A Wild Idea

by Jonathan Franklin

  When Phillipe Reuter had booked a reservation for a party of six with kayaks to cross Lake Carrera in his charter boat, he didn’t realize the guests included Chouinard and Tompkins, icons inside the world’s small circles of conservation, kayaking, and climbing. Reuter was a member of that same elite club. He had summited Mount Everest, skied the world’s seven highest volcanoes, and lived a life of adventure. Reuter was a neighbor living on the shore of Lake Carrera and running his own business, Terra Luna Lodge. Reuter held a deep respect for the frigid lake. “Put it this way,” he said: “I have lived here fifteen years, crossed that lake nearly every day, and never gone for a swim in it. . . . And when it gets rough, it changes from one moment to another. The wind starts up in the valley, then comes down to the lake and blows little waves at first. You can be bathing with your baby on the lake’s edge in absolute calm and, in the distance, you can see a white spot, like a tsunami. One second it is flat, and then you are in the waves. That’s the way it happens every day.”

  Tompkins shivered in Reuter’s boat. Halfway across the lake, he was wet, cold, and in need of help. Although it was a cloudless, sunny morning, the pilot idled the boat while Tompkins piled on foul-weather gear and spent the remainder of the crossing guarding precious body heat.

  Arriving at Puerto Sanchez, on the north shore of Lake Carrera, the men loaded gear into the kayaks, strapped on spray skirts to keep water from flooding in, and paddled east along the lake shore. The horizon was framed by a wide blue sky, valleys, and a rocky cliff-studded shore. Except for an abandoned gold mine and a few farms there were no roads, no trails.

  The pace was fast, even a bit competitive as the men raced across the glassy water. Swells the size of champagne glasses pushed them gently, while a warm sun shone overhead. Every hour the men brought their kayaks together. They held onto one another as they talked, drank water, shared granola bars, and drifted as a single raft.

  Tompkins suffered in silence. The rudder on his kayak was broken, making steering more difficult. He had not kayaked much in the previous couple of years, and his elbow was grinding in pain. Tough and proud, he raked the lake with his unconventional technique—flipping the paddle backward and reversing the hydrodynamics that, he argued, gave him a better draw. The group paddled three miles past their initial campsite.

  At the campsite the men prepared their tents as Yvon grilled food on the campfire. At dinner Jib Ellison described a new sport: kayak sailing. To get them flying across the lake, Jib had brought kayak sails, which looked like old-fashioned spinnakers. Puffing ahead of the kayak, the sail had a parachute-like shape that worked when running with a tailwind.

  Rare was the day when a spinnaker was more useful than not, since the lines could tangle and were susceptible to shifting winds. But Ellison and Boyles had charted the wind flow on the lake. On paper, it looked like a chance to paddle less and glide more. A constant tailwind could push them east, from campsite to campsite. “If you have prevailing winds on a regular basis, then the water builds wind swells. It’s a time-tested methodology for getting from point A to point B,” explained Ellison, who had bought the sails online and hauled them to Patagonia. “You can eat and talk, and you’re just flying downwind. You’re sailing and kayaking! That was my vision.”

  On the morning of the second day, as they left the makeshift campsite, kite-sailing conditions were near-perfect. As the kayakers paddled east along the north shore of Lake Carrera, a tailwind formed sloping waves that rolled them forward, adding an extra push, like an invisible extra paddler. The kayaks rode the two-foot waves easily. Ellison paddled and felt content—this was the way to travel, “like skiing,” he remarked as the group coasted down little wave after little wave. Arriving in synchronized sets, each wave was a push, a chance to leave the paddle in the water and glide. “When the waves are twenty inches or less it’s gravy,” explained Ellison. “But when they get bigger and start breaking and becoming irregular in shape and size, then it’s a whole other story. Then, very quickly, it goes from Class III to Class V.”

  As the rest of the group paddled forward, Boyles stopped to rig his sail, figuring he’d literally swoosh by the others within a few minutes of launching his sail. Aided by the hearty tailwind, the two double-kayaks sped ahead. Alvarez, paddling full force, was unable to keep up and fell further and further behind. There was no way a single kayaker could out-paddle the double.

