The Futaleufú River in Chile Offers the Best Whitewater Rafting on Earth.

From the kitchen window of Don Polo, I could see the river. The Río Futaleufú rushed between stones, its waters murky and full of silt and pebbles. Since numerous individuals had perished while attempting to cross the ford during the winter, the locals erected a footbridge. 

In the northern Patagonia of Chile, the rivers are strong and everywhere. They shaped the terrain, enabled Don Polo's ranch to exist, and dictated how people's lives unfolded. However, they are erratic and untrustworthy companions. I thought of how the Mississippi River was characterized by T. S. Eliot: a powerful brown deity, "sullen, untamed, and intractable." Keep your distance from rivers, said Don Polo. 

A gaucho, Don Polo fits that description. I observed that his hands resembled tree roots, and he was adorned with a lovely floral scarf around his neck. On a sunny spring afternoon, we sat in his kitchen, surrounded by blossoming apple trees. The homemade liquor known as chicha was opened by Don Polo once more. Next week, he will become 83 years old, he informed me. "My father crossed the passes from Argentina onto horseback to enter this country," he explained. The vastness and potential of the Río Futaleufú plains left him speechless. He frequently said that America was "a whole new world." 

The sound of the river, like a low roll of thunder, could be heard through the open kitchen door. The stories that Don Polo shared with me included an incident where he and his horse were trapped for twelve days on a Futaleufú stream due to the increasing water, which threatened to wash them away. He insisted that I learn about this place's past. 

Almost a thousand miles separate the temperate rain forests of Puerto Montt in the north and the glaciers of the Magallanes region in the south of Chilean Patagonia. Strangely, Europeans arrived in the country first in the southernmost region, at its most southern tip. Estancias, or ranches, were constructed out of lands plundered from the Indigenous Aonikenk. A thriving wool trade flourished around neighboring centers like Tierra del Fuego and Punta Arenas before the Panama Canal. Most tourists still fly over the vast, barren expanse of northern Patagonia on their way from Santiago, the capital of Chile, to Torres del Paine. 

Originating from Alaska to Zambia, Rhodo Futaleufú is murmured by the locals. Whitewater rafters consider it one of the top rivers in the world. "Big water" is the Indigenous Mapuche word for Futaleufú. We'll simply state that the name isn't true. 

Reaching northern Patagonia is no picnic. Upon reaching Santiago, I boarded a short-haul aircraft to Puerto Montt. From there, I took a floatplane south, following the Pacific coast. As I banked over Chaitén, I noticed a broad avenue of ash from the Chaitén Volcano, which had lain dormant for nine thousand years until its unexpected eruption in 2008. We continued our journey inland, weaving in and out of snow-capped peaks. Out of nowhere, the Futaleufú materialized under us, a luminous serpent glinting between shadowy banks, its surface glistening with sunlight. We followed its path as it circled between mountains at an altitude of three thousand feet. Condors swooping below briefly diverted my attention, but upon returning my gaze, I beheld the Futaleufú, a jade-green eel sandwiched between dark cliffs as smooth as glass. Landing on Lake Lonconao, we descended low across a wooded hill, its surface reflecting numerous snow-capped peaks. As soon as the engines were turned off, our little plane fell into a profound calm, broken only by the sound of songbirds and the gentle lapping of water. 

In the 1980s, American Olympian Chris Spelius began equipping trips for kayakers and rafters on the Río Futaleufú after hearing about the rapids. There is no greater place for adrenaline junkies than this river. The attraction of gravity, however, is now due to more than only whitewater. In search of mountains, hikers and climbers assemble. The potential pools of the Futaleufú attract fly-fishermen. Horseback riding, trekking, and canoeing on immaculate lakes are just a few of the many attractions that draw visitors from all walks of life to this breathtaking nation. 

Settlers such as Don Polo's father arrived several generations ago to cut down trees for estancias. Today, Futaleufú is welcoming a new wave of settlers—idealists enticed by the allure of Patagonia and the prospect of a new life—thanks to the name. My initial foray into this uncharted territory was at Pata Lodge, so called because of the valley in which it stood. 

