Rafting the Rambunctious Futaleufú River in Chile – From Exhilarating to Life-threatening

My previous blog post about the Carretera Austral in Chile was getting too long, so I’m reporting on our rafting trip in Futaleufú separately. This cute town is located near the border with Argentina, two hours from the Carretera via a really bad dirt road. Mark and I booked a tour with Rio Futaleufú Rafting for March 3^rd, which would have the least amount of rain in the forecast. We left Maya at home for six hours, a record for her, and looked forward to this exciting adventure.

(As always, click on or hover over photos in galleries to read their captions.)

I love, love, love rafting. In my book, it is the most fun and thrilling excursion one can experience; the more rambunctious and frequent the rapids, the better. The action of rushing through the water, frantically paddling to the instructions of the guide, and being one with the elements is invigorating. And that’s how this ride started out.

Our group consisted of two rafting guides, two rafts, eleven rafters, and three support crew in individual watercraft. Everyone was equipped with a wetsuit, undershirts, booties, a rain jacket, a life vest, a helmet, and a paddle.

After some instructions ashore, we practiced commands on the water and got to know each other better. Each of our six-person team had rafted before. Mark and I did so in Costa Rica 19 years ago and my first rafting trip was in New Zealand, when I backpacked in Southeast Asia and Down Under at age 25. It had been a while, since rafting isn’t cheap.

Every river is different and the Futa is famous for its high density and frequency of Class IV and Class V rapids. Mark and I had never rafted a Class V stretch of water, so we’d paid for the longer session ($92 per person, including photos) to experience them. Within the first five minutes of floating down the foamy river (the water level was quite high), we were soaking wet and loving it. We rushed through the sequences of Class IV rapids, smiling wide, and most of our group jumped down a 20-foot-high cliff just for the fun of it.

Then, it was time for the last two rapids, both Class V. Our team was relatively experienced and our local guide grew up on this river, navigating it since he was 12 years old. He gave us instructions about how to approach these furious whirlpools and we tackled the first one like champions, with Mark and me in the front, my favorite position. And then, things went wrong…

For some reason, the guide switched our places for the second stretch of white water, our craft set out, Mark and I in the middle, and then everything passed by in a flash. The raft got stuck in “a hole” of foam, sideways against a wall of angry water. I was tossed out of the raft, followed by Mark and eventually every member of our group; the guide struggling to remain in the boat for ages and bring it to safety. Here is how that looked:

The river grabbed me, pulled me under, and dragged me downriver for what seemed like ages. I couldn’t breathe and when my head finally popped up, no air was available for my water-filled lungs. Then, I got dragged under again. This went on for long minutes. This particular series of rapids covered a respectable distance, as you can see in the following movie. (We were tossed out in the first rapid and could only get help at the bottom, in calmer water.)

All I could think about was getting air. Not being able to breathe for who knows how long was seriously scary and I honestly thought I was going to die. A first for me, despite other crazy experiences I endured over the years, like bungee jumping and sky diving in New Zealand, jumping off a bridge on a rope in Ecuador, paragliding in Colombia, climbing along narrow ledges in Mexico, crossing rivers over tree trunks in Indonesia, and having a knife pressed against my throat in Colombia.

(Note to self: None of this happened during our eight years of sailing the world’s “dangerous” oceans.)

Luckily, because of the reputation of the Futaleufú River, rafting excursions come with an extensive safety network and regulations. While we might have thought that two catamaran rafts and one kayaker to watch over two rafts (11 tourists) was overkill, everyone was involved in the rescue of our six rafters, including the second raft, which only contained the guide by then as his group decided to skip the Class V section of river.

From the moment I spotted one of the small catamarans, I grabbed a line on the side and tried to catch my breath. It seemed impossible, since my lungs were waterlocked. My rescuer already had two of us in his nets and urged me to climb up. I made my way to the front of the craft, but lacked the strength to haul myself and my heavy, water-soaked clothes aboard. For some reason, my arms were useless and I kept coughing in order to breathe. I felt helpless and “done.”

Another rafter tried to haul me up and with the last bit of energy, I managed to swing one leg over a hull and push myself into the net like that. Lying on a steel bar with my midriff, not able to breathe, was uncomfortable to say the least.

This man now had to bring three extra people to the safety of shore, by paddling upstream… It was a gigantic effort, but he succeeded. Once I relaxed and got my breathing back, I worried about Mark – who had gone through a similar experience – and looked around for him. He and another girl were tied to shore on the other catamaran. I soon reached my husband, still shocked and trembling. The sixth rafter had been rescued as well.

After confirming we were all okay, our captain tied his craft up as well and climbed the nearby rock to see how our guide, Pampa, made out. Soon enough, the crew regrouped and we were ready for the final stretch of river. Or were we? Everyone seemed surprised we had to climb back into our raft after this disaster. Of course, it made sense to complete the trip, but our minds felt tricked. 

So, it was no wonder that, when we approached the final series of small rapids and Pampa suggested this was the place where rafters are invited to jump in the water and ride the river to the end, none of us took him up on that offer. We’d all had our ride of and for a lifetime!

Back in Futaleufú, we were relieved that Maya was okay and didn’t destroy anything in the camper during our absence. We have gotten smarter by not leaving any paper products or books within her reach. Exhausted, sore, and still a tad shaken, we focused on our next task: locating the SAG (agricultural) office to inquire about international paperwork for our dog. We found it at 4pm. Closed. At least, we now knew this office existed and we’d return in the morning. Mark and I were still adamant about trying to cross the border into Argentina again instead of returning to the Carretera Austral.

Curious about a previous ten-year chapter in our nomadic lives, which includes eight years aboard a 35-foot sailboat in the tropics with dogs, check out my compelling, inspiring, and refreshingly honest travel memoir: