Day 1, Pucon, Volcan Villarica
Two months passed since I clicked into my bindings. As we peered up at Volcan Villarica, towering overhead, a mix of anticipation and exhilaration filled my body. I couldn’t believe I was skiing, it was September.
Most of the larger volcanoes in the region have ski resorts circling the base. At first, I admit, the idea of trodding through civilization on our way to the summit disgruntled me. But as soon as I got my first taste of Chilean ski culture, (no heated chair lift seats or fancy fur couches in the hot cocoa lodges), I realized these ski hills are just about as down to earth as it gets. Think New England in the 1970s, rope tows and denim. It was a great vibe.
As we plodded our way up, one skin length at a time, the excitement wore off and that familiar feeling of monotony came back to me. Climbing is long, arduous, quiet, there’s a conversation here or there, but it's mostly just your thoughts and the view; much needed mental space.
But my peace did not last; as we pushed beyond the ski lifts' upper edge, the slopes steepened and the snow transformed from soft and powdery to ice and rhyme. Here, every step counted, sliping was not an option. For good measure we stopped to put our ski crampons on.
Our guides gave us a quick self arresting tutorial, “if you slip, hold your ice ax this way, dig it into the slope like so, stop yourself before you get going fast, because by then it is too late.” The whole tutorial left my mom queasy just thinking about the being on terrain where we would need to use these newly learned skills.
Onward! As we climbed, the widening expanse below framed deep turquoise lakes and snow capped mountains for as far as the eye could see. Magic. Now it was Laura, Dad and I with Zeb.
There was a lot of uncertainty about whether we would reach the summit. As we ascended further, the surface conditions continued to deteriorate, it got to the point where the slope was so steep and icy, there was no way we would be skiing down. Clouds marched in and out, revealing and concealing the summit.
As someone who doesn’t like to leave a challenge incomplete (and endowed with a hearty case of summit fever), the idea of falling short unsettled me. I tried to reset my expectations, savor the process. We stashed our skis on a rime outcropping, covering them with Ice chunks in hopes they would not fly away. After strapping our crampons on, ice axes in hand, we climbed on.
Sometimes I don’t even care about the skiing, getting to the top. Spending time in the high alpine is a singular, special feeling. By then, the body is tired, we had been climbing for almost seven hours. But somehow, I also felt so invigorated, body and mind feel the same, in sync, a rarity. It is easy to underestimate how intense/challenging mountain climbing can be.
I always joke that mountaineers have to be bit delusional; able to look up at a mountain and imagine themselves at the top, but not think about all the pain and effort it will take to get there (such a mental exercise would surely prompt any prospective climber to freeze at the trailhead). It’s funny, with my dad, I really didn’t anticipate how hard our days would be, I figured his pace would make it easy for me. Not so. Pretty inspiring to see him crushing a 5500 foot day at 67.
When we neared the summit, I started getting excited, we could see lava smoke emanating from above. Billowing plumes of black and gray, wisped away by the wind (which luckily, was blowing away from us, vindicating us from breathing in the toxic fumes). I had never been on an active volcano before so naturally, I started wondering whether such proximity to volatile scalding hot lava was safe. Regardless, here we were, a few more steps couldn’t hurt. Staring into the crater, I started thinking about where that dark foreboding void led.
Sometimes summiting is the climactic moment of a ski adventure. Not today. Weather rolled in, it was well past 5, getting darker, and all that volcanic gas was really freaking me out! I was glad to be headed down. After 1000 feet of harrowing ice cramponing , we retrieved our skis and made our first few tentative turns, scraping and screeching against the jagged surface.
Luckily, the further we descended, the more snow conditions improved. And the less worried I became about us getting stranded in a storm or the night on the mountain’s upper reaches. Even with the sup-par conditions, 5000 foot ski runs never suck, by the end we were arcing turns with exuberance.
Day 2, Pucon, Volcan Quetripillan
The coffee here is terrible, that certainly made it harder to wake up. Especially when we looked outside to find rain and faced the prospect of spending all day getting drenched in soggy mountain snow. But joking around in broken Spanish with the baristas made it worth while. It took me about five tries to explain an americano, asking for “double shot” in spanish doesn’t quite translate for some reason.
