SKI ARPA: Lost and Found at Chile’s hidden cat operation

Our driver thinks we’re lost. The round, jovial Chilean pulls over to the side of the road and sticks the bright orange “Ski Portillo” hat that covers his head out the window.

“¿Sabes donde esta Casa San Enrique?

The pedestrian shrugs, signifying that he doesn’t know where Casa San Enrique is. Which is just the answer I expected, because as far as I know, Casa San Enrique doesn’t exist. Or if it does, it’s not where we want to go.

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“Se llama Casa San REGIS.” I attempt to correct him. I have a tendency to mumble even in English, so there’s little question in my mind that I’m mostly to blame for this language barrier. I do my best to clarify: “San Regis…” I say again, then spell it out in Spanish. “R-E-G-I-S. San REGIS.”

“Sí” He answers. “Casa San Enrique,” and pulls up next to another pedestrian, this one a young man carrying a baby. And we start all over again.

I look over at Eric Hjorleifson, sitting in the seat next to me. He’s wearing the Peruvian knit hat he bought in this same town—Los Andes—10 days ago, and he’s laughing. “Even I understood that,” he says. Eric speaks almost no Spanish.

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We just spent the last two weeks skiing the best winter Portillo has had in decades. In the 18 days we’ve been here—including the four we spent down here, stranded by a menacing storm that flooded several low-lying cities in Central Chile and closed the road to Porillo, the Andes got about 10 feet of snow. And it came in a very Utah-like cycle: Two days of storm, three of sun, two of clouds, two more storm days, and so on.

Today we shared all the runs and rock lines below El Plateau lift with maybe 10 other gringos. The Lake Run, our staple for most of our trip since the Roca Jack was buried our whole visit, will be all-time tomorrow. And yet we bailed. It’s Saturday night. We fly out of Santiago on Monday. Tomorrow we hope to find a hidden gem: a little cat operation called Ski Arpa.

But first we need to find the hacienda where we have reservations for tonight. Our driver sticks his pumpkin-size head out the window again. “¿Sabes donde esta Casa San Enrique…?”

I could be a long night.

Ski Arpa

Toni Sponar skis with his arms sticking straight out, like he’s about to give you a bear hug. It’s a very solid, centered stance, befitting his stature as one of Aspen’s most respected ski instructors, and he holds that posture regardless of pitch or snow conditions. Where my arms flail around, trying to keep me balanced in the sun and wind crust at the lower elevations, Toni makes smooth, symmetrical turns, his arms at a constant right angle from his body. He’s Austrian, and staying true to his heritage, he skis any slope, any speed, in this disciplined, methodical style. He’s also 73.

25 years ago, Sponar bought 5000 acres in the mountains outside Los Andes, Chile and for most of that time he’s had it to himself. He would drive the rugged road up to his land, and with a few friends or clients, would tour around the ridges, Aconcagua—the tallest peak in the Americas—looming overhead. His dream has always been to operate a ski area up here. But dreams like that cost money, and just getting up the road from town can be an adventure.

In 1984, Toni almost had his dream. He constructed a single lift in the Arpa valley and opened for business. Eight meters of snow fell that winter, and Toni’s lift was buried and destroyed. He was wiped out financially.

In 2003, he finally got the money together to buy a couple of cats. Into the side of a hill, safe from avalanches, he built two stone structures to serve as a base lodge, and Ski Arpa was back in business.

On the cat ride up, Toni asks me if I make a lot of money writing for a magazine.

“No,” I answer. “But I get to ski a lot of powder. That’s what’s important.”

Toni smiles back, a Calvin-and-Hobbes, about-to-hit-Susie-with-a-snowball, smile. “Ah, yes, powder,” he says in his thick Austrian accent. “I have about five-sousand acres of zat.”