'I hope I can conquer the fear!"

 

We met Alex on the first day of ski classes. The protocol called for everyone to ski down a few hundred yards, to allow the ski instructors to place you in the appropriate class. Alex, believing he was an 'Avanzado', made two quasi-drunken looping turns then abandoned ship and barrelled down the rest of the slope at great speed and with little regard for human life. Realizing the talent that they had, the ski instructors unanimously voted to place Alex in 'La Clase de Torpes'. Somewhat demoralized, he sulked to his selected spot, subconsciously vowing to proove everyone wrong, including Dad who once blatantly refused to get on the Condor Va et Vient lift with him because, as he so eloquently stated, "That kid sucks! He's a terrible skier!" Pity the young banker from São Paulo.

A few days had passed when I had the chance to reconnect with Alex on the La Plateau ski lift. Along with Gareth, the Irish member of our ski class, we began chatting about how we would like to end the day as it was getting rather late. Having done Garganta with Dad earlier in the day, I implored the two of them to join me for a final run down the toughest slope on the mountain. I was met with some hesitancy by both parties, but having skiied with Gareth for a few days I was sure that he could take the challenge head on. Alex was a different story.

'You think you can do this Alex?'
'Eh, I don't know.'
'Are you any good?'
'I am worse than you.'
'Great! Let's do it!'

Now in hindsight, perhaps I shouldn't have allowed him to come with us. Garreth even questioned whether or not this was a good idea but I assured both of them that the sun had been beating down on the choppy snow and the surface would be softer and more forgiving at this time of day.

Making our way to the top of the run should have given me some insight that perhaps this was not a great idea. Besides side-slipping on the way to the run and stating that he had taken a nasty spill earlier on 'El Conejito', Alex was beginning to shake; being about 50 degrees I realized that this young lad was not cold.

Upon reaching the top of the run I stopped and waited for the two of them to make their way down. When Alex finally showed up he resembled a weak-kneed teenager on a first date. I asked him if he was up to the challenge. Telling him that his very attractive girlfriend would be proud of him and that he could tell everyone back in São Paulo that he had conquered a double-black diamond. He told me that his girlfriend hated the fact that he skiied terrain outside of his abilities and that his best friend was the number-two ranked skier in Brazil (Ed. note: which is probably the equivalent of being the number-two ranked mountain climber in Kansas). I told him that this should be a big moment for him, that he should view this as a challenge that he would look back on and be proud of.

Alex realized that there was only one way down the mountain and that he would have to muster the balls to take this slope head on. I asked him 'Can you do this?'. With his tanned Brazillian visage now reduced to a paper white he looked at me and said with great care "I hope I can conquer the fear!"

Well, he managed to conquer the fear and made his way down the slope, albeit at the speed of syrup. At the bottom of the slope he thanked me for waiting for him and told me candidly that he had never been so scared in his life. I apologized for putting him through such an ordeal to which he replied "Don't worry about it. Wait 'till my girlfriend hears that I conquered Garganta!" 

Powdery Heaven

With twelve inches of fresh powder awaiting us, I convinced Dad to take a chance on the aforementioned 'Garganta'. After tackling it with great ease but questionable speed I further implored him to consider taking a run down the right side of the mountain. While the snow there was untouched it appeared to have a manageable gradient and a more than forgiving surface were either of us to fall.

We made it down once with glee, smiles stretching across our faces. We made it down again...and again...and again. It was tremendous. By the fifth or sixth time I began to feel more comfortable with the feeling of floating on top of powder and I kindly asked Dad if he would take a video of me slicing through the surface. As you can see from the video below, the first 8 seconds of elation were followed by 8 seconds of discombobulation.



Having taken a rather nasty spill I remained still for about half a minute in an effort to regain what little composure I may have had. I climbed the 20 feet uphill needed to fetch my ski when it occured to me that I should have been wearing powder cords. Dad sideslipped down from the top of the run, lest he make himself out to be a bigger fool than me, and began helping me look for my ski which had taken a sub-surface journey to some Godforsaken place under the powdery face.