Despite yesterday's seemingly well trodden locale, as we departed for our adventure this morning, I started to realize how remote and untraveled most mountains are around here. It took us 45 minutes bumping along a dilapidated dirt road, bypassing a locked gate by taking down a makeshift fence, crossing a rickety log bridge, and digging a parking space out of the snow to get to our trailhead.
Now on skis, soon we emerged from the woods, to find sage covered brushlands, foothills, and another towering volcano in the distance.
The whole scene (besides from the towering, occasionally lava spewing mountain) felt like we were in vagabonds on the run in some western. As we wound our way up into the foothills, arid landscapes transformed into bamboo undergrowth and fern laden foliage.
The long approaches (flat or gradual treks that must be made to get to the objective) made for less intense days, we weren’t spending as much time in extreme, life threatening terrain here. That left time for long chats to keep us entertained.
With Zeb and Tomi for company, this was not an issue. I could not help barraging them with questions about their countless treks to Ana Purna, Aconcagua, Denali. “Did you use oxygen,” “how long did it take,” “was it painful,” for hours. It is a miracle they put up with me.
About three hours in, we broke above treeline, revealing the daunting extent of the climb ahead. We were buoyed by an unpredicted break in the overcast conditions and softer, chalkier snow. Sun peaking through, we made our way into the white abyss. I wanted to charge to the summit.
In the city, work, studying, I am so efficiency focused. I try to make the most of every bit of time so I can “perform.” There’s an element of that lifestyle which requires and allows for total control. You plan out your days and you follow them without deviation or detour. Living in the city, except for the occasional late train, you can live in such a way where you don’t do anything, that departs from the plan.
Here, almost everything is out of my control. The weather, the conditions, the terrain, our speed. I am not used to this uncertainty. The resounding lesson: embrace it.
It was so special sharing the summit feeling with my parents.
These days I spend most of my time in the mountains without Mom and Dad. Still, they were the ones who raised me to love the alpine, to covet this lifestyle. Getting to watch them push through the journey and experience the elation of reaching the top is a golden reminder of why I go in the mountains in the first place.
It’s easy to get caught up in the extremes when I am with my friends, savoring pushing our limits. With Mom and Dad, I remember that these places are all about finding deep connections with the people and places around you.
The way down was a tribulation, the thick woods that made for a serene setting while hiking up turned into the world's tightest slalom course once we had gravity on our side. It was a miracle we all made it down in one piece.
Day 3, Pucon to Puyehue
Driving out of Pucon that morning, blaring sirens engulfed the town in alarm, supposedly warning of imminent danger from overshadowing Volcan Villarica. I expected people to panic, leave everything and make their escape. Not so. Life went on, business as usual. I was shocked by the nonchalance of Pucon’s people.
I asked Tomi about it, he explained that Chilean's attitude about volcanoes resembled the way people in NYC tune out sirens and traffic. These horns are the norm. Living here, one cannot live in constant fear. I cannot imagine.
Our drive to the next volcanic region was dotted with humble cow speckled farmlands, rolling hills, hay, little farm cabins; a jarring scene when then all the sudden off in the distance, a 9,000 ft volcano towers above everything. So unexpected.
We arrived at our basecamp for the next few days, Puyehue, too late for a ski that day (the trickiness of objectives here is they are all or nothing, not many “casual after work ski tours”).
Restless, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I could study but that felt sacrilegious given our gorgeous rainforest lodgings.
I used to be a runner; in highschool and early college, it was a cornerstone of my life, an essential component of my cross training for competitive nordic skiing. Then during my freshman year of college I was diagnosed with OCD lesions in my knee, a bone deformity which occasionally chips shards into my knee making it painful and unstable to move.
High impact activities like running were off the table. Luckily, I could still do most of what I loved: skiing, biking, surfing. Slowly I figured out a way to make things work. But there have always been inconveniences to these limitations. Biking and skiing are expensive, gear intensive and condition specific sports, unsuited for many environments and budgets.
There is humility in running. So much of my ski headspace is focused on the summit. Most runs have no destination, countryside, farmland, rainforest, babbling brook, roaring waterfall, they all have an equal place and value. One cannot help but admire the simplicity of the sport; virtue that overflows your consciousness. My knees are still bad, but the soft mossy forest floor pads my steps. I am a slow runner, for now.
