Bestie Backcountry Ski-Camping Trip 2018

After bidding farewell to the folks and putting in diligent days of work, I am flabbergasted at the forecast of three sunny, rain-free days with highs in the high 60’s! I strap skis on my pack and head up Camino Antartica with Ailén towards Cerro Cordillerano, Mensual at our heels (yes, his name is ‘Monthly’). I have a bit of a history with this mountain - I summited in May from the northeast, and gazed upon its southeast face many afternoons this winter when I skied up the hill from Casa Antartica. I wouldn’t dare camp during the dark days of deep winter, but thanks to the albedo of snow, spring in mountainous regions lets us savor the snow while the sun is high and the air warm. I ski logging roads up the hill, saludo a Don Tulio Rivera - ermitaño y vigilante del Cerro Antartica, shimmy along a mossy log over a rushing stream, and turn towards treeline. The dogs and I set up camp on a dry, vegetated patch of ground just below the elevation where heavy snow begins. Ailén hesitates briefly before climbing into the tent and snoring away (Mensual patrols the perimeter). At some groggy hour of the night, I give Ailén my jacket to lie on, forgetting that it contains my only pair of sunglasses… 

The sun rises early above the east ridge, and I drink mummied mate. Sunglasses are broken beyond repair… After some butter-flax-peanut-cocoa-meal, I skin above treeline, sunshine spreading across steep slopes. The snowpack is solid – it must have dipped just below freezing the night before – after some solar exposure, the snow softens. We head up to the summit of Cordillerano (5292 feet, I live at 1510 feet) – near the top, the incline is steep, so I shed the skis and microspike to the peak. Ailén and Mensual have no problem with the climb, although they seem fairly puzzled about why one would choose to spend sacred hours on a high windy rock. Ailén likes to make me nervous by walking to the edge and peaking her head over to see what lies below. 

On the way down, the snow is ripe for riding! Definitely not ‘powder’ conditions – rather, just the right amount of melty spring softness for thigh-busting slalom. I rarely speak aloud during my solitary wanderings, but in these sublime conditions, the phrase “surf’s up at the goo lagoon!” rises giddily from my chest! At the bottom of the bowl, I resolve to shred away the rest of the day in pursuit of rad gnar, and skin back up. The dogs follow me at every turn – if only I could just tell them to wait at the bottom, opt out of this Sisyphean stunt, so they don’t tire themselves out… 

Round noon-ish, I decide to head below treeline, where I fill the dogs’ water dish, eat a buttery oatcake, and prepare another par de mates. When I’m ready to get moving again, the dogs are knocked out on the ground – I try to sneak away so they can sleep, but they hop up to follow. By this time, it’s soooooooooo hooooooooottttt so I strip down to my underwear and a light jacket. We lounge long at the top of the bowl; Ailén digs herself a hole in the snow and falls asleep. As I head down the mountain, only Mensual follows, so I yell for Ailén a few times before heading back up to check on her. A giant condor swoops along the ridgeline, fingers spread wide, ready to snatch up poor Ailén. I give her a little food and water and try to coax her down the slope. She follows when I ski straight down, but loses faith when I make wider arcs, so I take tight turns, snake a straight path for the over-heated pup. Despite the relative intensity of the situation, I dance dreams during these early evening hours, soak in the surreal sunbeams, fly fluid, sail sleek, ride raw. I squeeze the knees, cheese the trees, and we are alive. 

In the tent, I notice some itchiness and irritation in my eyes – I get a little concerned when I can’t seem to focus on objects in the distance… also my knees are fried. Down for the count. 

We lounge the next morning lazy at camp lenga, solar symphony showering canopy cathedral. If I hadn't flown too close to the sun the day before, I might’ve ventured alpine again. I turn my back to the mountain, look to trees. Steering to stream, I hoist my pack and we walk home. 

As I write, my eyes are still quite irritated. Vision seems to be fully functional - condor magic? Always wear sunglasses above tree line, folks. And when you ski in your underwear, wear sunscreen on your knees. That said, I feel so strongly these days that the mistakes we make in pursuit of glory are far preferable to those we make when doing nothing.