When our burnt red Toyota Trooper rolled up to the military checkpoint on the Medellin-Bogota highway, we realized why we had been told not to travel to this region of Colombia. Judging by the armored vehicles, piles of ammunition, heavy weaponry, and the hardened looks of soldiers, this was not just a checkpoint guarding the bridge over the Samaná River but a full-on military base, regularly under assault. The similarities between the camo of the military installations in the foreground and the lush jungle in the background were confusing. How could they be so similar and opposite at the same time?

Despite the warnings from our local Colombian friends, we had insisted on driving eastward from the city of Medellin and crossing the plateau of Rio Negro to reach this large watershed draining the eastern flanks of the central cordillera of the Andes. A map showing an incredible density of steep creeks draining into the Samaná River had sparked our determination. The river, after gathering many tributaries, entered a deep, 40 km canyon to reach the plains and confluence with the Magdalena River.

The maps painted an attractive kayaking destination, and a quick peek over the bridge confirmed our intuition. The river’s emerald waters formed harmonious hydraulics around smooth white granite rocks. The vegetation along the steep canyon walls composed an incredible perfume from the essences of thousands of species of flowers and plants. Everything about the Samaná tantalized our senses.

At this time, in 2008, Colombia’s uncountable rivers flowed pristine and free. Dams, mines and deforestation had yet to impact the country’s nature. The longest ongoing civil war in modern history had paradoxically allowed nature to prosper.

Needless to say, few paddlers had ever dipped a paddle or scrambled on the banks of Colombian rivers. This is why we were there, to explore, to discover the hidden gems that the unique geography and climate of the country inevitably held but had eluded foreign adventurers.

These early days of Colombian kayaking faced many challenges. Most remote areas were still deemed unsafe, and the watersheds we managed to access weren’t the most ideal for whitewater. In many ways the Samaná, because it was on the main highway of the country and it looked so good on the maps, had been our most promising objective. As we stood on that bridge it felt like we had finally struck gold—metaphorically speaking.

“You won’t make it to the other side. The banks of the river are heavily mined, there are guerrilla warriors everywhere,” said an authoritarian voice behind us. “And if somehow you survive,” he continued, “the only hamlet where you can exit the river, Puerto Garza, is no place you want to be. Are you aware this is the canyon used by the rebels to hide their high-profile hostages? You’ll be the cherry on top of the pie.” We snapped back to the reality of our situation.

The military commander had walked up to our group, escorted by two of his men, armed to the teeth. Aviators obscured his eyes. He stood stern in his assessment of us as we stood longingly looking out at the river from the steel bars of the bridge as if they were those of a prison cell.

His words weren’t a casual warning. With one final frustrated look at the river, we retreated to our Trooper and gave up on what could have been one of the greatest first descents of our generation.

Our Samaná story lay dormant for the next 15 years, but little did we know that our failed attempt would spark a young French paddler to make the pilgrimage five years after we tried. In 2013, young Jules Domine and Morgan Arnaud rode a bus to the same bridge, only they were able to venture downstream and fall in love with the river and its resilient residents.

Nearly 16 years after our fateful encounter with the Colombian Commander, I returned to the region for the 2024 Samaná Fest. Not until then did I fully understand the country and its people’s resiliency. In comparison, I saw our naivete of Colombia’s unrest and how ridiculous and self-centered my frustration had been when the commander denied our access years ago.

Long before the first Spanish Galleon reached the shores of the South American continent, indigenous civilization prospered in the steep mountains of the Samaná watershed. Its unique position in the Andes, at the northern tip of the central cordillera, exposed the region to atypical weather patterns.

Winds blow the hot Caribbean air and moisture from the wetland of the Momposina depression inland. Momentum builds across the landscape until it collides against the first buttress of the Andes, is forced upward, and crashes with the colder altitude temperature, generating condensation. Turbulent clouds turn to violent storms, creating some of the highest rain intensity on Earth. This phenomenon often only occurs at night. The rivers of the Samaná watershed flood regularly and the abrupt daily fluctuation of water levels has created rare ecological conditions that over time, allowed a unique biodiversity to prosper.

