Chile redux

For five years in the late 1980s and early ’90s I worked winters on the Bío Bío River in Chile—a Class V+ stream in the low Andes. The ten-day expedition was one of the most amazing trips I’ve ever experienced. But it came to an end in 1998 with the construction of two dams. And we, the guides, moved on with a giant hole in our hearts. Recently I’ve been talking with my fellow Bío Bío veterans and we’ve realized it was a really huge piece of our lives and we have begun collecting our stories and photographs for a compendium due out—whenever we get it done.

Somehow, all these memories resurfacing drew me to go back for some sort of closure. I flew south in early January, and caught a train south from Santiago. Here is the Estacion Central, designed by Eiffel in the 1800s. The old overnight German Pullmans we used to travel south in are gone, but day trains remain.

I spent a night at the Gran Hotel Isabel Riquelme in Chillan, where we would stay at the end of the river trips. The dark old bar, where Mike Boyle used to say you’d expect to meet Bogart, is, sadly, all bright and shiny now. But the Gin con Tonicas still pack a whallop.

From Chillan I took a bus south to Temuco to meet up with Rolando Riquelme, our amazing bus driver and fixer for many years on the river. He used to look like this:

And I used to look like that. Note the happy, unaware passengers and the terrified boatman who thinks he’s about to die.

Later that same life.

Here we are at Rolando’s brother Beto’s house, showing off a model of the wee bus we and our passengers rode to and from so many river trips.

And here we are with Alfonso, Rolando’s compadre who often drove a gear truck for us. Here they’re showing off a new truck for the next Sobek river trip.

Rolando and I spent a day at Conguillío National Park on the flank of Volcán Lliama.

Up in the Dr. Seuss Araucaria pines.

Next we drove up toward the Bío Bío. Here is Salto de la Princessa, where we would often hike to from the hotel at Manzanar Hot Springs on the way to the river.

Up on the flank of Volcán Lonquimay. The smaller cinder cone in the foreground is Crater Navidad, which erupted one winter while I worked on the river. It shook the town and covered us with ash on the river for several months.

Crossing the high country to the Bío Bío This is all Mapuche country, the last tribe to hold off the Spaniards. The closer volcano is Callaqui, on the shore of the Bío Bío. We used to summit it on most trips.

Rolando took us to the source of the river at Laguna Galletué.

The Bío Bío begins as it leaves Galletué and flows through the Araucarias. Enchanting.

In the town of Lonquimay we stopped at the house of Rosalba, our mother in Chile for many years. She rented us this little place each summer and cooked for us. The neighbors said she passed away about ten years ago.

Once we had our gear packed up at Rosalba’s, Rifo, the local butcher, would haul us down to the river where we would spend the night and prepare for the arrival of the guests the follwing day.  Here’s an old river guide at the put-in, having a moment with his river some forty years later. It was pretty emotional seeing it flow by, after so many years of mourning its death.

We drove downriver to Troyo and camped for the night. Here’s the morning fog lifting.

We continued downriver to the confluence with the Llanquen. This was sometimes our second night camp, named Preview. It was the first good river view of Volcán Callaqui. Still is. But now it is the first view of the dying river, stilling behind Ralco Dam. Painful.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

There is no good road beyond this. We drove back to Temuco, regrouped, and camp upriver from below. This is looking upriver from Ralco Dam, up toward the previous picture. Between here and there were Río Lolco and Río Lomín, now arms of the reservoir. The dam sits directly atop the hairball rapid once known as Jugbuster.

There’s the dam thing.

From Ralco dam, much of the water is diverted through a tunnel to a powerhouse many miles below. Many of the rapids of Ñireco Gorge remain, although there’s no access and little water. Here is Lost Yak, a real bugger of a rapid, ever so much more so without sufficient water.

Lost Yak still leads straight into Lava South, the worst of the worst. It hasn’t gotten any better.

Chef Rolando preparing dinner in camp.

Looking downstream from camp at Heartbreak Hotel, a violent nest of rocks—but no big deal after Lava South.

Just below there lies this mess. The left arrow is the powerhouse for Ralco Dam; the right arrow is where the water returns to the river.

We used to have a lovely little camp up near where this bridge has appeared, from which we would walk about a mile downriver to the Termas de Avellanos for an evening soak. Victorino, the propritor of the Termas, would often come up and roast a goat for us. In the foreground is a really rude little rapid that would beat us up the following morning.

Although we thought the hot springs would be inundated by the Pangue Dam, it lives on.

Here is the old hot spring, which was usually adjacent to the river or under water in higher flows.

And here is Florentino, Victorino’s son.

Victorino never wanted any improvements, but after he passed Florentino made a really nice little resort up above the river, with a small pumphouse to bring the hot water up.

Just below Termas de Avellanos comes the impoundment behind Pangue Dam. More sadness. The gorge that is inundated we sometimes called Cien Saltos–One Hundred Waterfalls. Flowers, falls, ferns and moss walls. Nalca, the giant rhubarb. So lovely. But gone.

Dam.

There follows another fairly inaccessible stretch of river below Pangue Dam, which sits atop the rapid known as One-eyed Jack. And here is one of our old take-out points. The old wooden ferry has been upgraded.

There’s another stretch of river below here with plenty of small rapids and nice scenery. And a wiggly road beside it.

Then the final (so far) reservoir behind Angostura Dam.

But all is not lost. A wonderful organization called Kayakimün is teaching local indigenous youths the magic of the river and instilling values of stewardship and protection. When I first heard the name I thought it was Callaqui Moon, named after the upstream volcano. But no. Kimün is Mapuche for to know or to learn. Check them out and send them love and support: Kayakimün 

Malen Leubü is there also, fighting yet another Bío Bío dam at Rucalhue.

Although there was much heartbreak in seeing the dams and drowned river, there is still much beauty and glints of hope. Along with the knowledge that these dams, built on the flanks of active volcanos, are incredibly temporary, and that within a geologic instant the Bío Bío will once again flow uninterrupted to the sea. It has seen many lava dams in its time, and will deal with these rude obstructions in short order.

Efrain, in the back row, who recently passed, was a fantastic painter. His wife Perla, in front of Efrain, still runs the place as a dormitory, and a few of Efrain’s later paintings grace the walls. Efrain got way more impressionistic in his later years.

The local architecture is funky and fascinating.

Although a huge bridge will soon be completed, the only way to get to Chiloé is still by ferry.

I learned that the staple food we call potato was originally native to Chiloé. Nearly 300 of more than 800 historical varieties still exist on Chiloé. And damn, they’re tasty.

Such a lovely island. And so many boats, so sweet in their rusticity.

My palatial room in Dalcahue.

The native fuschia, which was so common along the Bío Bío.

I spent my last few nights in Chile along the shore of Lago Llanquihue. Here is the sun setting on the mighty Volcán Osorno. In the background, even mightier, stands Cerro Tronador, on the Argentine border. Buenos noches, amado Chile. Hasta luego.