Where the Chico River Rumbles

I heard the river’s rumble before the white water appeared just up ahead, bubbling as if being boiled. My excitement increased as the raft approached the eventual onslaught and I braced myself as my river master hollered instructions under the noise. Once caught in the rapids’ grip, the water’s flow accelerated and we were flung about, like being in a small aquatic roller coaster cum mixer. The cold spray smacked me awake and I elicited a “Yahoo!”, an ejaculation, reacting in part to the bitter chill, but more a declaration to the world: “I am alive!”


The episode was short, lasting no longer than 10 seconds. It was thrilling, brutal. The rush was so intoxicating that I wanted more.
“We used to memorize the river and we would tackle it based on how we remembered it,” mused Anton Carag, the Chico River pioneer, between lulls in the action. “That was until an American consultant came and taught us how to read the river, how to understand the nature of eddies, and how to ride currents to make paddling easy and efficient. The river always changes and we need to adapt constantly,” continues the striking man on the better side of 40. This is how you want your guides to be - confident but not cocky, reassuring but not overbearing, and knowledgeable but with a wacky sense of humor.



The five of us - Anton, his aide Frank, two of his friends and I - drifted along Chico River in Kalinga province on a yellow inflatable raft. The environment was a world apart from the chaotic metropolis I was accustomed to, the blaring horns and urban city street racket replaced by the wind rustling through trees and the sporadic cackling of river birds. It was a new world - tranquil and undisturbed, at least until the next rapids.

Of all action-adventure activities, white water rafting is the most straightforward. It does not require rock-climbing’s technical skill, skydiving’s boldness, or paragliding’s laborious preparation. Apart from an experienced guide, all it needs for an adrenaline-pumping experience is a heightened sense of adventure.

Normally, all passengers are equipped with paddles and expected to pitch in to manoeuvre the vessel through the roiling waters. White water rafting is a democratic activity where teamwork is supreme. In this instance, however, Anton decided to cover for everyone and navigate the raft himself using long oars. Fresh from expeditions in the Grand Canyon and Alaska, he was still disposed to flexing his muscles. I had no objections. Freed from paddling duties, I could simply take photos and enjoy the ride.
That morning, we drove from Tuguegarao City to Kalinga province, mostly along the winding road running parallel to the Chico River that followed each twist and turn of both the contours of the Kalinga Mountains and the river. We constantly caught glimpses of the slithering waterway whose source was the watershed upriver, in Mt. Data. The river eventually links with Cagayan River, passing numerous towns including the provincial capital of Tabuk and the hiking haven of Tinglayen. A distinct aroma pervaded the air.

“Dama de Noche?” I asked. “Robusta Coffee,” replied Anton. I was surprised to find the bean growing nearly everywhere at the 250 meter elevation.

From a distance, the river looked calm, its light emerald color transforming into white only where rocks protruded, disrupting the generally unbridled gushing. And where its flow is hindered, a tantrum erupts, and the flowing tide suddenly turns ferocious.

Chico River will always be associated with political defiance. Those with a militant streak will recollect that back in the 1980s, a plan was put together to dam the river in order to harness its might to generate power -- an undertaking that would have flooded towns and communities along the riverbank. Macliing Dulag, a Kalinga tribal chief, vehemently opposed the World Bank-sponsored endeavour, and armed men murdered him by spraying his home with bullets. This failed to quell the resistance, however and the project was ultimately shelved.

Today’s trip, though, was of a lighter spirit and a more peaceful nature. The jump-off point was a tributary in Baranggay Tomiangan, around 25 kilometers north of Tabuk. As the raft was being inflated, Frank took practise runs in a closed shell kayak and pitted his skills against the torrents, its bright red-orange matching the yellow payloaders scattered around the river’s shores.

The grey day constantly threatened rain, a moot point since getting soaked was a given in white water rafting. We took off with rapids barely 50 meters from our launch point and immediately churned in the current like a paper boat in an open washing machine. Just to illustrate the activity’s hazardous nature, barely three minutes into the journey our long oar caught between rocks, and broke under Anton’s heavy yank. While quickly replaced with a spar, we had no margin for error left, if we lost another.

Acacia trees lined the riverbanks and mountain slopes, which dropped off to the river. The branches spread horizontally rather than vertically like giant bonsai plants. In certain places, hanging bridges hovered above us, and people plied across the river via small boats. Waving was a default reaction: I felt like a celebrity.

Deeper down the river, rapids and calm waters alternated. Consequently, our mood swung from breathless exhilaration to measured composure, a feeling not unlike a derivative of the manic-depressive condition.

Midway the 19-kilometer run, we stopped for lunch. Above the banks, a small waterfall cascaded into a pool that spilled carelessly into the ground, then surged to the river. While enjoying our tuna sandwiches and soda in this pleasant spot, Anton pointed out debris hanging in tree branches several feet above our heads.

“Garbage brought by the flood,” he explained. It dawned on me that that’s how high the water level rose in the last typhoon. I wouldn’t have wanted to be here, then.

As we continued on, a drizzle and mist had descended, shrouding the whole area in a blanket of grey, reminding me of a scene from Apocalypse Now. The wind by now had turned nippy, not exactly ideal when you’re already drenched. Hypothermia is a very real danger here.

Just when everything seemed unspoiled, man’s handiwork manifested itself. Where roads were constructed, unearthed gravel, supposedly hauled away by contractors, was carelessly dumped over the ridges. Loose earth accumulated in the side of the mountain creating potentially disastrous landslide conditions. Small rocks tumbled down and crashed into the water a few seconds before we reached the same spot. I could only imagine the aftermath if the heap of earth collapsed. It was not a pleasant thought.

We rushed forward, attacking several more rapids full on until we spotted our 4WD parked alongside the river in the distance. Our river run had approached its end, but the thrills and spills, stark against moments of indispensable solitude, were forever etched in my memory. The end came too soon, and like so many enthralling things in life, I hadn’t gotten enough of it.