Salto Angel -- World's Tallest Waterfall

Our camp, Wey Tepuy, is full of Europeans.  Mostly Russians.  Very friendly folks, this new breed of Ruskies.   Very generous.  Outgoing.  Not suspicious.  Anxious to connect.  Well educated.  European in every sense these days.   One of them, Andrei Navmenko, offers to deliver something to my brother in Moscow upon his return, should I so desire.  We all have a hard time with our Venezuelan staff.  They have a tendency to take your paperwork (tickets or vouchers), say “this is your room,” and then walk off.  No meal time.  No plan.  No schedule.  No papers.  We are loosely told we will leave for Angel Falls at 11 AM.  During breakfast however, somebody rushes in and asks if we are ready to go.  We point to our watches.  Heads wag back at us.  “No.  Vaminos.  Ahora!” is all that is declared.  Three minutes to pack bags and put passports and money and wallets in the safe.    Then to a rickety open sided van.  Fifteen minutes to bypass the local falls and get to our portage point.  Then about ten of us pile into a 35 foot dugout canoe (pangas), complete with backpacks, rain ponchos, spare Yamaha engine, and a small cache of food and supplies for two days upriver.  We have about 30 miles to go.  We quickly learn all the rain panchos and Goretex in the world will not protect you from a Panga driver intent on missing rocks, or swerving to avoid shallows or upturned roots.  We are drenched in moments.  Sometimes by waves that knock us backwards, and leave everybody else bone dry.  We each get our turn at this.

 At first, the jungle and mangrove swamps on our flanks are fascinating.  But they lose their curiosity after about five miles.  Turn after turn of the river is negotiated.  Massive table topped sandstone mesas called Tepuys come into view to our sides.  They are the height of Yosemite Valley’s famed granite walls (just to one side).  Many waterfalls are present.  I call them “Pretenders.”  We know the big one is coming up so very few photos are taken of the junior varsity team.  It is necessary at one point for us to disembark and walk for 45 minutes so the guides can portage our Panga up through rapids.  This approach goes on for four and one-half hours.  If it wasn’t for the view it would be easy to concentrate on how saddle sore your bum is getting in this wooden boat without padded seats.  The River bends repeatedly.  Linked Tepuys begin to stretch the entire length of the river.  Numerous but small waterfalls abound.  Clouds cap the flat topped mesas rising above us.  Rising mist adds mystique to the scene.  Excitement builds: when will we see it?  We get thoroughly soaked (ah, but it is a “warm soaked”).  Jungle to our flanks, tantalizingly cuts off our view just as a good photo op comes into play.  Constant spray.  Rock formations highlighted by filtered mists delineate the overhead cliffs.  One of them looks either like another statue lineup from Easter Island, or a display of bad British denture work.  Hard to say.  It was 4000 feet above us.  When we reach a portion of the river with four massive rock horns pricking the sky (“The Horns of the Devil”) to our left, we see the falls for the first time.  We are still ten bends or so in the river away.  But it is unmistakable.  The height, the massive flow, the domination of the skyline all announce this as Angel Falls.

The world’s highest waterfall was discovered (this is a very loose term) in 1937 by Jimmy Angel, an American pilot looking for gold who crash landed his plane on top of the Tepuy mesa basin called Auyantepuy (or Mountain of the God of Evil” or “Devil’s Mountain”) which empties Angel Falls.  It took Angel and his wife and two friends 11 days to hike the difficult stretch back down to the river to provide proof of the fall’s existence.   The massive flow feeding the falls is a bit of a paradox, as there is no conventional drainage source such as snow, lakes, or major river system at that altitude.  Almost all of the moisture seems to come from equatorial clouds condensing onto the jungle plateau of Auyantepui.  From this, up to 11 major cataracts cascade over the gnarled cliff edge to eventually coalesce at different levels thousands of feet below. During dry season (now) the flow may be down to two to four feeder streams.  But they are enough.  If you take a photo of Angel Falls, and ten seconds later take another, they will be completely different.  Depending of course on momentary flow, wind, sun, and passing clouds.  Officially – for those who care about such things – the falls are 979 meters (3230 feet) with an uninterrupted primary drop of 807 meters (2663 feet) – or sixteen times the height of Niagara Falls.

Angel Falls is highly incessible.  Niagara this is not.  You have to work to get here.  There are no massive crowds.  Only five to seven dugout canoes per day, perhaps, make their way upriver.  At least during this time of year, summer and the rainy season.  We find ourselves lucky, as often during this season, the falls is down to a trickle and dissipates into mere thin spray long before ever reaching the ground. Recent rains, have generously ensured our view.   When we reach the bottom, the pangas leave us with only essential gear (cameras, water, and insect repellant) and depart for camp and the initiation of dinner.  Our hike up the approach trail takes about 75 minutes.  It is primarily dominated by fantastically twisted/suspended ground roots and vines rather than stones.  The jungle we navigate through is not typical.  It is a short canopy “forest” and hardly has any of the verdant, sweet, yet slightly rotted smell found in most jungles and arboretums.  Once again, the electric moment is always sudden and surprising.  You hear water.  Then LOTS of water.  But the canopy hides your view.  Then, stepping up above a rockpile after a turn in the trail, there it is …

