Going with the flow
‘This is the jungle I’ve always dreamt of seeing... Everything’s fighting for the sun, the vegetation is crazy... My clothes and feet are constantly wet... but it’s brilliant!’
It’s day five of our ascent of Mount Ayanganna and the jungle has taken on a whole new character. I look like I’ve been attacked by a pack of wild dogs, my hands and calves (shorts were a bad idea) a complicated road map of lacerations – a reflection of the ever-increasing hostility of the thick rainforest lining the slopes of this 2,041-metre sandstone tepui. I now understand why few people have ever climbed the eastern face of this isolated flat-topped mountain, as every step forward is punished by razor grass and knife-like leaves. But we ignore the discomfort and fight on. We must reach the top. The Potaro River flows off the summit and the source of this great waterway marks the starting line of our expedition.
I first came to Guyana in 2007 to undertake a three-week jungle survival course run by Bushmasters. The incredible beauty of the country’s rainforest and the finely tuned survival skills of the Amerindian guides inspired me to plan a river-based expedition in the Guyanese interior.
A year later, I returned to carry out a two-week training expedition with Wai Wai guides on the upper Essequibo River. The paddling was tough and the wildlife amazing. In one day, we had giant river otters swim up to our dugout, a jaguar glare at us from the river’s edge and multi-coloured macaws fly overhead.
With these experiences driving me on, I returned to the UK to finalise the logistics and continue searching for sponsors for the ‘big trip’. Finally, in January last year, I once again returned to Guyana, ready to attempt a world first. Accompanied by two Patamona Amerindians, I would attempt the first descent of the Potaro River from source to mouth.
But first, I had to fight off a serious bout of dengue fever that put me in intensive care in the capital, Georgetown, for two weeks. Friends spent three days running around town looking for a suitable donor for a much-needed platelet transfusion. I was severely weakened and couldn’t walk down the street without feeling faint, but I fought hard to get fit again and three weeks later, the expedition and my physical strength were back on track.
Trail to the top
Numb fingers clasped around my cutlass handle, I widen the trail being painstakingly cut by Rupert, my older, more experienced Patamona team-mate. I’m shaking from the cold, yet I’m a stone’s throw from the equator. The persistent mist and rain ensure we’re permanently soaked, while the fresh breeze, introduced by the gain in altitude, cuts straight through us.
The barely visible trail we’re supposedly following – cut five years ago by a group of locals and naturalists during the first ascent of this eastern face – has now disappeared completely. We’ve been fighting our way forward for seven hours, yet according to my GPS, we’ve only advanced about 800 metres.
Eventually, we give up and huddle together under a tarpaulin, the rain beating down as we try to activate ourselves. Exhausted, freezing cold and shivering uncontrollably, our usual efficiency at setting up camp and getting a fire going has crumbled; my first real test as expedition leader is upon me. With daylight fading and the wind chill increasing, we urgently need shelter, fire and dry clothes.
Rousing myself, I delegate tasks and we get to work in the heavy rain. Self-pity turns to anger as I wildly fell small trees to use for the shelter. We’re all feeling the strain, but we’re soon laughing and shouting our way through the toil of constructing a framework capable of holding three men in hammocks. Two hours later, we’re sitting beside the fire clutching hot bowls of rice and tuna.
At first light, we eagerly leave camp for an alpine-style bid for the summit, carrying minimal survival kit and rations. Rupert gets back to work, cutting the path, but progress is painfully slow. His hands are shredded by the undergrowth and morale is fading. But just as desperation begins to kick in, Rupert rediscovers the elusive trail and we’re back on track.
Danny, the younger of my Patamona companions, and I follow unquestioningly up exposed vertical sections, roots and small trees providing vital handholds. A multitude of false summits have me cursing silently, but an old flag, swaying from a bent pole on a lip above us, finally marks the summit and we clamber up at full speed.
