By Sorrel Moseley-Williams
Herald staff

There‘s Latin spirit in every one according to the Bacardi advert, and I certainly should have the foresight to down a couple of rum and cokes to put myself in the mood for my canopy surfing debut.
When preparing for a brand new adventure, which in this case was taking place in Colonia Suiza outside of Bariloche, I take considerable pride in doing no research whatsoever for fear of having my perspective contaminated by someone funnier or cleverer than I.

HARD HAT. So I had little idea of what was in store. A few days in the lake district with Bariloche as the central hub allows plenty of scope to nip around the countryside trying out extreme sports on the adventure menu. “What would you like to order, madame?” “Why, I think I’ll try the canopy surfing followed by the white water rafting.” After all, when was the last time you tried out something for the first time? It was time to don the hard hat.
Back to my fictitious bar, that rum and coke, and it was time to locate some nerves of steel within my quivering bowels. Simply called “canopy” in Spanish, I wasn’t sure what this might entail but felt confident some kind of take-off, flight and landing would be in order. In my mind, its precise format — hopefully not using feather-and-wax wings like the young and foolish Icarus used to launch himself from his tower of captivity — was uncertain.
Canopy surfing originated in Costa Rica but for professional reasons rather than as a recreational past-time. Tree surgeons working in the tropical rain forest could swing between trees to inspect their tall charges for development, illnesses, fungi and the like without harming the environment. Set up on a cable or zip line system, the idea is to whip through dense forest, stopping off along the way, Tarzan and Cheetah style, to the next platform.
A harness provides all the security needed before hooking up and gliding, from A to B to C and then D. Although on my first flight, whizzing at breakneck speed before braking too fast to come to a complete standstill, then shamefully crawling backwards along the zip line to reach the first platform.
Although not a rain forest, the Cerro López mountain and the pine, a distant relative to its taller, tropical counterpart, have been adapted to the canopy surfing experience which aims to be just more than hooking up to the wire.
Hidden up the side of López around 18km away from the sprawling, often chaotic downtown, getting to Canopy Bariloche is a mini adventure. Although two local buses take you to within a few kilometres’ walk from the trail leading up to the base camp, the luxury of your own transport means you can stop off to sample some sausage and breathe in that bird’s eye view of the lakes and the Llao Llao area, its hotel stretching out endlessly in front of you in a way that only Patagonia can.
Picked up from the centre by a friendly driver called Miguel, my hard-hat companions for the afternoon were Ann-Sophie and her boyfriend Anders. From Denmark and travelling around Latin America, they wanted to try out canopy surfing so that Anders could attempt to conquer his fear of heights.
For the faint-hearted such as my new Danish friend, an alternative would be to saddle up next door to Canopy HQ and wander the inclines by horseback. But the main attraction on López is finding that liberating flying feeling that Icarus tried and failed to achieve, and on arriving at base camp, it became clear what this adventure would entail. 
Stepping into the harness, English-speaking instructor Cristos tightened up every last strap on me, then turned his attention to the other 14 people including some 50-pluses and a boy who couldn’t have been older than 10, helping them to tuck in clothes. “It’s going to be cold up there,” he said.
I had a long pink scarf on. It was a moment of choice. What if I keep it on, but it flies loose and I get strangled mid-air up the mountain? Decisions, decisions. I wound it about my neck and stuffed it inside my jacket, figuring the worst that could happen is that I simply lose it.
Now obviously one doesn’t need to be skilled in the art of canopy surfing but a quick lesson is obligatory. A demo from another instructor at a piffling two metres off the ground clarified exactly what we would be doing. A leather glove-clad hand stays on the wire which you then use to brake, a bit like sounding a train’s horn as you approach the platform ahead. That was all I could remember, how to stop. But even so, I proved to be appalling at that.
I translated the 10-minute crash course for the Danes. Who were concerned that there was nothing more to learn before we took to the skies. We scaredy-cat Europeans might have preferred to try out the wire from two metres off the floor before heading for the 90m-high cable, but that was with hindsight, and so the adventure begain in a LandRover.
The second base camp is a few kilometres up the side of López and it was a steep and bumpy trip over the ditch-ridden trail. Given the vital leather glove and a fetching hard hat — green to not scare the wildlife — the braking system made more sense. Fitted with a fingerless glove with a special hard flap to fit over the cable, it seemed remarkable such a gentle squeezing action could be so instrumental in defining speed.
Getting into the heart of the woods and completely kitted out, the hardy and the vertigo sufferers indulged on a further steep mini trek by foot up to the first of the 10 cables. And who should be the chosen first one, but Anders. Tall, blond and handsome, he would have let down his race as well as his gender had he turned down the opportunity. Stepping up onto platform one just a metre off the ground, he was clipped onto the wire, placed his right hand on the wire behind his big metal hook, left hand on the rope attaching him to the cable — and away he flew.
That first stretch is under 100 metres in length and you can see the next platform peeking through the trees in the distance. Still looks quite far away, though. It’s a clear stretch although branches are poking out, and as the leggy blond took off, there was no chance of getting caught up with a tree out to get you: the cables can handle 100,000 kilos but are flexible enough to bend slightly with your weight.
Once Anders had made it across the forest, Ann-Sophie was next, and with a gleeful whoop she set off, arriving gracefully within seconds.
And then it was England’s turn. Clipped onto the cable so fast, there was little time to think about what I was doing. Glove on, hand attached to the wire, just sit down, said the instructor, and it felt a bit uncomfortable to have your arse exposed to the air with all those bondage straps tight around your thigh. One quick push and I was off.
I couldn’t help it, a yelp (excitement, fear?) left my mouth. The leaves and branches were a blur as I sped past, and there was no time to appreciate the view. Then suddenly, the platform loomed in the distance. How would I reach it? At this velocity the only way was to crash, bang, wallop into that illustrious number-one pine. Brake. Brake! I pulled down, train-horn style, but way too hard. A few metres from the edge of the platform, I came to a complete halt, and just hung there, helpless, derailed and suspended in mid-air.
Cristos, awaiting my arrival, sprung into action. Oh Cristos, here’s an announcement for you. “The train from England will be running approximately 48 seconds late.” And so, embarrassingly, I had to turn around and pull my way backwards, hand over hand, to the platform. The shame of it. Of course, I was the only person to cock it up, on the first wire, to cock it up at any point. The 10-year-old did fine, as did the greying gentleman shorter than me. Hrmph.
“What happened to you, UK?” asked the instructor. The answer was obvious. Head and hand refused to enter into a relationship with each 50 metres up in the air. Simple.