  Boyles fought to untangle the knot of a mess that was his kite kit. As he struggled to launch the sail, he was left far behind and disappeared from sight. Alvarez reacted with frustration. When the team reached shore, Alvarez scolded the Do Boys. From an expedition guide’s point of view, they were reckless. “What if I had flipped? You guys never even looked back!” he exclaimed. “I lost track of Weston five minutes after we launched. And I don’t know where he is now. He could be swimming, for all I know.”

  The five men climbed up a rock to get a better vantage point. Atop the hillock they sighted Boyles, paddling slowly, upright and apparently fine. They were all shaken by the incident. “You have to wear a damn life jacket,” said Alvarez, who was indignant as he lectured Tompkins, a veteran outdoorsman he barely knew. Tompkins absorbed the attack, placid and confident. “If anyone falls into the water, they are gone,” Alvarez pleaded. Tompkins knew the lecture: “Play by the rules and you will be fine.” As Alvarez outlined the blatant dangers confronting them on the five-day expedition, Tompkins barely took his eyes off Lake Carrera, a lake twenty times the size of Manhattan with weather so intense that the Chilean Navy just days before had delineated areas in which kayaking was “strictly not recommended.”

  “There was a part of me that definitely didn’t want to sound like the worrywart and pain-in-the-ass guy on the trip,” said Alvarez. “But, being a commercial rafting outfitter, I always have safety be the basis for any fun.” He suggested that the men use a buddy system “because if anybody tips over out here and there’s nobody to assist you, you’re pretty much screwed.” Alvarez remembered Tompkins’s lack of reaction to the warning, thinking that “his reputation or his personality was one where you couldn’t tell him anything, because he knew it all.”

  The trip was notably and deliberately leaderless. Evening meals were a potluck communal affair. Someone brought beans, another chipped in red wine. Everyone carried a food bag, but there was little coordination or order to the provisions. Their bread had become sodden, so they laid out every piece on an old board to dry it out. For cookware, the Do Boys had brought a single pot with a small top they used as frying pan. Ellison forgot his spoon, so he found a piece of wood and carved one.

  Tompkins and Chouinard never felt more comfortable than in moments like this. They had forged their friendship just a few hundred miles south in the ice caves of Mount Fitz Roy. In 1968, when they first arrived in Argentine Patagonia, Chalten was just a gaucho stop. The foothills were populated by feral horses and huge sheep ranches. Today it was an ecotourism hub with some 1,500 permanent residents. Over the last forty-plus years, both Tompkins and Chouinard had dedicated themselves to protecting the Patagonia region. And they had taken vastly different routes.

  Yvon had named his company “Patagonia,” brought his whole team to find inspiration in the vast region, and dedicated his business to “inspire and implement solutions to the environmental crisis.” Through his initiative One Percent for the Planet, Yvon continued to raise millions for environmental programs around the world. His bestselling book, Let My People Go Surfing, had enshrined him as the world’s coolest businessman. When he described himself, he often used the phrase “The Education of a Reluctant Businessman.” For years he had also generously donated millions alongside Doug and Kris on joint conservation projects, including Patagonia National Park. While Malinda and Yvon were often low-key about their contributions, the impact was huge.

  Doug was refusing to slow down, as he believed in pouring his every moment into conservation. Business had provided the wealth to fund his conservation dr
eams. Together, he and Yvon had done more than practically anyone else to define Patagonia as a wild landscape, and one in need of a collective defense. They had also seeded that message around the globe.

  Now, arriving at their beachside campsite on Lake Carrera, they found their landing spot spoiled by a raft of spiny sticks and a dead cow. They piled away the sticks and hauled off the stinking cow, and then when the beach was clean and orderly, just as Doug liked, they set up their evening meal and unrolled sleeping bags.

  Tompkins woke just past dawn, ate a bowl of oatmeal with dried fruit, and confided a secret to his pals. High above their camp spot on a plateau above the Avellano Valley was a property he wanted to purchase. It was so remote that a team of oxen would be required to pull tree stumps and clear the land for a short runway so he could land his Husky. He warned his friends “Don’t tell Kris!” as she felt he had enough projects already, with all his other farms and their national park projects. Tompkins described the property in the valley as a secret hideout, a “final place to come think.”

