SOUTH AMERICA: The End of Winter in the End of The World
I know only a hint of September winter remains in the southern hemisphere by the time I find myself able to get out of the country. So I head as far south as possible to catch the last gasps of the Santa Rosa to get my fix. Ushuaia seems a fitting place to wind up the reports on the southern winter that have been reported on Powder.com. A couple years have passed since my last visit to Tierra del Fuego. I need to check in with some bros at the southern tip of the continent who I profiled in this story The Refugio the last time I visited.
Ushuaia—so small, it feels like home. People are friendly and prices are much less than the standard fare at bigger resorts to the north. I settle in, grab my skis and hail a taxi to take me to the Glacier Martiel, home of the southernmost refugio in the world. I’m looking for Claudio, proprietor of the refugio, famous Argentine pistero, my twin brother from another mother and my best friend in Argentina.
I’m on the slow chair that winds me up toward the glacier, taking in the view. Once again, without fail, I am in awe of the beauty of snowy mountains. It wouldn’t matter where I was. The song remains the same. But to leave the end of summer in the States to find the end of winter here, the awe is intensified, as if I am home again after spending too much time in a warm world devoid of white. In the blanca montanas at the end of the Andes, I find winter again.
The chair approaches the top station below the refugio. I get off, stopping to take a picture of the bullwheel shadow on the snow. I’m sucking up every moment of my existence and holding it in like a bong hit. I look up and see a figure on the deck of the refugio. “Claudio?” I holler. He turns around. He’s cut his long hair looking respectable. I click out of my skis and hike to the refugio to see my old friend. Once again we find ourselves communicating clearly in our own perfect mix of Spanglish. By the time we finish catching up on a couple years of life, the lift has stopped. He tells me how he spent the last three months sitting at home moping after his girlfriend, the beautiful Juliette, left him for a French guy. He says he finally decided to come back to work at the refugio not long ago, hasn’t skied and doesn’t even know where his skis were. I tell him it doesn’t matter; I brought him a new pair of Bro Models. I tell him to pull himself together. I came to ski for 12 days before I have to go home and he’s skiing with me. He’ll forget his women troubles in no time once we hit the snow.
Come morning, we head for Cerro Castor, the local resort. It’s firm and sunny. Real sunny. At the top, we hike a ridge to eyeball the backside where few venture and some soft creamy goodness might be had. We get the best snow early, but work it all day, dropping through the rocks into the bowl below, then hiking back out as the spring sun beats us down. A north slope that was fresh when we started, it’s baking and is now getting sketch. I air into a little coolie and carve out to the bottom. As I look back up, I see a virtual waterfall pouring out of a 25-foot cornice. It’s then I realize the whole slope above me could rip and suckerpunch my ass into the next dimension. I get out of my skis and scramble up to a rock face. I’m not standing on that snow a second longer than necessary. I opt for the rock climb out, stuffing my skis and poles into any nooks in the rock face, wedging my boots into cracks when there was nothing for my vibrams to get a foothold on. As I get to the top, Claudio grabs my skis to ease my waist deep bootpack above the rocks. I’m thankful to be off a slope I knew would release. “Water,” he says, pointing to my pack. As I reach for the hose hanging out of my pack, I can notice the valve got pinched and it had drained out. We’re parched. We look across the valley and see the same aspect has ripped for miles, taking tons of rocks and mud down with it. My judgment on the rock climb is validated.
SEE THE PHOTOS HERE