Nine to go. Although not put off, I felt a bit uncertain and asked Fabián, who had landed smoothly behind me, how many more flights we had. “Oh, there’s about 10 in total,” he replied flippantly. He’d done this before, obviously.
Waiting on the platform for several more team members to fly in, it was a moment to reflect. What the hell am I doing here? And. How do I get down? The answers, again, were simple. This should be enjoyable rather than painful, and, I couldn’t.
It was Anders’ second go. Then Ann-Sophie’s. And then, mine. This was a bit longer but juast as quick then it was crunch as I came in to land too fast against the trunk. Crash pads are provided from platform two onwards, but after the humiliating crawl back to the ranch in round one, it was preferable to graze my knee by coming into the station like a bullet train instead of facing a second round of shame.
A few more landings and Cristos made an announcement. “The next cable is the longest, the fastest and you can’t see the platform from here.” What, already, the longest, the fastest and the furthest? On edge, I took in enough oxygen for a group of asthmatic and yelled out as I whipped between the trees, this time half in fear, half in exhilaration. Okay, it was really a 90/10 ratio, but still, the thrill and the adrenaline was something I’ve never experienced — except during a turbulent airplane flight — and as I landed, my little gloved hand was trembling.
Once the big one was out of the way, I relaxed. I’ve only participated in dinghy sailing — which can be an extreme sport if you get hit by a boom, capsize or gibe unexpectedly — so literally flying by the seat of my pants took me some way out of my comfort zone.
From up to 90 metres from the side of the mountain and several wires later, I was in more of a position to admire the phenomenal lake views through the trees, slovenly leaning against a trunk like I’d been born in a tree. Despite the whirring of the cables, these moments were peaceful and allowed for some reflection: what the hell was I doing up there, and would I make it back without strangling myself?
It’s easy to joke about now, and it’s certainly an activity to have a go at, but I was bricking it substantially up there. Not afraid of heights — unlike poor Anders who quivered in time with the swaying platform in the wind — it is an odd sensation of freedom with only fresh Alpine air between you and the next deck. Prepare to be exhilarated, but also a tiny bit scared at the same time — extra underwear not necessary.