  This day of the trip was planned as a hiking day—no kayaking. Instead they could stretch their legs and explore. While they waited to leave, Tompkins climbed a nearby boulder. It was steep and, without ropes, a dangerous sixty or so feet up a rocky embankment to a knoll. Twenty feet off the ground, climbing in boat shoes and with no ropes, Tompkins froze. He was on a tiny ledge and needed to scoot over and up, a move that in his prime was second nature. The pause stretched for uncomfortably long seconds. His feet were balanced—“smearing,” in climber jargon—on tiny footholds, and he couldn’t move either hand. “He doesn’t look like a climber,” thought Chouinard. Without ropes, climbing down was impossible. A few seconds later, Tompkins slid along the ridge, found a route, and pulled himself to the top.

  The men continued up the slope as a group, but in the rough terrain were soon separated, each bushwhacking and bouldering higher up the valley at his own pace. Ellison lost Tompkins. Was Doug left behind? Ellison continued hiking, slightly worried but figuring they’d bump into one another eventually, perhaps at the top of the valley. Climbing a ledge to scout for Doug, Ellison was surprised. Tompkins was not lagging behind but was nearly a mile ahead of the rest of them, his white cap bobbing through the underbrush as he sprang up the trail.

  Weston Boyles caught up with Tompkins first. He found him sitting at a scenic overlook of the Avellano Valley. While they waited for the others, their conversation covered some of the finer points of the Route of Parks. They had spent much of the last year mapping every section of the 1,700-mile-long route. Tompkins flew at low altitude and Boyles traveled by van. Tompkins reviewed even the smallest details. What color did the Public Works Department paint the bridges? Was the widening of a new section of road aesthetically pleasing, or brusque?

  When the rest of the group reached the valley overlook, they headed together toward the small farm that Doug was thinking of buying. Alvarez and Tompkins brushed off the earlier altercation as they walked and wandered deep into a conversation about organic honey. Tompkins explained how Pillan, his commercial honey operation in Reñihue, had grown in less than a decade to become among the world’s largest producers of organic honey. Pillan had customers in Europe, Asia, and the United States. Alvarez was impressed. Tompkins commanded a detailed understanding of the minutiae of beekeeping, honey production, and even organic export pesticide-residue standards. Alvarez realized that Tompkins was not only a daring rock climber but also a nerd.

  Bushwhacking all afternoon kindled their appetite. The evening dinner, regardless of Yvon’s luck fishing in Lake Carrera, would be a feast. Hunger was always the best sauce. During their meal, the six men reflected on their beautiful surroundings. Tompkins described how, over the course of twenty-five years living with locals in Chile, he’d seen them increasingly incorporate the natural beauty of these lands as part of their identity. Patagonians, he said, now fought to protect many of the same waterfalls, mountain peaks, and wild rivers that first attracted him to the area.

  After the conversation by the campfire wound down, Tompkins zipped into his sleeping bag and, in the lee of the rocks, slept protected from the increasingly harsh wind. The campsite was so sheltered that when violent gusts of winds roared overhead they barely touched the group’s peaceful oasis.

  Early the next morning, the Do Boys ate breakfast, packed their gear, and prepared for a full day of kayaking. Doug drank his customary hot water, then spent twenty minutes scouring the cooking pan with sand to leave it shiny—just the way he liked it.

  December 8, 2015, was a national holiday in Chile as Catholics commemorated the miracle of Immaculate Conception. Across the nation, loyal churchgoers attended Mass and nearly all government offices were closed.

  As they left their campsite, Weston Boyles launched first. He kayaked ahead of the group and turned frequently to snap photos of the five men following behind. Chouinard shared a kayak with Ellison. Tompkins paddled a double kayak with Ridgeway up front. Alvarez manned the other single. As the expedition pulled away from the shoreline, the wind churned small whitecaps on Lake Carrera. Two-foot waves rolled through in clean sets that felt challenging but not dangerous. The tailwind allowed them to surf down the waves, but conditions were getting worse by the minute. Their protected campsite had disguised an imminent danger: a storm was blowing in. Unbeknownst to the men, throughout Patagonia a weather alert had been posted. Harbors, airstrips, and docks were ordered shut. A gale was brewing, and the Coast Guard ordered ships back to port.