Sadly, the thick mist deprives us of panoramic views of the Pakaraima Mountains and the vast, uninterrupted jungle surrounding us, but we’re overjoyed just to have
made it. We’re finally at the expedition starting line after two weeks of hard toil.
‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous... It feels quite strange to be paddling towards such an enormous waterfall... We’re still in the middle of the river... We’d better make our way to the bank!’
Twenty days of arduous and, at times, dangerous trekking and we’ve finally reached the majestic Kaieteur Falls, the world’s largest single-drop waterfall. Looking ahead, all I can see is the Potaro River flowing onwards for some 200 metres – and then nothing, just a great void and billowing clouds of water vapour. Anxiety creeps over me as the roar of 226 metres of plummeting water grows louder. But my unease isn’t mutual. As ever, Rupert and Danny are smiling and calm in the face of danger. They dig their paddles into the dark water, bringing us closer to the vast drop.
We’re now just 100 metres from the waterfall’s edge, sticking to the left bank and holding onto trees to avoid being pulled into Kaieteur’s gaping maw. A protruding stump catches the front of the boat, causing the swift current to swing the stern around.
The boat is now being pulled backwards downstream and we need to react quickly to avoid disaster. I lunge for the nearest tree to halt our progress while Rupert jumps out and pulls the stern away from the river’s aggressive central current.
Having regained control of the boat, we inch our way downstream, taking careful steps on the slippery rocks. Then, with just a few metres to spare before the river drops away, the surrounding rainforest finally opens up and we haul the boat onto Kaieteur landing.
We had seen the Potaro when it was a mere trickle flowing off the remote summit of Mount Ayanganna, and here it was now, in its full glory, cascading off the heights of the Pakaraima Plateau. Elated and exhausted, we silently take in the magnificence of this place. No words can do justice to the beauty and immensity of Kaieteur Falls.
That night, I return to the river alone. As the evening sun descends, I bathe in the pools by the waterfall’s edge and watch as groups of swifts dive-bomb through the falling water to reach their nests, hidden in the cliff behind. The water glows red and I absorb my surreal surroundings. This is one of nature’s great creations and I have it all to myself.
Reptiles and rapids
‘Charles, there’s a snake on your foot,’ Danny calmly informs me. Lugging a heavy pack on my back and an awkward 12-kilogram protective Peli case that contains all of our electronics on my left shoulder, I’m lost in a deep slumber of discomfort and exhaustion. I process the words slowly and look down lethargically to discover a jet-black snake coiled around my left ankle.
‘Aargh! What the..!?’ I start hopping around like a madman, eventually launching the surprised creature into the rainforest. It was just a harmless bush snake, but I now know how I react to close encounters with snakes: very badly. Danny and Rupert are creased with laughter and I’m shaking from the adrenaline, but this was a much-needed diversion from the tedium of the past three days.
Due to its immense size, Kaieteur Falls necessitates a long and dangerous portage along a narrow, slippery trail down the side of a steep jungle valley. People told us the portage would be impossible due to the weight and size of our boat, but we have no other option.
The previous portage along this route had been undertaken by eight locals, with a five-metre aluminium boat. But, with just one recruit from a local community, there are only four of us – and our boat is a metre longer. But we battle on. Metre by metre, we drag and carry the boat, improvising rope-and-winch techniques to ensure that it doesn’t go shooting off into the jungle.
Two and a half days of back-breaking and risky manhauling has made us irritable, and our first argument arises when Rupert comments on the ‘conditions of work’. A former diamond and gold miner, he’s used to hard toil, but even he’s finding this tough. We settle the dispute after supper, a good time for rational thinking thanks to the contented feeling that a full belly brings, and he retracts his comment and expresses his great joy at being involved in the expedition.
We’ve been under enormous stress, but with the boat now safely at the bottom of the trail, all that’s left are two more return hikes to bring the rest of our kit down and we’ll be back on the river. Spirits raised, we collapse into our hammocks for another night in the dark rainforest.
