The Haney Brothers Take South America

I haven't gotten to see my family since I departed from Mexico for the Galapagos 6 months (and 6000 nautical miles) ago.  So when my brother proposed that he come down for a month to ski pow, explore Patagonia, and eat as much beef as possible, I agreed immediately.  

I had finally run out of time on my Chilean visa, so Porter and I planned to meet up in Bariloche, Argentina – a little mountain town known for its pow, its mountains, and its parties.  I did my best to dry out the Rascal after the previous few days of exceptional rain and storms, tucked her in a sheltered, guarded marina near Puerto Montt and hopped on a bus for the border. 

Bariloche isn't very far as the crow flies, but the road makes a lot of switch backs to get up over the Andes, so it takes a while to get there and by the time I pulled into town, stoke was at an all-time high!  Our reunion was joyous and we wasted no time getting down to business.

What are you eating, Port?

After a long day of travel, the argentine specialties (ribeyes and cab) were just what each of us needed, and we drifted off into a wine and beef induced slumber until the next morning.  We awoke to an overcast day with rain down in Bariloche, but snow forecasted for the high country.  We boarded a very crowded bus and high tailed our way up to the ski area - we got to the lift ticket window in a driving rain storm and were informed that it was snowing TOO HARD for them to open the lifts and we should return tomorrow.  Soaked, bummed, and thirsty we return to Bariloche and sampled just about every *artesanal* beer the local breweries had to offer.

The next morning dawned much the same as the previous, but with a bit more chill in the air.  It was unclear if the ski area would open today but there were many more people at the bus station with skis.  The  busses up to the ski area are few and far between, so you really have to pack yourself in.  Boarding the bus was a much different experience then the day before - 80's power-ballads and techno mashups piped into the bus's extra large speakers helped to provide some levity to the sardine can vibe and before we knew it, we were in a pow-surrounded mobile dance party.  Discotecs are big in Bariloche - so we decided this particular bus ought to be rechristened the 'Buscotec'!  When we got to the ski area we knew we were in for a treat.  The chair lifts were running, most of the locals had their butt sleds out and we were some of the only people heading up the mountain with skis.

We hopped on the lift and couldn't see a goddamn thing, but it was clear from numerous hoots and hollers echoing around inside the clouds that there was pow to be skied.  I've been skiing since I was two years old, and since then, I've hardly missed a month, much less a whole season.  The voyage of the Rascal, however, required sailing through the tropics during the north American winter, and I didn't make a single turn last year.  Such a blasphemy tore at the very fabric of my being and by the time I hopped off the lift, I was ready to explode with excitement.  My legs were vibrating with tens of thousands of missed turns and my beard was quivering with hundreds of anticipated face shots.  

I stepped off the lift and we made a bee line for the side of the slope.  It was soft and fresh and fantastic and we let out a thousand hoots and hollers of our own as we sliced and diced our way down the mountain.  Back in the saddle again!

The visibility was still really terrible, but we could occasionally catch the aroma of meat roasting from one of the mid-mountain lodges and restaurants.  In fact, that was just about the only way we could find our way back to the chairlift - navigating by steak scent!  I had a moment in the white-out when I felt like I'd found my way to the perfect time and place.  "I've been training my entire life to ski by the scent of roasting beef!" I thought.  "I finally made it."

Eventually the clouds cleared out and we ended up with half of a glorious blue bird pow day.

Finally skiing!

Deep enough to hide the lower half of a Porter Haney

It happened to be Argentina's Independence day, and flags were waving everywhere.

It's customary to fly the flag of the nation you're sailing through. I reckon the same rules ought to apply to schussing.

We met a kindred spirit from Colorado and did some touring as the afternoon progressed.  Views were spectacular and you could see the lake sparkling in the sunshine thousands of feet below.

It was a hell of a day and we topped it off with even more delicious Argentine food.  

There was clear weather predicted for several days, so we decided it would be a good time to venture on up to a backcountry hut in a valley close to the ski area called Refugio Frey.  There is a big network of "refugios" in the mountains around Bariloche, but only Frey has services (food, drinks, etc) available during the winter.  It takes about four hours to get up there and the hike in was gorgeous.

We made fast friends with the locals.

Porter's backcountry kit: slippery sneakers [check], nerdy poncho [check], world's stinkiest ski boot liners [double-check]!

You start by traversing along the base of the mountains and eventually you turn up valley and start gaining more elevation.  The cold, clear night before had built an incredible layer of needle ice (some of it 2-3 inches long) that was immensely satisfying to crunch through as we hiked up.  

We made it to the hut shortly before sunset and were treated to a glorious sunset and a hot, delicious dinner.  

Thus began four days of perfect weather, great eating & drinking, and plenty of steep pow skiing.  Frey is situated right next to a frozen lake at the foot of a valley, surrounded by tall spires and tight chutes.  It's a world-renowned rock climbing destination, and we decided it wasn't half bad for skiing either.

It only costs about $40 bucks a night to stay there with breakfast, lunch, and dinner included.  Even the beer and wine (that somebody had to carry 10km in there!) was pretty damn reasonable, and Porter and I spent lots of relaxing afternoons staring up at the mountains, drinking a nice bottle of Malbec, and battling it out over the cribbage board.  

The guys that were working at the hut were very cool and helpful in pointing out lines and chatting about the snow conditions.  We tried to earn our keep by setting steep skin tracks up the chutes for the handful of other people that were skiing up there. 

THE SWITCHBACKS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES!!!

We found light, dry powder high up in the shade of the chutes and sunny, creamy pow down on the aprons.

Even the food was delectable, and the guys running the hut cooked everything from hand-made gnocchi to pizzas to (my personal favorite) steak and onions!

