As we float down the Futaleufú River, elated by the Class IV and V rapids we’ve just run, I say to myself, “I get it.” I understand why people travel thousands of miles to be battered by 10-foot walls of roiling water and to shoot rapids so fast it feels like being dragged along by a cigarette boat. I get the bonds that are built during those wild rides and the ways they are cemented with barbecues on river beaches and singalongs led by guitar-strumming guides.