‘We’ve had a tough couple of weeks... The rapids are growing in power and the river is swollen from the heavy rain... We’re perfecting the art of portaging... Barely a day goes by where we haven’t dragged the boat and our kit through the jungle surrounding the river.’
‘It’ll pass, right?’ My question causes Rupert to shift his gaze from the enormous jagged rocks funnelling the foaming, fast-flowing water towards the right bank downstream and give me one of his looks, the one that reminds me that the uncomfortable decisions are mine to make; I’m the leader after all. ‘This rapid takes lives!’ he says.
It’s the end of the day. We’re exhausted. Our judgment is impaired. We’re in no mood to pitch camp and spend the next day carrying the boat and kit through the rainforest again. The rapid is enticing, lit up brilliantly by the golden evening sun. So we commit and take it head on.
We’re immediately picked up by the streaking current and flung towards the rocks. Water crashes over Rupert as he stands at the front, using all his power to steer the boat, while Danny and I paddle like mad at the back to give us an edge in this battle with the river. As the rocks rapidly approach, I can’t see how we’ll make it and calmly accept my fate – but we’ve judged it well. We narrowly miss the rocks and soon find ourselves safely drifting downstream, with the danger behind us.
We’re elated, laughing loudly and exchanging high fives. Moments like these are special. It doesn’t matter that I’m from London and they’re from a remote Amerindian village. We’ve just shared something incredible and we couldn’t feel closer. Adrenaline and relief are powerful tools for uniting a team and we certainly experienced plenty of both on our rollercoaster journey down the wild Potaro River.
River runners
Charles Montier, Rupert Williams and Danny Daniels successfully completed the first descent of the Potaro River from source to mouth in 29 days. Their journey saw them haul all of their gear around nine major waterfalls and through 17 sections of dangerous rapids. On arrival at the Potaro’s mouth, they paddled a further 250 kilometres to reach the port town of Bartica, from where they obtained transport back to Georgetown.
For further details, photos and video of the expedition, visit www.explorationguyana.com
January 2010
It’s day five of our ascent of Mount Ayanganna and the jungle has taken on a whole new character. I look like I’ve been attacked by a pack of wild dogs, my hands and calves (shorts were a bad idea) a complicated road map of lacerations – a reflection of the ever-increasing hostility of the thick rainforest lining the slopes of this 2,041-metre sandstone tepui. I now understand why few people have ever climbed the eastern face of this isolated flat-topped mountain, as every step forward is punished by razor grass and knife-like leaves. But we ignore the discomfort and fight on. We must reach the top. The Potaro River flows off the summit and the source of this great waterway marks the starting line of our expedition.
I first came to Guyana in 2007 to undertake a three-week jungle survival course run by Bushmasters. The incredible beauty of the country’s rainforest and the finely tuned survival skills of the Amerindian guides inspired me to plan a river-based expedition in the Guyanese interior.
A year later, I returned to carry out a two-week training expedition with Wai Wai guides on the upper Essequibo River. The paddling was tough and the wildlife amazing. In one day, we had giant river otters swim up to our dugout, a jaguar glare at us from the river’s edge and multi-coloured macaws fly overhead.
With these experiences driving me on, I returned to the UK to finalise the logistics and continue searching for sponsors for the ‘big trip’. Finally, in January last year, I once again returned to Guyana, ready to attempt a world first. Accompanied by two Patamona Amerindians, I would attempt the first descent of the Potaro River from source to mouth.
But first, I had to fight off a serious bout of dengue fever that put me in intensive care in the capital, Georgetown, for two weeks. Friends spent three days running around town looking for a suitable donor for a much-needed platelet transfusion. I was severely weakened and couldn’t walk down the street without feeling faint, but I fought hard to get fit again and three weeks later, the expedition and my physical strength were back on track.