Just south of Futaleufú, a winding route descended steeply through magical forests filled with lichen-bearded coigue trees. It wound its way through a tangled maze of bamboo and huge ferns, before emerging into the flat-bottomed Pata Valley. Feeling like a vanished planet, the valley was encircled by mountains in an amphitheater and framed by woodlands. Over vast expanses of grass, six chic wooden cottages and homes were dispersed. Gabled gardens were centered on a greenhouse. The futaleufú, with his smooth face, was loitering in the valley. It extended its broad, watery arms to a little sandy beach on the bank, hugging a steep bluff on the distant shore. Rainbow trout skulked ghostly in the shallows as swallows skimmed the crystal surface in the afternoon light. 

A week at Pata Lodge—a charming, rustic resort—serving home-cooked, farm-to-table meals while relishing the quiet, river kayaking, woodland exploration, fly-fishing, and more would have been perfect for me. Each cabin is unique; some have porches or mezzanines, while others are more suited to families or large parties. All of them are conveniently located across the little valley from one another, yet it's only a short walk to the resort's organic Pata Bistro. 

Pata is more than just a lodge; it's a community of young, entrepreneurial Brazilian couples who have taken it upon themselves to safeguard these beautiful forests, live sustainably, and strike a better work-life balance. They pooled their resources to acquire almost 1,700 acres of land, which they then used to build three "smart villages" where locals engage in sustainable agriculture, livestock husbandry, and organic farming. 

Marcelo Schaffer, a cofounder of Pata and a former advertising professional in São Paulo, stated, "We wanted to find a more harmonious and sustainable existence, closer to nature." Every one of us has little ones. Something better, something calmer, more liberating, into which we could pour our hearts, was what we wished for them. The search for a fresh start in an unfamiliar land is an old theme in this New World novel. 

Just half an hour away, on meandering gravel roads, a like vision is coming to fruition. Located on a high ridge overlooking Lake Lonconao, this four-cabin property is called Mapu. It was built by Gustavo Zylbersztajn and Patricia Beck as a place for their young family to settle down and as a getaway for discriminating travelers. It appears like São Paulo is known for shedding sensitive creatives like autumn leaves, and it just so happens that they are also from the city. The Brazilian photographer Zylbersztajn and the 20-year model Beck are both well-known in their fields. The couple works with community members who share their values, such chef Tatiana Villablanca of Futaleufu's Martin Pescador restaurant, to provide unique experiences and meals for visitors. Villablanca uses native ingredients, such as Chilean myrtle, in her recipes. Our goal, according to Zylbersztajn, was to "find a slower pace of life" and "live more naturally," so they could settle down. "Here at Time, we wanted you to live in the now." 

They have infected Mapu's communal areas and cabins with an aesthetic sensibility. Surrounded by glass and polished steel on the exterior, the triangular quincho—the main dining and living area—is an impressive architectural feat. Inside, it is a haven of mountain-lodge style, with plush couches, wood-paneled walls, an open kitchen, and large images of landscapes. The cabins evoke contemporary tree houses with expansive vistas as they are constructed deep within the forest on stilts. As soon as I woke up, I could see the ripples in the shadows across Lake Lonconao through the floor-to-ceiling window that was at the foot of my bed. 

The joint culture of the two establishments is typical of the many new businesses in Futaleufú. Although they exude an air of professionalism and style, these lodges are more than just that. Love of the land, interest in eco-friendly lifestyles, and the prospect of starting again in this area are all deeply felt convictions. 

A less idealistic species of settler emerged a little over a century ago. They made way for traditional ranches of Patagonian sheep and cattle. This verdant nation is a stark contrast to the parched steppes of Argentina's Patagonia. Instead, you'll find temperate rain forests here, nourished by rivers and the rain shadow cast by the Andes. Grazing is going well. 