I have loved speaking Spanish on this trip. It is crazy how fast it comes back (from middle school with Senior Gordon) and how satisfying it is to get it right. Someone once told me that people’s personalities change when they speak different languages. Attributable to two things, the character of the language and your own relationship with it. Spanish is more whimsical for me, because it has all these special endearments, but also because I often don’t grasp the significance of what I am saying, so I say more ridiculous things.
Day 4, Puyehue, Volcan Puyehue
Early start today; we had a long trek ahead of us. I was half asleep, head bumping the roll bar to the rhythm of another rickety dirt road. Before I knew it, Tomi was out of the truck, negotiating passage with a farmer, an old friend of his, complete with insurance terms in case our journey went south. Good thing we brought a local along.
It had been pouring all night making for especially slick, muddy roads; a distinct challenge for our rigs to scale as the road became windy and steep. The struggle did not last long; our truck entrenched itself in a mud trough, we’d have to hike, skis on back, the rest of the way.
The journey to Volcan Puyahue began in the jungle, it felt like we spent most of day in it. Our skis and boots felt like an unnecessary (and heavy) nuisance, how could we find use for such devices in this temperate Eden? All this spurred a lively debate about the maximum acceptable ski to hike time ratio, we decided it depended on the quality of skiing, but generally more than 2:1 was pushing it.
Every so often, a reprieve in the dense undergrowth would reveal the extent of our climb, 1500, 2300, 3200 feet higher provided an opening in the sky for us to spot more volcanoes. Suddenly, we found ourselves surrounded by snow, above treeline, in another volcanic expanse.
Channels and ravines slithered their way down the Puyehue’s broad shoulders, a grand, wide, steep rim crowned the top. The weather was just beginning to make itself known. We had no idea what was in store.
Each day, the chances of getting to the top are unknown. On most of my backcountry adventures, the main risk variable is avalanche danger. Huge snow slides are not much of a concern with ice covered slopes. Instead, we are grappling with unforgiving rhyme conditions on 30+ degree slopes near the summits and fickle weather.
This trip really hasn’t been about “skiing the activity” but “skiing the philosophy.” It is a way of travel on the less taken path, to go somewhere rugged. It is about having the conversations you don’t usually, asking the questions you have not yet pondered.
As we scaled the volcano’s flank, our exposure to the elements grew exponentially. Winds of 30 - 40 mph howled and pelted us with waves of snow and ice. Even with our “drafting” behind Zeb, the whole mission started to feel shaky. Walking into a white out is not exactly ideal conditions for navigating volcanic Cordera.
Not knowing whether you will summit forces a more process oriented mindset, the objective cannot be the major goal. Chile’s winters are shorter than Colorado, they get less snow, it is less cold, but everything is more volatile. There is always a chance of rain and wind, wind, wind.
Many passions in life start out glittery and glorious, loosing their luster over time. I have always expected my love of skiing to fade, largely due to days like today. Somehow, it never does. I always find new reasons to love it.
This environment’s intensity makes me forget about everything for a moment; stress, politics, money, romance, friends, the future. It’s just me and the trees, the snow and the rocks, sense of self changes completely; the need for more stimulation vanishes, these surroundings are enough.
We turned back several hundred feet from the summit, unable to see more than a few ski lengths in any direction. Wind blasted in our ears, loud like jet engines. I would have continued on. Not for the sake of touching the top; I was enjoying the blizzard, the craziness outside brought calm inside.
Zeb made the call, Laura and I agreed. Sometimes, it’s good to practice turning around right before the summit, especially in situations where it is not a necessity; a preparation to make the right call in more pressing situations.
Day 5, Volcan Casablanca, Puerto Veras
Travels with Mom and Dad are vacation and life is not bad; sleeping in, long dinners, nice wine. But after a while I am feeling ready to explore the mountains my way again, with more intensity, focus, discipline. The nice thing about singular objectives is that they focus your mind; no wandering and wondering about the things I’m not doing or don’t have. I try to console myself, admitting that this window would have been terrible timing for an intense trip, with the weather and snow conditions.
Zeb and Tomi have less desire to go out for big objectives when there is potential for bad weather. They are out in the mountains almost all year, with tons of time, they are willing to wait for perfect conditions. I don’t get to go out all the time, so I don’t have such a luxury. In this way, my current lifestyle means sacrificing my ability to safely do really big stuff in the backcountry. It's partially about having the skills, but also just about having the time. Anything big takes a lot of time. Aconcagua, for instance, takes 16 days.