Trail to the top
Numb fingers clasped around my cutlass handle, I widen the trail being painstakingly cut by Rupert, my older, more experienced Patamona team-mate. I’m shaking from the cold, yet I’m a stone’s throw from the equator. The persistent mist and rain ensure we’re permanently soaked, while the fresh breeze, introduced by the gain in altitude, cuts straight through us.
The barely visible trail we’re supposedly following – cut five years ago by a group of locals and naturalists during the first ascent of this eastern face – has now disappeared completely. We’ve been fighting our way forward for seven hours, yet according to my GPS, we’ve only advanced about 800 metres.
Eventually, we give up and huddle together under a tarpaulin, the rain beating down as we try to activate ourselves. Exhausted, freezing cold and shivering uncontrollably, our usual efficiency at setting up camp and getting a fire going has crumbled; my first real test as expedition leader is upon me. With daylight fading and the wind chill increasing, we urgently need shelter, fire and dry clothes.
Rousing myself, I delegate tasks and we get to work in the heavy rain. Self-pity turns to anger as I wildly fell small trees to use for the shelter. We’re all feeling the strain, but we’re soon laughing and shouting our way through the toil of constructing a framework capable of holding three men in hammocks. Two hours later, we’re sitting beside the fire clutching hot bowls of rice and tuna.
At first light, we eagerly leave camp for an alpine-style bid for the summit, carrying minimal survival kit and rations. Rupert gets back to work, cutting the path, but progress is painfully slow. His hands are shredded by the undergrowth and morale is fading. But just as desperation begins to kick in, Rupert rediscovers the elusive trail and we’re back on track.
Danny, the younger of my Patamona companions, and I follow unquestioningly up exposed vertical sections, roots and small trees providing vital handholds. A multitude of false summits have me cursing silently, but an old flag, swaying from a bent pole on a lip above us, finally marks the summit and we clamber up at full speed.
Sadly, the thick mist deprives us of panoramic views of the Pakaraima Mountains and the vast, uninterrupted jungle surrounding us, but we’re overjoyed just to have
made it. We’re finally at the expedition starting line after two weeks of hard toil.
‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous... It feels quite strange to be paddling towards such an enormous waterfall... We’re still in the middle of the river... We’d better make our way to the bank!’
Twenty days of arduous and, at times, dangerous trekking and we’ve finally reached the majestic Kaieteur Falls, the world’s largest single-drop waterfall. Looking ahead, all I can see is the Potaro River flowing onwards for some 200 metres – and then nothing, just a great void and billowing clouds of water vapour. Anxiety creeps over me as the roar of 226 metres of plummeting water grows louder. But my unease isn’t mutual. As ever, Rupert and Danny are smiling and calm in the face of danger. They dig their paddles into the dark water, bringing us closer to the vast drop.
We’re now just 100 metres from the waterfall’s edge, sticking to the left bank and holding onto trees to avoid being pulled into Kaieteur’s gaping maw. A protruding stump catches the front of the boat, causing the swift current to swing the stern around.
The boat is now being pulled backwards downstream and we need to react quickly to avoid disaster. I lunge for the nearest tree to halt our progress while Rupert jumps out and pulls the stern away from the river’s aggressive central current.
Having regained control of the boat, we inch our way downstream, taking careful steps on the slippery rocks. Then, with just a few metres to spare before the river drops away, the surrounding rainforest finally opens up and we haul the boat onto Kaieteur landing.
We had seen the Potaro when it was a mere trickle flowing off the remote summit of Mount Ayanganna, and here it was now, in its full glory, cascading off the heights of the Pakaraima Plateau. Elated and exhausted, we silently take in the magnificence of this place. No words can do justice to the beauty and immensity of Kaieteur Falls.
That night, I return to the river alone. As the evening sun descends, I bathe in the pools by the waterfall’s edge and watch as groups of swifts dive-bomb through the falling water to reach their nests, hidden in the cliff behind. The water glows red and I absorb my surreal surroundings. This is one of nature’s great creations and I have it all to myself.