Green, white and blue

In the second 24 hours of developing a close relationship with a hard hat, it was time to go river deep. More au fait with the water than winging it through the air, the thought of bumping over some uncomprising rapids was mildly daunting although it didn’t sound as crazy a prospect as canopy surfing.
Although Mendoza has recently been listed as a must-visit destination for white-water rafting by National Geographic, and as the province is located several hundred kilometres north of Bariloche its waters are probably a sight warmer, a day out taking on a mountain river in the lake district is certainly appealing to the water signs.
And once again, being unprepared meant I wasn’t prepared for a whole day out. Picked up at 10am by a minibus, a family with two kids were already on board. An hour’s journey directly south of Bariloche takes you to Lake Steffen where the turquoise waters lap gently at your feet, begging you to dip a toe in. I obliged, but it was so refreshing and verging on icy that I decided to wait until I had no choice in the matter of wetness.
With snowy peaks in the distance and the lake flowing into two rivers, the location was picture perfect. And the Manso Inferior to the left was bubbling away expectantly, a sign of events to come.
Training was coherent, and the two eight-man rafts leaving Piedra Pintada camp had a chance to practise obeying instructions from guides Pancho and Mariano. Tanned from a summer on the water, they made for pleasant viewing.
And, we were off, a team of six, including an older couple from Bariloche who never have time to try out local activities but had made a concerted effort that Saturday and a father-and-son duo. Twelve-year-old son to me: “Which football team do you support?” Me: “River.”
Stroke, stroke, paddle up. With the wind licking my hard hat and the waves lapping at the raft’s base (more about its bottom later), it was utterly glorious to be in such peace. Waving at some fly fishermen, they nodded their heads surlily, probably because the rainbow trout leaping about nearby were too happy in the sun after several days of rain to share their love with the men in rubber. One always assumes that the Patagonian trout comes straight from the river to your plate, but in fact that particular species is farmed and fishermen have to put back everything they catch in order to maintain numbers.
A day out on the Manso puts you in the front line of level-three rapids — with the most difficult ranked five, the threes are few and far between but once you get a taste for some, the number ones seems like child’s play. The rush as you bounce over the dinosaur-egg rocks — will we capsize? Will we make it through? — is immense, and although my left arm was beginning to seize up, I wanted to know if there was a suitable but more stretching excursion for my limited skills.
As this is a day out, lunch is provided and paddling up to a stony beach, we peeled off the wet weather gear and headed for God’s bathroom. After soaking up some sun, as if by magic the raft had turned into a dining table. Ingeniously turned over, fresh fruit platters and a selection of cold meats were lined up on its base. Although drinks were provided, feel free to lap up the river water: according to Mariano, it is 100 per cent pure. As the Andean sun beat down on my hard hat, rafting made for thirsty work so I certainly slurped down a few mouthfuls on the sly — and have lived to write about the tale.
I have only ever sailed on the sea and on lakes, which is very different from rafting on a river, and it was quite remarkable just how winding Manso was. As we floated along, because you’ll be pleased to hear you aren’t hard at work paddling continuously for several hours, some bends were at literally at a 90-degree angle, and the current took control to turn us into it, sharp as you like.
The water wavers between green, as if the stones were painted yellow, a pure blue that one associates with bottles of mineral water to white where the rapids are gurgling and bubbling away, relentlessly with no end to their hard work. With the lush forest, cloudless sky and snowy peaks, green white and blue were the only colours in sight. A fun stop-off was at the natural whirlpool, at which point I took a brief dip into the the transparent waters.
The most difficult rapid, the Hippopotamus, so-called due to the horny face emblazoned on a protruding rock, comes at the end of the excursion and it was exhilarating yet over too quickly. I wanted more number threes — and rapidly. But tea awaited us onshore next to the shallow waters with a deliciously unhealthy torta frita and lashings of local raspberry jam, enough to replenish energy levels to raft back up the Manso...