With or without knowing it, the sport and destination you choose translates to a certain probability of success. Going to Chile to ski tour holds the possibility of huge rewards, major highs, but also potentially a mediocre trip if things don’t line up.
A running trip through the Dolomites on the other hand has lower variance, the highs are great but not as high, the lows are not nearly as low, weather and conditions will have less influence on the success of the trip; there will be fewer unmet expectations, more consistency.
Sometimes I go to the mountains to be intimidated. The weather intimidates me most, so dynamic, warm, cold, windy, cloudy, sunny, and sleeting, all within minutes, it is hard to predict anything, to have confidence in my decisions.
The barren volcanic landscape, windswept, no trees, lifeless, devoid of human scale, only lava rocks and snow, a white expanse, monstrosity of nothingness. Looking up at the Volcano's crown shrouded in clouds, I remember, you don’t go in for the views or the skiing, you go in to experience the elements and test yourself.
The human scale is lost on volcanoes, no reference points, distances go in and out of focus, landmarks look far away one moment, then you’re right there seconds later. It takes a while for the mind to adjust to this foreign landscape.
Today, we spent hours in the “white room” engulfed in clouds and mist, unable to see past the tips of our skis. We would not have known if we were walking off the edge. Vertigo. I kept stopping to look at the GPS on my phone; hundreds of meters from the top we had no idea which way to go, our objective was invisible.
Conditions go from clear to impossible to see in minutes, very disorienting. Same with the snow, it was never secure, alternating between rhyme, ice, powder, and hard pack every few meters.
Nothing makes me feel small like skiing across a mile wide volcanic crater. The experience brought me wild swings in emotions, confidence, and comfort. Here, I feel more mentally volatile. But this challenge distinguishes mountaineering from normal life where my mind is more consistent and predictable.
It takes two or three hours just to get mentally adjusted to being in a place like this, to fully immerse. Accepting the realities of a place, coming to terms with its benefits and limitations is not an acute exercise.
Physical challenges are more commonly associated with mountaineering, and when mental hurdles are factored into the equation, they are usually associated with grueling physical acts. In practice, some of my most pressing days in the mountains are ones with little physical strain; long days out give ample space and time for the mind to amble.
There is a switch moment on most days, when skiing goes from conversational to serious. Suddenly every action counts, focus is paramount. In retrospect, the day looks clear, its trajectory obvious, that the decisions that day were good and safe. But in the moment it does not always feel that way.
We put skis on our backs, then the wind came, they were like sails. At times we had to stop; gusts so strong, we had to anchor down. This stuff is hard to ski because the powder makes me want to open things up, relax, but seconds later, I'm sliding out of control, so it’s not possible.
Day 6,Volcan Orsorno, Refugio Teskiclub
Today we said farewell to Mom, Dad, and Tomi. Now it was just Laura, Zeb and I. We took off for Teskiclub at the base of our last and most grand objective, Volcan Orsorno, in a blizzard again. Swapping our swanky resort digs in puerto Veras for a quaint log hut filled with college kids on vacation from Santiago. I was not complaining. We still weren’t roughing it.
Missing out is guaranteed on any trip; Bariloche, Aconcagua, Portillo. There is better snow inland,where the climate is colder, drier, continental. We opted for the warmer, wetter, more volatile maritime environment instead; now trying not to pinch myself watching friends and pros plowing through pillows of pow while we screech our way down volcanic ice fields.
Mom chided me with the words of guru Baba Ram Das, “be here now.” Sure, our experience lacked the poofy elegance, but we were getting a quintessential Andean welcome of our own. This trip was never about the turns.
Now we were skinning past old school chairlifts, lodges from the 80s. It feels like going into a time machine. Same goes for pretty much everyone out there; rarely clad in fancy carbon skis, boots and GoreTex gear. We spotted a healthy portion of denim and bamboo poles. Plenty of Snowshoes too.
The vibe reminds me of New England. You don’t need thousands of dollars to get on the slopes, scraping it together is the status quo. Who cares anyway, as the old ski bum adage goes, tools not jewels.
As we switch back our way upwards, occasionally slipping on a hidden ice bulge, I contemplate the guide versus guided mindset; leading versus following. Here, Laura and I plod along in Zeb’s footsteps. Ofcourse, we have our own thoughts on the situation, our decision making, but they are secondary. We capitulate to Zeb’s directives.