Reptiles and rapids
‘Charles, there’s a snake on your foot,’ Danny calmly informs me. Lugging a heavy pack on my back and an awkward 12-kilogram protective Peli case that contains all of our electronics on my left shoulder, I’m lost in a deep slumber of discomfort and exhaustion. I process the words slowly and look down lethargically to discover a jet-black snake coiled around my left ankle.
‘Aargh! What the..!?’ I start hopping around like a madman, eventually launching the surprised creature into the rainforest. It was just a harmless bush snake, but I now know how I react to close encounters with snakes: very badly. Danny and Rupert are creased with laughter and I’m shaking from the adrenaline, but this was a much-needed diversion from the tedium of the past three days.
Due to its immense size, Kaieteur Falls necessitates a long and dangerous portage along a narrow, slippery trail down the side of a steep jungle valley. People told us the portage would be impossible due to the weight and size of our boat, but we have no other option.
The previous portage along this route had been undertaken by eight locals, with a five-metre aluminium boat. But, with just one recruit from a local community, there are only four of us – and our boat is a metre longer. But we battle on. Metre by metre, we drag and carry the boat, improvising rope-and-winch techniques to ensure that it doesn’t go shooting off into the jungle.
Two and a half days of back-breaking and risky manhauling has made us irritable, and our first argument arises when Rupert comments on the ‘conditions of work’. A former diamond and gold miner, he’s used to hard toil, but even he’s finding this tough. We settle the dispute after supper, a good time for rational thinking thanks to the contented feeling that a full belly brings, and he retracts his comment and expresses his great joy at being involved in the expedition.
We’ve been under enormous stress, but with the boat now safely at the bottom of the trail, all that’s left are two more return hikes to bring the rest of our kit down and we’ll be back on the river. Spirits raised, we collapse into our hammocks for another night in the dark rainforest.
‘We’ve had a tough couple of weeks... The rapids are growing in power and the river is swollen from the heavy rain... We’re perfecting the art of portaging... Barely a day goes by where we haven’t dragged the boat and our kit through the jungle surrounding the river.’
‘It’ll pass, right?’ My question causes Rupert to shift his gaze from the enormous jagged rocks funnelling the foaming, fast-flowing water towards the right bank downstream and give me one of his looks, the one that reminds me that the uncomfortable decisions are mine to make; I’m the leader after all. ‘This rapid takes lives!’ he says.
It’s the end of the day. We’re exhausted. Our judgment is impaired. We’re in no mood to pitch camp and spend the next day carrying the boat and kit through the rainforest again. The rapid is enticing, lit up brilliantly by the golden evening sun. So we commit and take it head on.
We’re immediately picked up by the streaking current and flung towards the rocks. Water crashes over Rupert as he stands at the front, using all his power to steer the boat, while Danny and I paddle like mad at the back to give us an edge in this battle with the river. As the rocks rapidly approach, I can’t see how we’ll make it and calmly accept my fate – but we’ve judged it well. We narrowly miss the rocks and soon find ourselves safely drifting downstream, with the danger behind us.
We’re elated, laughing loudly and exchanging high fives. Moments like these are special. It doesn’t matter that I’m from London and they’re from a remote Amerindian village. We’ve just shared something incredible and we couldn’t feel closer. Adrenaline and relief are powerful tools for uniting a team and we certainly experienced plenty of both on our rollercoaster journey down the wild Potaro River.
River runners
Charles Montier, Rupert Williams and Danny Daniels successfully completed the first descent of the Potaro River from source to mouth in 29 days. Their journey saw them haul all of their gear around nine major waterfalls and through 17 sections of dangerous rapids. On arrival at the Potaro’s mouth, they paddled a further 250 kilometres to reach the port town of Bartica, from where they obtained transport back to Georgetown.
For further details, photos and video of the expedition, visit www.explorationguyana.com
January 2010
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