These abundant ecosystems attracted indigenous tribes to live and thrive for thousands of years. Today, the numerous petroglyphs carved on the river’s bank and the archeological sites found in the marble caves of the low hills that separate the river from the Magdalena basin are the only signs of their past existence.

It wasn’t until the early 1900s that the first colonizers settled in the area. The original people of this land had already fled or been decimated by disease. Our world never collided with theirs.

The first settlers simply saw free land, forest to tame into fields, creeks filled with gold, and dreams to be shaped into reality by hard work. Along with their contemporary lifestyle, they also brought political violence. Colombia’s first violencia, which started in the ’50s, was linked to the confrontation between political ideology. The conservatives and liberals, fighting for the control of the government, spread waves of civil wars for decades. In the 1960s, however, a moment of political stability allowed Colombia to develop its economy.

Naturally, the economy needed to be fueled by energy.

The unique geography and the abundance of water in Eastern Antioquia made the region a high-value target for hydroelectric projects.

As the government-backed industry moved aggressively into the watershed of the Rio Nare and the Rio Guatape, two major lower tributaries of the Samaná, they forcefully displaced the locals. Marxist guerillas, such as the FARC and the ELN, which had begun gaining traction in the 1980s, saw a dual opportunity.  One was to increase their ranks by transforming the bubbling anger of the displaced campesinos into armed violence against the government and private corporations. Secondly, to pressure the government by taking their energy sources hostage. As the rivers stopped flowing freely, the blood started flowing once again.

As if that wasn’t enough, large-scale narco-trafficking as we know it today also found its origins in the marble hills separating the Samaná from the Magdalena. Its most infamous protagonist, Pablo Escobar, transformed the region into his primary production area. His iconic property, Hacienda Napoles lies only 30 km from the Samaná canyon.

Colombia’s civil conflict, fueled by political rivals, drug syndicates, and the US foreign policy, displaced tens of millions of people. Colombia’s general population has been caught in the crossfire ever since. The war was about power and control, and citizens were asked to take sides.

The Samaná was also caught in the conflict. Hydroelectric installations invaded its left banks, which helped generate the conflict. On its right banks, the drug business fueled the conflict with money from the different rivals and allies. The Samaná flowed wildly between the two, becoming the war’s epicenter and the Marxist guerrillas’ stronghold. It was also notorious for hostage activity. Guerillas held high-profile hostages while some of Colombia’s most wealthy and powerful families negotiated the terms of their releases or awaited news of their assassination.

When we first saw the Samaná in 2008, the rippling effects of 70 years of conflict had just begun to ebb. One of the longest ongoing civil wars in modern history had serendipitously protected one of the most biodiverse places on Earth. It was the dawn of the new Colombia. Peace was young but unpredictable.

A few years later, when young Jules Domine stepped off the plane in Colombia driven by the same allure of deep nature and unpaddled rivers, the situation had improved. While landmines still scattered the soil, a US-backed Colombian military was pushing the FARC into the most recondite jungles of the Amazon. An international War on Drugs, while hardly slowing the supply of narcotics, had forced the production into the same areas. It was clear that neither the political nor the drug wars were over, and may never be, but the Samaná was free and safe.

Jules and Morgan eventually arrived at the Samaná bridge and dropped in for the first kayaking descent.

It was a defining moment in Jules’s life that sparked a deep love and connection to the Samaná. Any paddler who has experienced a first descent of one of the world’s great rivers knows the emotional bond it creates. From that day forward, Jules never turned his back on Colombia.

Just as a river carves its course, the flow of life shapes us, too, yet the journey is a mystery. Along this journey, I would eventually return to the Samaná and meet Jules, who had unwaveringly stood by the Samaná doing what he could to protect her ever since that first descent.