It had never occured to me that the only way to look for a lost ski in this scenario is to take another ski, assuming you have one, and to take stabs into the surface every 2 or 3 inches with the goal of finding the lost ski via impalement. This had to be the dumbest idea I had come across in some time and so I quickly told Dad that this stabbing the snow business wasn't working and that I would go down to the bottom of the run and ask if anyone had a metal detector while he would stay up at the crash site continuing his fruitless efforts of plunging the business end of his ski into the snow.

This request was met with immediate consternation on Dad's part prompting the inevitable, "If you would only ski in control this wouldn't happen!" comment. Of course this did nothing to asuage my feelings and so I snapped back not realizing that the owner of the resort, along with the help of a ski patrolman, a ski instructor and some fellow dressed in a blue jacket, had taken up the task of looking for my ski as well. Granted I shouldn't have lost my temper with Dad but if you're wearing six layers of ski equipment while hiking up and down some powdery ski slope and the sun has managed to show up, my guess is that you too would be a little on edge (which, coincidentally, is where my skis should have been to avoid this problem in the first place.)

Well, things were going pretty badly. The ski patrolmen and ski instructor were hinting that the rental skis here weren't that bad and I had taken on the task of kicking random places on the hill with my ski boot; I was begining to lose hope. Out of nowhere Mr. Purcell, the aforementioned owner of the resort, came down from above, holding a ski and asking me "Is this what you were looking for?"

"Oh no," I said, "I was looking for a contact lens but thanks for finding my ski." Obviously I didn't say that; actually I couldn't have been more grateful to the man for helping me out. While it may not have seemed like such a big deal to him, I can tell you that I was truly impressed with his efforts. Here is a man of about 70 skiing on one of the great days of the year and he goes out of his way to help a guest, of which he has 450, dig himself out of a crash and help find his ski.

By chance during breakfast we were invited by Mr. Purcell to have dinner with him this evening. While he may not have remembered me from earlier in the day, I can assure you that I will let my thanks be known when we get together to dine.

Donde esta Lopez? La venta de garaje señor!

As we were waking up yesterday morning, Dad and I came to notice a rather strange scene taking place outside the window of our room. About to board the bunny hill Poma lift were roughly 40 soldiers of the Chilean Army. Apparently their mountain division is stationed right down the road from the hotel and they use the resort to practice their winter-oriented tactical maneuvers. What tactical maneuvers you may ask? Well we're not quite sure.

It seems that the majority of the men have spent more time in the heat of battle than they have on snow. If you haven't been reading up on your Chilean war history, the last time Las Rojas were engaged in any sort of millitary campaign was during the War of the Pacific when they took on mighty Peru and Bolivia. Seeing as that took place nearly 130 years ago you can only imagine how deft Private Lopez and Corporal Suarez are on skis. The puzzled faces of the men, who were clearly out of their element (whatver that may be), came to resemble the same look you might expect on the face of a confused Aborigine who had just been hit with a snowball. Watching their trip down the mountain was a lot like being at an orthodox Bar Mitzvah: painful, slow and unintentionally hillarious. The men would slither down the hill in anatomically impossible positions while creating quite a stir amongst the others on the bunny hill, many of whom apparently took great pride in the fact that they were far better skiers than the members of the Chilean Army's not-so-elite ski division.

What only added to the comedy were the silly outfits the men were wearing. Not the standard-issue Baghdad tan, beige and brown camoflauge or even the logical choice of the Soviet-era white, gray and black ensemble. No, the Chilean Army's ski division prefers to wear the Vietnam style green, black and brown fatigues which doesn't exacly mesh with the natural surroundings. While this may conote a more standard millitary presence, it manages to promote the complete antithesis of its job which is to allow its wearer to blend in with its environment. I haven't seen a tree (let alone a jungle) since we took off from Miami so that either there was a mix up at the uniform supply company or the elite Chilean jungle commandos are parading around the Atacama desert wearing winter boots, white parkas and ski goggles.