It was a magical couple of days and I won't soon forget them.  I'm definitely hoping to get back someday soon!

On our last night there (we probably would've stayed longer, but we had run out of Argentine pesos), the wind piped up and the clouds moved in.  The long slog out was tangled with chaparral bushes and snow-laden trees bent over the trail.  It was a serious slog - anyone that knows my brother knows he absolutely detests wet clothes.  He brings a change of shirt literally every time he skis.  But, by the time we got back to the trailhead he was walking straight through rivers, ski boots and all.  There was simply no way to get wetter than we already were.  There was only one possible cure for such abuse - a couple of cold Isenbecks and a huge cheese fondue dinner.   

Hot dogs in cheese fondue? Why not?

Porter and I felt like we had really gotten the best of Bariloche, so we decided it was time to branch out and do a little more exploring.  The next morning, we hopped on the bus back to Puerto Montt and spent a few days checking on the Rascal (she was just fine, thanks), exploring my favorite haunts, and getting some work done.  I introduced him to some glorious Chilean delicacies like pichanga, churrasco, and the lakes district's best pisco sours.  We even managed to find him a top-notch hand made wool sweater from an old woman in a stall on the side of the road.  

Porter's first Chilean sandwich

With our bellies full, some work accomplished, and a new appreciation for just how glorious pichanga is, we decided it was time to start chasing pow again.  The process of renting a car took nearly an entire day (two different companies bailed on reservations), and eventually we found the last rental car available in Puerto Montt - a Toyota Yaris being rented from a wooden shack in the middle of a dirt parking lot.  We gave it a quick inspection, deemed it a worthy steed for our endeavor (haha!) and pointed her north.  

Porter turned into my chauffeur when we couldn't get the rear seats to fold down for our skis!

Pucon is another picturesque little tourist town beside a lake and it has an active volcano (Volcan Villarica) above it.  There is normally a ski area on the flanks of Villarica, but due to the volcanic activity (you could see the orange glow at night!), it is shut down this season.  We figured we could just do some touring on it, but with all of the snow that had fallen in the previous few days, the road was unplowed, which meant several hours of skinning just to get to the skiable part.  We passed several trucks trying to make the ascent up the unplowed road with chains, but their attempt was futile and they all ended up getting stuck before long.  

We eventually realized that our own attempt was futile as well (no visibility, miles left to go, extra gloppy snow, not nearly enough beers, (and horror of horror for Porter, a wet t-shirt)), and decided to retire to an afternoon of partaking in other volcanic delights - the hot springs!

After a couple of hours (and a couple of beers) in the hot springs, it was clear that we'd made the right choice and we started thinking about our next move.  The weather was expected to clear again and we'd heard about another ski area a couple hours to the north (that was actually open) situated on a volcano.  We knew we'd have to get up early to make it there for the next day, but we didn't want to waste a good window and we pulled out of Pucon at 6 the next morning (sunrise isn't until 9 down here, haha!).  The Yaris protested a bit, but Porter navigated through the early morning hours (and through a fierce hangover) while I struggled to stay awake in the co-pilot's seat.  Eventually his driving stamina was all tapped out and we traded places.  For the first time in more than 6 months, I was behind the wheel of a car, and we didn't realize it at the time, but a formidable task was ahead of us.  

Snowbanks started to form along the side of the road.  The Yaris's headlights peeked at them and her nearly-bald summer tires squeaked with fright.  We began to gain more elevation and the snowbanks grew higher with patches of snowpack on the road.  Porter and I looked at each other and silently wondered if the Yaris was capable of going the distance.  

With a half dozen miles left to go, we turned up the road to the ski area and found ourselves in a winter wonderland.  Dawn was just starting to break and there was only one thing to do - keep our momentum up, hope nobody was coming the opposite direction on the ice packed road, and pray that the Yaris didn't lose her tenuous grip.  Ullr must've been watching, because we were granted safe passage all the way to the parking lot.  Bewildered lifties and four wheel drive jeeps with chains stared at the three of us as we pulled in.  The Yaris beamed with pride.   It was an auspicious start to what would be a tremendous ski day.  

The ski area wasn't very crowded and we made mellow pow laps as they slowly opened lifts higher and higher on the mountain.  

Eventually the uppermost lift opened up and we decided it might be a good idea to try and summit the volcano.  We neglected to bring crampons, but the snow was fairly stable and we picked our way along the ridgeline until we made it to the rim of the caldera.  And when I say picked, what I really mean is a combination of skinning, boot packing, and Porter's carefully honed technique of side stepping with skis on (I don't subscribe to this method, but Porter managed to utilize it for hundreds of vertical feet).  It was a very clear day and you could see to Argentina on one side and nearly to the Pacific on the other.

The descent ended up being 5,000 vertical feet of perfectly wind-buffed powder and it was one of the most delightful ski runs I've ever had.  My goal of sailing to Chile to ski volcanos was officially checked off!

A big warmup was predicted for the next few days and most of the volcanos and ski areas were expecting rain, so Porter and I decided to work our way back south along the coastline.  There were lots of cool beaches and fishing towns along the way and we enjoyed meeting folks, browsing fish markets, and soaking up the relaxed pace of the Chilean coast.  We even treated the Yaris to a few boat rides - the cable-operated single-car ferries were top notch!

Porter lost a lot of cribbage games during that stretch of time, but he kept a good attitude about it and as our time drew to a close, he even managed to skunk me once or twice.  

All-in-all, it was a glorious three weeks of gallivanting and bonding with a my big brother.  The time had come to take things up a notch, however, with a bus ride up to Santiago to meet our parents for another week and a half of hot springs, glaciers, wine tours, beach days, and (believe it or not!) pitchers of pisco sours!  Stay tuned for the next chapter!