The afternoon sun sat high in the sky and promised another eight hours of light. Midway through a month long tour of Chilean rivers, our group of twelve had just finished our second run of the famed Siete Tazas. The river is a kayaker's nirvana with friendly waterfalls up to 8 m high. No fast currents and rapids lie between these falls to spice things up. Just paddle up to the edge, lean back and wave to your friends as you plummet into the pool below.

On our second run we were ready for more of a challenge. So we threw our paddles skyward while going over the drops, went two at a time, dropped over backwards, then backwards without a paddle. Finally we left the paddles and boats behind and swam the damn thing! At lunch we discussed what new challenge could keep us from succumbing to a long snooze in the shade, or pounding down cervesas at the local cantina.

A race! What a fine idea! After all, we had never done the 500 m long run in less than three hours. This included a jungle bash-rappel put in; taking innumerable pictures; one or two unplanned swims; and a technical cliff traverse at the take-out. But the thought of running the 25 vertical meters of waterfalls, alone, suddenly made us all a bit nervous.

Seven us decided to compete: Don Beveridge-who thinks kayaking and hockey are the same thing; Paul Byers-the man who amazes himself; Zack Drennan-group interpreter and certified pisco abuser; Brennan Guth-a NOLS instructor who thinks low impact is sleeping in; Carl Nadelhoffer-Alaskan bear wrestler and Midwestern cornhusker; Larry Vermeeren-the man, the myth, the carpenter; and myself (no comment).

We posted two timers at the top of the first falls and one at the bottom, rappeled back down to the put-in, synchronized a couple of Casios, and discussed the complex game plan. Start at two minute intervals, fastest time wins. 3-2-1-GO!

Larry was first, while the rest of us waited our turn in the small pool above the first drop. It's a narrow 5 m high waterfall that sluices down into a small pool surrounded by vertical rock walls. This is the only technical drop in the gorge. It requires paddling for speed before the edge, then quickly twisting your paddle parallel to your boat to avoid scraping the narrow walls. As you begin to fall, you must move your boat to the left side of the falls to avoid smacking into the right side of the cliff. After churning in the hydraulics below, you can pick up your face downstream.

None of us could see Larry's landing, but we heard a loud THUMP! Keith, our timer, stared below with big eyes, ran for his throw bag, then reported, "He's okay!" as Larry paddled off.

My turn was next. I sat there, nervous about the first drop, but also encouraged by the six seconds Larry had lost while trying to escape the turbulent hydraulic. 30 seconds ... 10 seconds ... 3-2-1-GO! I took off, paddling as hard as I could, ready to blast off into waterfall haven, hoping for a good landing and a fast run, in a race dreamed up less than a hour before. "I could be napping, better yet drinking beer! There aren't any prizes! I don't even have a race bib!"

THUWACK! I landed on line and shot out into the pool-well beyond the nasty hydraulic. With a sigh of relief I paddled furiously to the next drop. PLUNK!-the next 3 m falls were clean and easy, followed by a shallow run through a narrow slot. Then on to a 2 m drop leading to another 6 m falls.

WHOMP!-no problem, didn't even have to roll. Now paddle hard across the pool, leading to the final 8 m waterfall. I could imagine crowds cheering. Red, white and blue (Chilean) flags waving in their hands, a hundred camera's aimed at me!

FUWHOMP! Damn! I didn't lean back enough and landed on my head, adding more pain to the slight concussion I had sustained earlier that morning. When I rolled up I was facing the waterfall and quickly turned around. But there were no cheering crowds, no flags or cameras. Just George, our other timer, at the other end of the pool waving me on to the finish line.

Within the next ten minutes the other paddlers finished the race, climaxing with Carl, who followed my example and landed on his head, too. After exchanging stories we tallied up the times:

1. Don Beveridge 1:41
2. Tim Brown 1:48
3. Brennan Guth 1:50
4. Carl Nadelhoffer 1:52
5. Paul Byers 1:53
6. Zach Drennan 1:54
7. Larry Vermeeren 2:09

We each agreed that we might have paddled a little faster, but paddling through the Tazas alone seemed a little eerie. We spent the rest of that day complaining of neck and back pains, but we were glad to have established a new racing tradition. Our scores would serve as goals the next time around. Beer, Ibuprofen and sleep soon took the edge off of discomforts, and we eventually got around to loading our boats for the next day's departure to the Bío-Bío.

-Tim Brown-

N.B.-Reprinted with permission from American Whitewater, the Journal of American Whitewater, PO Box 636, Margretville, NY 12544. Tel: 914-586-2355.