Over the last few years, I have co-led many of my own trips in the backcountry, expeditions where my decisions often go unchallenged. It is interesting comparing that to now, especially considering how often my idea for the right course of action deviates from Zeb’s.
There’s an actuarial table in the “bible” of backcountry safety books, Staying Alive in Avalanche Terrain. A backcountry skier who makes the right decisions 99% of the time will most likely have a catastrophic accident within years. It takes 99.99% accuracy to live a long life traveling in the mountains.
In my mountaineering journey, I am still making wrong decisions. This is how growth happens. Hopefully, I can constrain these mis steps to low consequence environments. As I follow Zeb, I am reminded of the importance of surrounding oneself with teachers and masters. The learning never stops.
Up and up we went, the weather deteriorated more and more. Cold ice pelted the raw skin on our faces. It was time to turn around. One cannot let the weather affect mood too much here, it can go days without sun.
Rain, freezing ice and snow are constants here in southern Chile. I had always heard Patagonia was infamous for its weather, but you do not internalize the reality until you go days without seeing past your skis.
Skiing in these conditions is whimsical, a great leveler, no one is carving aggressive turns, even our Mountain Guide looked like he was just learning his french fries and pizza. There is not much you can do when your skis feel like velcro on even the steepest snow. Sliding down the mountains, just people doing their silly human thing. No esta verano aqui.
Day 7,Volcan Orsorno, Puerto Varas
Raining, snowing, zero visibility. But more often than not, you step out into the fray out because you are there, it’s at least worth a try. And often you are also pleasantly surprised by what is out there.
The last day of the trip, we again set our sights on one of Chile’s most beautiful Volcanoes, Orsorno. Our second try. The night before we stayed in a refugio at the base, watching snow pelt the rustic cabin and its rugged lava encrusted surroundings. Our hope was that the fresh dressing would cover up days of rain ice which had encrusted the mountain's reaches, making climbing treacherous and skiing virtually impossible.
The morning weather was variable, the mountain was teasing and goading us with glimpses of blue sky and of its ragged upper reaches, only to resubmerge everything in thick cloud cover. Nevertheless, we were here so we were going. The first 1500 feet of our route traced an old ski area, following the lift line made for easy route finding in the soupy haze.
Upon reaching the resort’s limits, we sought shelter from the blizzard in the seemingly abandoned upper ski patrol hut, there we waited and hoped for a weather window to continue our ascent. The worry was that a short lived slice of blue sky would entice us onto the glacier above only to cake us in clouds, leaving the task of crevice avoidance up to GPS and sheer luck, a risk we were not willing to take.
We entertained ourselves in the cabin with chocolate and stories, peeking out every so often in hopes of finding a clear sunny sky; repeatedly met with blizzard-like conditions and soupy clouds, nothing good. Despite countless jumps, hops and arm swings, the longer we waited, the colder we got, we knew our time to turn around was coming quickly, but none of us wanted to call it quits, knowing it was probably all of our last chance to venture into the high alpine for many months. Eventually we acknowledged our fate, begrudgingly kicking off the ice that had formed on our skis and clicking in for the ski down.
On a trip with fewer big objectives and intense experiences than I’d hoped for, I expected this moment, a chance for one last major high, to hit low hard. And while I was disappointed, a certain familiar feeling also buoyed me.
In the previous days, I’d spent hours and hours talking to Zeb and Tomi, two highly accomplished mountaineers about their expeditions up Everest, Denali, and Aconcagua, among many others. More often than not, their tales told of long days waiting in camp and getting turned around. They needed to forage for an unbending patience and persistence, as their fortunes sowed by fickle weather and unpredictable mountain conditions.
For a mountaineer, patience and humility are just as important as technical largesse, physical fitness, or mental grit. No trip is going to be what you want it to be; most will bear profound lessons, usually unanticipated and underrated. For every summit day, a mountaineer endures two or three sitting, scouting, probing, and waiting, accompanied by a much more challenging mental game than the physical act of getting to the top.
The gravity of my world, my job, my life, my personality pushes me to always be in a rush, Impatience in my journey to the summit. but to stay alive for long pursuing a life in the mountains, one cannot be in a rush. Embracing the reality of each moment, and your lack of control over turning your desires into that reality at any given time is daunting; but finding acceptance for whatever may come, that is the freest feeling the mountains hold.