I will simply say I have seen lots of waterfalls.  Including highly memorable ones in California (most impressive I ever saw was Yosemite Falls in explosive spring surge from 30,000 feet as I flew overhead), Iguazu Falls ten days ago, Yellowstone, and so on.  This one – while not my favorite – is right up there for the sheer magnitude.  It takes forever, for that water to crash over the lip and finally hit bottom !   In some ways, it is mesmerizing, as you never see the same view twice. Another part that is pleasing, is so few relatively get to see this natural wonder (yes, that is the snob in me emerging).  No Grand Canyon crowds,  for the easy five-minute shutter stop and then off to the next roadside attraction.  We are part of a select few who have made choices to see THIS, instead of gamble or buy more big boy machines like Sea Doos or drink our way into history.   My Russian and German compadres linger for about half an hour, and head back with me to the river.  Darkness falls early here.  When at camp, the Venezuelan staff – hardly more than barefoot boys, really – have prepared one of the best chicken dinners I have ever tasted.  We compare stories (the translation chain is at times hysterical: Russian to Spanish to English to German or English to German or English to Russian, and multiple combos in between) until fatigue sets in early.  I am able to connect with the others largely because a new Russian amigo, Denis Lakovlev of St. Petersburg, has taken the time to learn English and watch American tv and read American periodicals and papers  Then generally we go to bed about 8:30 to 9 PM.  There is nothing else to do, as the generator is turned off.  Beds consist of hammocks facing the river.  Sporting in description, in reality they are uncomfortable if you get a smallish or imbalanced one.  Mine was both.  Getting out of one in the middle of the  night to pee can be a real circus.  C’est La Vie …

Next day (Monday, March 14th) we reverse the inbound journey, but are able to take some of the rapids as the water has subsided.  It is very sunny and since we don’t have to fight the current this leg takes a little over half the time of the upriver journey.  Once back at Wey Tepuy in Canaima, many of us find our guides absent, tickets missing or confiscated for “meal confirmation,” no idea of when our flight out is, and no access for a long time to the luggage room and the safe where our passports and wallets have been stored the last two days.  Requests for assistance only bring sullen sneers, and slow reactions.  Apparently these folks get enough traffic they don’t have to worry about customer service (or satisfaction).  We miss our meal, also.  They have advised us of the wrong time.  So, when in Canaima, avoid this place.  There are other, better camps.  Scared, a couple of the Russians and I hoof it directly to the airport.  No assistance.  No vehicle.  Have to drag the bags through the muddy rutted road.  Once there, I meet one of my “Angels.”  After describing what has happened to us (outright abandonment), Jose Camino – who likes to call himself “Joe Road” – takes our passports and runs interference with the airport staff for flight verification.  He makes sure our bags are prepared, points out our correct flight time and plane, and then gives me the best travel advice I’ve had the entire stay up north.  I offer to buy him a drink, describing my previous experience in Venezuela.  He demurs.  Jose is embarrassed for the lack of service etiquette of his countrymen, and their penchant for pinching foreigners for dollars.  He wants to make it up to the extent he can.  We promise to keep in touch.  I know he will have my gratitude for a long, long time.

Angel # 2 shows up almost immediately afterward, back in Porto Ordaz.  Linda Wells is the one who sold me the ticket to Angel Falls in the first place, and arranged for a severe discount.  She asks how the trip went?  When I describe our treatment at Wey Tepuy, and my medical condition, she leaps into action.  First, she let me use the computer hook-up at the ticket counter for her airline.  It was comical, at least visually.  Can’t tell you how many tickets I could have sold (and maybe recouped part of the trip expense) had I spoken better Spanish !  The internet access was critical, after five days without contact (Caracas on) to friends and family.  Next, she took me down to the airport doctor.  They couldn’t help me.  We started to go to a clinic.  “Don’t go there,” she warned.  “They will look at you for five minutes, and charge you $200 US.  Just go to the pharmacy and describe your symptoms.”  Then she arranged for a driver at a reduced rate, who would take me to the pharmacy – wait for me there (!) and then drive me to the bus station.  It all worked, and even included a quick trip to McDonald’s for a reliable Big Mac.  All the while, Linda was on the phone with the driver interceding and making things run smoothly.  She too, felt there was a debt owed for the performance – or lack thereof – of her countrymen.  Then a familiar pattern emerged.  Information in Venezuela is always questionable.  Last bus for the north coast had already left for the night.  Price was not what was announced, so I had to go to the cash machine again.  And the driver got a little greedy at the end, insisted on taking me to expensive hotels, and then because he didn’t listen and had to put in extra work, tried to fleece me for extra money for his extra driving.  I declined his generous offer for a doubled fee, and we parted on very bad terms.  But I finished the eve of my birthday with a prescription for strep throat/walking pneumonia, have my own room, a shower, change of clothes, and time to write.  On this evening, it feels fabulous.  If only my throat would take note …

Next: Still Trying to “Get Off The Bus” in Venezuela