The final question I had was the exact nature of their business on the ski mountain. I haven't seen skis used in battle since the opening scene of the 'The Spy Who Loved Me' when James Bond, played by Roger Moore, deftly escaped his enemies on skis by launching himself off of a cliff. But what is the point? Is this some secret weapon the Chileans plan on using to stage a campaign of alpine terror against neighboring Argentina? Perhaps Chile plans on using their army skiers to demonstrate their capabilities as a very skinny and often overlooked country? Perhaps they serve the same purpose as the Blue Angels; constantly performing infront of dumbfounded civillians who think to themselves "Hey, I can look like an idiot and sideslip down a mountain too!"? Whatever the case may be both Dad and I find it terribly humourous and have decided that if we were Chilean tax payers there would have to be some explaining to do.

Day 2: Is it hot in here or is it just me?

Things are getting quite warm here in Chile. It must have been about 45 degrees by the time Dad and I got off the mountain. Of course Dad went in earlier than me because they had a 2 for 1 deal on Geritol in the clinic downstairs.

I have never skied in such a spectacular (and barren) landscape. Picture skiing on Mars but with snow, spanish and plenty of very attractive South American women. So far Dad has managed to keep up which has been a great joy for me. I have pointed out some rather steep chutes that I would like to take once my legs stop feeling like Jello but I have often been met with a stern "No way!" from the elder statesman of our group.

We'll see how it goes as the week progresses but I have been enjoying myself tremendously thus far.

Day 1: Bienvenidos a Portillo

Chile is a remarkably beautiful country. The flight coming in was painless ( I slept the whole way through...almost) and Santiago airport was a welcome destination to signal the begining of the trip. Coming from a warm climate to a rather cool one is a new experience for me but it was certainly pleasant. Of course Dad made what I expect to be 728 "It's chilly in Chile." comments.

Our driver, Christian, could not have been more accomodating. He exuded a particular Chilean charm that I have come to notice from the staff here at the hotel. So fond of his home country was he that he even treated us to a DVD about the history and culture of Chile. While it may have been about 20 minutes too long it was a nice glimpse into the happenings of this very narrow and skinny country. The drive itself was stunning. Passing mineral streams, little shantys and a few too many hairpin turns. Apparently the Chilean government is rather strict about allowing large trucks to use the Portillo Pass which was evident on our way up some of the switchbacks when no less than 25 trucks were parked on the side of the road just waiting for the OK to continue their respective journies.

The Hotel Portillo actually resembles a cruise ship that is about 1,000 miles off course. It is this enormous yellow slab parked in the middle of an Andean preserve and is rather funny looking at first glance. Walking into the hotel reminded me a lot of walking into the Allalin chalet in Zermatt. It exudes European charm and hospitality while staying true to its South American roots which is best displayed by the laissez faire attitude toward customer service. Dad, ever the keen eye in this department, made almost routine comments regarding the performance of the young fellow at the check-in desk.

Arriving at the hotel at 10 am and not being able to get into our room until 2 allowed us to take this whole rather unique experience in. Of course Dad made it a point to immediately get in touch with the woman who runs the place because of her status as a mutual friend and a Harvard Business School grad. While he seemed to think that we were 'in' I got the sense that we would not be seeing much of her probably because she was 0/8 in getting my name right (I believe we left it off that my name was 'Rich').

Watching England lose on penalties to Portugal was thoroughly depressing but watching the Brazil versus France game with roughly 200 native Brazillians was tremendous moment. Despite the loss, it was readilly apparent that their love of the Joga Bonito thoroughly surpasses any sport that Americans believe they are passionate about. Imagine Red Sox nation but with an actual nation behind it. By the end of the game, which Brazil lost 1-0, I witnesses a staggering number of children crying, and a few openly bawling, at the fact that their beloved team had not made it through to the next stage. The cheers for the substitutions, the cries for players to see the open men, it was no-holds barred support.

That about wraps up day one here in Portillo. Tomorrow Dad and I hit the slopes and while we could use a few more inches (ehem...centemeters) of the white stuff, I have no doubt that this will turn out to be a great trip.