  On Lake Carrera, the explorers debated briefly then decided to call it a day. The only question was: Where to land? Scouting the coastline, they pinpointed a hammerhead-shaped peninsula dead ahead, across a small bay. Instead of hugging the shore, they could navigate straight across the open stretch for perhaps a mile, and then find shelter in the lee of the rocky peninsula. “Within five seconds of having let go, we were not able to communicate anymore,” said Alvarez, who described waves cresting so high he was unable to see more than a hundred feet in any direction. “Right away, I realized we were in way over our heads. And I was quite nervous for everybody.”

  Ellison and Chouinard in the double kayak went first, followed by Alvarez and Boyles. The group was blown apart. Their tightly bunched line of kayaks was separated by a length of several football fields. Tompkins and Ridgeway banked closer to shore, on a distinct heading, causing others to wonder: Had Doug and Rick decided to crash-land on the rocks, then haul their gear along the shore to the rendezvous spot?

  An ice-cold wind poured down the Avellano Valley, where they had hiked the previous day. That wind collided with the westerly tailwind. The two air currents formed a dangerous whirl of waves. Tompkins and Ridgeway found it difficult to keep their kayak aligned with the uneven sets of waves. Unlike a nimble river kayak, sea kayaks are more sluggish. They can be turned, but it requires more strokes. And if a sea kayak is blown sideways to a cresting wave, it rolls. “It felt like the paddle was going to get ripped out of my hands,” said Alvarez. “It wasn’t just your ordinary Patagonia strong wind. It was a Hell-wind.”

  Alvarez ran safety checks in his head. Food—yes, they had enough. Schedule—fine, the day-to-day activities were flexible. Fire—they had lighters, fuel, and matches. Convinced they could wait out the storm, Alvarez focused on the kayak directly ahead of him and paddled with all his might. It was an exhausting, technically challenging route but he figured that at most it would take half an hour to reach land, unpack the kayaks, and settle in at their new campsite.

  Behind Alvarez and closer to shore, Tompkins and Ridgeway lost their battle to stay atop the waves. Their double sea kayak flipped when they were roughly 100 yards from shore. After attempts to right the kayak failed, Ridgeway cinched tight his life jacket and they jettisoned the kayak.

  Tompkins swam toward shore. The surf was rough and, together with Ridgeway, he might get bashed on the rocky beach, but they had each surfed enough to survive a rough landing. Bu
t as soon as they started to swim, a strong current pulled them in the opposite direction, away from the beach. “Doug and I had no way to know whether our companions in the other boats, who were ahead of us and out-of-sight, knew of our predicament,” explained Ridgeway. “We realized we had thirty minutes, perhaps a little more, to survive.” The crashing waves washed over Ridgeway and Tompkins. They were bitterly cold and starting to drown. Ridgeway assumed his life was over. “For a few minutes,” he admitted, “I gave in—just let go.”

  Boyles, Alvarez, Ellison, and Chouinard arrived at the sheltered peninsula, and regrouped. Seeing no signs of Tompkins and Ridgeway, they climbed a bluff and nearly gagged at the sight. An upside-down, empty kayak floated and nearby two bodies bobbed in the water. They watched in shock as Doug and Rick attempted to reach shore. The waves were poised to toss them onto the beach, perhaps even thrash them on the rocks. Boyles calculated they were nearly close enough to reach a safety rope. He could toss a lifeline, pull them ashore, build a fire, and warm them up. “Oh, boy, this will be a shit show,” thought Boyles, “but we’ll be okay.”

  In less than a minute it was clear that Doug and Rick were being swept toward the center of the massive lake. The Do Boys scrambled. Ellison, Alvarez, and Boyles lightened the load in their kayaks, while Chouinard assisted in snapping on the spray skirt for Boyles, who paddled into the maelstrom. Chouinard kept lookout from atop the bluff. He never took his eyes off the bobbing figures. Alvarez and Ellison set off in the double kayak, which carried an extra paddle plus the smuggled-in satellite phone. Boyles led the charge in a single kayak.

  Paddling out of the lee of the peninsula, the rescuers were punched in the face by the wind. They steered toward the last spot they’d seen their lost friends—who were drifting fifty yards apart. Chouinard scouted from his hilltop vantage point. He saw Tompkins swimming, actively fighting. Ridgeway looked dead, his inert body floating like a corpse.