Valle Nevado is nestled high in the mountains that rise right out of the Santiago’s high priced condo and luxury home neighborhood, Los Condes, on the eastern flank of the valley. We drive up a hair raising windy road that while paved is so narrow that during peak season traffic is only allowed one way; up until noon and down until midnight. The road tops out on a narrow ridge dropping away from both sides thousands of feet to what we named “cactus valley” below. The road down where it leaves the city is lined by cacti which drop away to barren rock and ice as the car climbs 2430m/8000ft up the switch-backs.
“Don’t ski down that slope to far or you’ll end up in cactus valley and never be heard from again,” we would joke.
The resort is an emblem of modern ski tourism. It has a completely self contained village and stays are sold in packages ranging from $100 to $400 per night per person. Prices included accommodation, lift tickets, breakfast and diner. As in any resort night life is busy and there are a variety of bars to linger at after dinner featuring live entertainment many nights of the week.
Erin and Greg took to the room on our first night to catch up on some much missed TV viewing and I toured the village meeting an Irish couple on their honeymoon. They were on the first ski trip of their lives and had neglected the powerful rays of the sun on their first day. Needless to say their faces were still recovering a week later from the blistering they’d received.
“Everyone calls us the creamies,” Sean commented in reference to the think sun and healing creams they needed to keep in constant application since the burning. The bar band played a review of Madonna songs in the background while we chatted about our lives over rounds of Crystal, a local cervesa (beer).
The terrain at Valle Nevado is huge and the lift access to the local peaks for backcountry touring is seemingly unlimited. Inbounds most of the runs are of moderate slope but short walks to the neighboring peaks can offer any extreme adventure an abundance of steep terrain. No one could cover the available back country in a two week visit. Helicopter rides are available from the village for around $150 per ride and longer flights, at higher prices, will take you deep into the range and bring you back to soak in the 100 person slope-side hot tub before your evening meal.
The most recent storm, probably the last of the year, came through a week before our arrival, but we were still able to find light windblown and unskied powder inside the area. The area has several surface lifts because of the high winds which often blow through this giant alpine steppe. From the top of the back poma, La Inca, we traversed out to neighboring bowls and threaded figure eights for three days.
It is not unlike skiing in the states in that there is extensive ski patrol and they chase you down the mountain at closing each day. Obviously, we found ourselves being the subject of scrutiny by these officials as we consistently tried to catch the last tacks on the hill.
In one race from the authorities I found a sweet deposit of deep wind blow champagne and laid my knee down slicing a half dozen turn before cutting into the cat track only to find the tips of my skis caught under the hard pack sheet rising into the slope from the track. It grabbed me firm and through me high side onto the hard-pack. Catching my breath I heard the patroller coming behind me. I had to get up so as to not risk my ticket for the next day. Collecting myself I sped away just as she crested the ridge behind me. Later that night I learned for the first time just what a broken rib feels like. Breathing suddenly became a vary conscious act and would stay that way for the next few weeks.
Saturday was the last day of our trip and with the help of a good dose of “I-be-broken” (ibuprofen) we had a nice day taking in this beautiful place and carving our last turns down it’s slopes.
“Another beautiful day in the Andes,” I exclaimed when we arrived at the summit lift and took in the glaciated peaks to the east and the tremendous drop to the Pacific to the west on that brilliant blue bird morning
Greg closed our trip leaving me deeply jealous, but unable to join with the condition of my rib cage. Erin and I took the car down the road to snow line and Greg took a summit to road ski that must have at least doubled the vertical drop of our tour at Portitllo and was lift accessible. The folks sledding by the road where we waited for him thrilled in watching his decent as much as we did. Carving his board over a huge open field and down through an open, but intimidating cliff line he slid up to the car with an epiphanal grin.
“I’m not even sure I’m in my body!” he exclaimed.
We dumped all our gear from the car and repacked to head to the airport where we would say our goodbyes. They took my ski gear back to North America where it will wait for me to arrive for the winter snows and I took an army duffle with a few belongings and headed to the bus station to catch a lift to Cordoba Argentina, back over Portillo Pass, to visit a friend I have there. He teaches business English to concrete manufactures and other folks. Erin, Greg and I knew that when we see each other again in the snows of the Cascades outside of Seattle we will only be able to make vague comparisons to our adventure here but the experience will live in all of our hearts and minds for the rest of our lives, or at least till we get back here to do it again.
In Santiago before saying goodbye we drove past a huge wholesale market on the North end of downtown. We pulled off and Erin and I walked through the market looking for some crafts for her to take home while Greg waited with the car. The market went on for blocks and was void of crafts, but rather stuffed with the abundant food in this breadbasket of the Americas. It left me feeling how rich and beautiful this country is. How much it has it’s own culture as it embraces that of the global economy. This winter as I buy Chilean tomatoes and avocados in my local grocery I will remember the pistes of the Andes and the wine of Los Andes and the cultural paradoxes of our world.