The war had protected the river from the hydroelectric projects which had destroyed all of the neighboring watersheds. The Samaná was the last free-flowing river of Antioquia. Peace, in contrast, allowed the hydroelectric industry to revive old plans to exploit the Samaná’s resources.

Jules’s understanding of the watershed’s unique biological diversity—and its kayaking—motivated him to fight for the Samaná’s protection. As he settled in the area, he bonded with the local communities who still carried the horrors of the war. Other dams in the region had disrupted and displaced them, destroying their temporarily peaceful livelihood. Together, they started to dream of a positive future for the river and themselves. And little by little, they forged the dream into reality.

Over fifteen years later, I stepped foot on that same steel bridge towering over the pristine river. The lush jungle stood as a striking contrast between the steel of man and the strength and beauty of nature.

But where military fortification had once stood under heavy guard, tourists now stood, wearing colorful, casual summer clothes and flip-flops, licking ice cream, and taking selfies. Signs advertising restaurants and rafting adventures hung by the road.

Jules stood shirtless, kindly talking to tourists and directing his team of volunteers setting up a large stage and sound system. A giant hand-painted banner, ‘Samaná River Festival’, hung between two trees breathing with the wind. I saw it as a flag of hope as the human conflict waned but the battle to protect Colombia’s wild places began. Seeing the people who had come to sing, dance, chant, and speak on the importance of this watershed, I knew I was far from alone in this vision of hope and resilience.

Colombia’s natural treasures had become an environmental curse. Gold, exotic wood, minerals, fertile land, and huge rivers encased in deep mountain canyons had sparked a gold rush. Many people, guided by greed, could only see dollar signs in these natural treasures, resources ripe for the taking. And so the same story began again: a few people getting rich, while the natural world and local populations suffered. But on this day, Samaná was not alone in her struggle to live freely. She had Jules, and Jules had community. A movement years in the making was building momentum.

“Sa-ma-na, Sa-ma-na, Sa-ma-na,” The crowd’s chants rose to meet the jungle. When the crowd quieted, Jules praised the importance of the watershed, the beauty and treasure of this region, and warned of the struggles the river faced. He spoke to the vision, dream, and hope of creating the first protected river of Colombia. A line had been drawn in the sand and this was the hill that conservation and paddling communities of Colombia had chosen to stand and fight.

Their efforts had stopped one dam already, but a river like this is never free from threat. Mines big and small are springing up along the river, and in many places, arson rips apart the jungle to make room for cattle. The noble dream of the Samaná Fest and this movement is to create the first protected river in Colombia and to sew the soil from which other river protections and conservation can grow. A framework of conservation.

With this sentiment in our hearts, we moved through a week of celebration. Beautifully balanced between kayaking and community events, we raced, danced, sang, and conversed, grateful to be alive and part of the effort to protect the Samaná.

The highlight for paddlers was the first-ever whitewater marathon, a 42 km race through Samaná Canyon and the lower gorge. With qualifying races beforehand, 35 racers had the privilege of competing in one of the best-organized, longest, most difficult whitewater races on Earth. In a display of unity, national and international paddlers raced against each other through this deeply important and beautiful place.

That afternoon and evening, we celebrated, with marches, dances, and demonstrations by the local community and kids. As night neared, we danced onto the bridge over the Samaná. Salto Narices, the finish line of the race, glowed in the light of a rising moon.

The festival concluded with a huge community celebration in San Luis. Musicians from around Colombia sang songs attributed to the protection of the Samaná. A performance by Systema Solar in the main plaza of San Luis marked the end of the celebrations for the love, gratitude and protection of the Samaná River and her communities. And while this might have been the end of the celebrations, it was largely the beginning of the work to carry this momentum forward into lasting legal protections of the river and the next (7th annual!) Samaná Fest.

For anyone interested in supporting this movement please do yourself a favor and come enjoy one of the best whitewater festivals on Earth. Learn more here.

Editor’s Note: All photos courtesy of Samaná Fest.