I have to be honest. I was nervous. Travelling 8000 miles to a side of the world I’d never seen before as your first solo travel trip was daunting. Down the spine of the Andes, I’d skirt dodgy taxi drivers, wild dogs, and earthquakes. All in the hunt for snow.
A murder story and a pat on the back
After a fifteen-hour flight from London, I touched down in Santiago at sunrise. With four hours to kill before my bus, I didn’t want to squat in the city with three huge bags. Taxi drivers threw themselves at me while I planned my next move, and that was where Maurice entered the mix.
Short, fat and in a suit, he spoke perfect English and offered me a ride into town. One hour in, I’d already got in a stranger’s car. Nice one Elliot. I had no idea if it was free, but as I jimmied the parking barrier up to save him the ticket, I got a picture of what kind of character we were dealing with.
We drove through Santiago’s skidrow, bouncing to Cypress Hill’s ‘Insane in the membrane’, stopping at armed gas stations and down streets not even Google Maps dared photograph. Closer to Stanigo central, the morning mist lifted, and the mountains appeared towering above the skyline.
As we rounded the bus station, he left me with a parting note not to tell anyone it was my first time in South America, a murder story, and a pat on the back. I’d been here six hours.
Hatchbacks stocked with pumpkins and weed
The bus system is top. With hundreds running every hour of the day, you can travel the length of the country for as little as twenty quid. Kitted with TVs, two decks, and recliner seats, it’s an armchair tourist’s dream as you pass through authentic Chilean towns with the Andes as a backdrop.
My lack of driving license made it tricky to get into the mountains. Buses run north to south but rarely east to west. Still, with the help of Google Translate, I’d haggled a ride. Sebastian met me in Chillan with a beat-up army green Nissan Pathfinder. No matter how fast we went, the speed dial bobbed at 40mph, and the steering consistently shook the feeling out of his hands.
Once I reached Las Trancas, I opted for the thumb-on-the-side-of-the-road method. Unless you stayed at the resort, where a snow train powered by a milk van would ferry you about, hitchhiking was the way to go.
I caught rides in everything from jacked-up pickups to tiny hatchbacks stocked with pumpkins and weed — no bother at the police checkpoint. I rarely waited longer than ten minutes and met nomads, entrepreneurs and mountain locals daily this way.
Life on the mountain
Nevados de Chillan pinches itself at the top of a valley flanked by forest and two volcanoes. You can see the Volcan Chillan continually from over two hours drive away. Often active, regular tremors reminded you of its power.
The first day of skiing was picture-perfect. Bolt blue sky and fresh snow, pro teams charged around with Swiss and Italians filling the lifts. By the second day, I was going for volcanos. Partnered with a snowboarder from Washington, we went head-first into screaming winds, eventually beaten back, only to admire a landscape sculpted by rivers of prehistoric lava. Unforgettable.
The weather pulled in over the following days, closing most of the resort. Gaps opened up, and with a crew from Montana, we cleared up pockets of fresh pow. We hunted for natural hot springs deep in the mountains, but with tired legs and no visibility, I left them for an adventure. I’m glad to say they succeeded.
I was lucky enough to cut some laps with senior shredders of the resort. Local business owners, ski guides, and parents, we laid down run after run through the volcanic terrain park, revealing a haul of secret lines.
We stopped for lunch, putting away about fifty empanadas while others from our group left to run community-based ski schools — real local legends. My buddy and I pushed for more volcanos in the late afternoon, racing back as the sunset tore a line of fire across the horizon.
I spent my last few days with undercover crushers from California. Racing through stiff, fast snow, we shared stories of future and past trips through the Andes. It was a shame I couldn’t stay for more.
The skiing is tough here. Conditions vary from turn to turn so you’ve really got to want it. It’s why everyone who skis here genuinely loves it.
Fresh sea bass, tango and yoga.
The base of operations was the Onai hostel. An oasis in the mountains, it’s where my trip was defined. Fresh sea bass, tango, yoga – There’s always something going on. Owned by the legendary Chopo Diaz, it’s home to hundreds of skiers throughout the season and where I met almost every partner.
Close to bars and bodegas, getting there isn’t for the faint of heart. Heavy snowfall turned the road into a minefield of ocean-sized puddles and potholes capable of crippling a tank. So bring sensible footwear. Regardless, I’m pressed to think of a hub for skiing that can top this.
What’s next?
Skiing in South America was a three-year mission that paid off. Driven by friendship and the ever-burning desire for ‘that’ feeling of sliding down mountains, it’s a pilgrimage every skier should make. My only hanging question – when will I be back?