Portillo

The snow ran hard and fast in Northern New Hampshire in the winter of 1967. My friends and I raced down the trails of Cannon Mountain during the snow months.  At night before the fire we talked about going west someday to ski the big mountains in Aspen, Sun Valley, and Vail. We dreamed of trips to Davos, Kitzbuel, and St. Moritz.When the night became too long, and our dreams themselves became tired, someone would inevitably mention Portillo. The room would become quiet as this was a bold dream indeed. The idea of skiing in such a far away place in the summer was hard for us to
imagine.





Over time our ski club disbanded as people went different ways following their own trails. A move to California gave me easy access to the mountains I had always wanted to ski. As soon as I could afford it, I established a regular routine of skiing in Utah, Colorado, and Montana. Though I was happy doing what I was doing, I gradually became aware of a faint neon sign within my mind that kept flashing the words, “Portillo, Portillo.”

In 2002   I brought up the idea of going to Portillo, Chile with my new ski group. Ten months later my wife, Vicki, I, and our friend, Dennis Humphrey from Boston, flew to Santiago, where a waiting van transported us to Hotel Portillo, set high in the Andes Mountains. Once we left smog choked Santiago the scenery was attractive. The vineyards and rolling hills reminded us of California. Eventually this terrain gave way to a steep grade with numerous switchbacks as we wound our way into the high mountains.

The Hotel Portillo is an interesting place. The daily fee covers everything from meals to ski lift tickets. There are no lift lines, though we skied in high season, since the area is so remote that few day skiers make the difficult drive from more populated areas. All the terrain is above tree line, and when there is enough snow, the area is vast. This year the snow was sparse, so we stayed on trails that were groomed nightly, but more about that later.

Ellen and Henry Guidera, the American couple who owned Hotel Portillo, talked about the rhythm of the hotel, and within a couple of days we had found it. After a sit down breakfast at 8:00 AM we were on the slopes an hour later. We skied till 11:30, rested and were served lunch at 12:30. In the afternoon we stopped skiing around 3:15 and went to the heated pool before moving onto the internet room. Tea and cake were at five. During our stay the hotel was featuring food from different Latin American countries. Each night the guests met in a great room for music, appetizers, and drinks of the featured country. The cocktail party was followed by a wonderful meal. Highlights were the venison filet from Argentina and the Brazilian filet of sole.

The amenities at the hotel were wonderful, but what made the experience particularly rewarding for me was the friendliness of the Chilean people. The caring, humorous spirit of the staff was contagious and set a tone that permeated the groups of guests who came to Portillo from all over the world. Smiles, laughter, and hand clasps became the common language. It was easy to meet and befriend fellow skiers. The hotel’s spirit was perhaps evident one lunch. I reached over to sample some pasta on my wife’s plate. A few minutes later a waiter came to the table, jokingly slapped my wrist and presented me with a plate of pasta, even though I had my own lunch. Such thoughtfulness and attentiveness were commonplace.

The skiing was excellent with packed powder conditions. Snow remained on the slopes all day because there were so few skiers. Some people wanted fresh powder and more terrain to ski, but our group was satisfied. We did have one traumatic incident which paradoxically made the skiing all that much sweeter!

The first day we rode an unusual five person, poma lift up a double black diamond trail called Roca Jack. Normally I wouldn’t ski such a trail, but it looked deceptively manageable, as there were no moguls, only steepness. What we didn’t know was that the lift stopped in the middle of the trail and required great care on exit. As we left the lift, all three of us fell and began rolling. Vicki stopped within a few yards, but Dennis and I slid far down different parts of the slope. I was thankful that my skis finally released as they were bashing my helmet during the high speed, out of control slide. I tried many ways of self arresting, but none worked as I slid faster and faster. At one point I dug my ski boots into the snow, and this only resulted in a high speed somersault. At some point I thought I would suffer serious injuries as the ride went on and on. Finally I came to a resting place, picked myself up, and realized I was fine. The ski patrol brought my skis and poles, and I continued down the slope, where I met Vicki and Dennis, who were also uninjured.

Naming ourselves the Tres Amigos, we used humor to decompress from this harrowing experience. At the same time the fall highlighted the fine line between joy and tragedy, and I was determined to take advantage of the wonderful opportunity before me to fulfill a long standing dream to ski the high Andes of Portillo, Chile.