The working estancias remain: undulating fields for livestock, old buildings adorned with fleeces from the previous year, and faded wooden fences winding their way to the rivers. An old mechanical harvester peering out of a doorway at Don Polo's estancia could be the prototypical element, evoking images of the American frontier in the late 1800s. These wars are reminiscent of the early West in the United States. Bloodshed and feuds over land and cattle are mentioned in folklore and stories about the early settlers' attempts to prevent subsequent newcomers from claiming Futaleufú. Because there was no system of law enforcement in the area, gauchos would resort to using their horses and firearms to resolve conflicts. 

Traditional livestock drives continued to be frequent in Futaleufú until the late 1980s. The annual journey to Chaitén takes 200 to 300 gauchos about 15 days. Half a century ago, when Don Polo was just ten years old, he got behind the wheel for the first time. Among his cherished memories are the thrill of fording rivers, when the water levels can suddenly spike, and the sense of accomplishment he felt at being accepted into the company of men. While returning home one year, they became stuck on the banks of the Río Tigre, a river that flows into the Futaleufú. After 12 days of subsisting on raw fish and wild apples, they were finally rescued by a helicopter. In the process of telling me this, Don Polo scoffed and shook his head. 

The stories of Futaleufú continue to revolve around the river and its raging waters in modern times. Everything revolved around whitewater and sea kayaking at Bio Bio Expeditions Camp, a cluster of tented bungalows situated 16 miles south of town that serves as a hub for enthusiastic rafters. Legendary kayakers and Class V rapids were the topics of conversation. Even on a peaceful evening like tonight, relaxing by the fire, the atmosphere seemed charged with excitement, despite the camp's amenities like massage rooms, hot tubs, and saunas. In the evening, while lying in my tent on the bank, I listened to the deep growl of the river just outside the canvas. I came to the realization that it was time to go boating. 

Despite our best efforts, the following day's preparations in a clearing and descent to the riverbank—equipped only with a life jacket and a paddle—did not appear sufficient to confront some of the most terrifying rapids on Earth. Although the river was placid when we set out, it quickly turned into a raging torrent. In my memory, Don Polo had warned me not to put your faith in a river. 

Just four of us, all complete beginners, cautiously made our way into the raft's main body. We were more like passengers than rafters, even though we could paddle at a moment's notice. Our helmsman, Ernesto Medina Toro, often known as Peque (meaning "small guy"), sat on an elevated rig at the stern and hid his face behind mirrored shades. Peque, with the help of two long oars, would guide us through the turbulent waters for the next half an hour, deftly balancing the risks of adventure and disaster. We were followed downstream by two guides on a pontoon-shaped boat. In the very improbable case that we were swept off the raft or the boat capsized, they were the rescue workers who would come to our aid. 

The rapids quickly became a mystery to me. How many were there—eight, nine, or twenty? Wow, I had no clue. It was as if they were relentlessly pursuing us. Within these confines, the river tumbled between dark cliffs as it was ensnared in canyons, its belly strewn with terrifying stones, and the currents surged like tsunami waves around them. Between the rapids, in the calm water, we drew along to the banks in eddies, attempting to gather our strength for the next surge. 

I couldn't have imagined the Futaleufú to be more wild and better. It was as if the river got its tail out of its dock and threw itself at us. Ahead of us, holes the size of vehicles appeared in the roiling river. Whitewater rapids with foaming walls rose above us. As the river overflowed the raft, it tossed us around, lifted us nearly vertically, and for a brief minute our bow was pointed toward the sky. We were hurled around like unwrapped toys. I got knocked down in the raft at one point. Efforts were made to contain me within. I was frightened. It was delightful. After it was over, I wanted to do it all over again because I was saturated, excited, and humming with excitement. 

In reality, though, braving the world's most formidable rapids isn't necessary to savor the Futaleufú. For the daring, there is excitement, but for the rest, there is the tranquility that comes with being surrounded by nature's beauty, such as woods, lakes, and mountains.