river rafting. He was a hit, and several months later he was offered a position in Chile. When we asked him how long he'd be on this little adventure before heading back home to the States, he just said, “As long as I want.” Max was loving it out here and didn’t seem ready to return to daily life. I understood.