The Andes

The dawn light barley illuminated the desert that seemed to stretch in all directions. Somewhere, further ahead on the road, smokestacks belched out industry.
Besides that, a slight ridgeline was visible at the edge of sight. As the desert lit up, the ridgeline drew closer and closer and there was less and less alongside the road.

Without warning, the road took us into the belly of the cliffs. They shot up hundreds of feet into the air, brown and red towers of crumbling clay and rock. Along our side, a dried up river bed with a barely bubbling creek at its base wove along. Scattered signs identified the land as the property of the Argentine Army.

The cliffs broke and we found ourselves staring at a massive range of snowcapped mountains splintering off in every direction. We stopped at a small village, a waystop for travelers on the Andean trail. Eating an empanada, I looked up and found myself in a cradle of whitewashed walls.

The drive continued, and we found ourselves dwarfed by snowy sentinels, guarding valleys that wove in unknown directions. The road kept driving upwards. We stopped as a bundled up police man at an outpost that hugged the bank of the now pulsating river checked our credentials.

Small hovels hugged the road. We drove through little tunnels cut into the legs of the mountains, seeing an old railroad parallel our course. In all directions, the mountains reached into the sky, covered with snow, a pure white intimidating vision of size. As opposed to mountains I was used to, mountains that built up from hills, elevations that gently built up into summits, these mountains sprang up chaotically, shooting high into the sky.

The Andean air rejuvenated me after the three hour recycled mix of the van. The ski resort showed signs of struggling to build itself up, but its isolation and position in the middle of the Andes, near the Chilean border, at the end of a one lane highway, was standing in the way. That and the shitty system for rentals.

Barely any supplies, only one place to go, equipment from the 70s. But one makes do. When one can’t rent gloves, one buys llama gloves.

The lines for the one lift stretched along the base of the mountain, but one doesn’t concern themselves with these types of things in Argentina. We’re used to instant gratification, top standards for service, etc. in the US, but things aren’t always so straight-forward or set in stone elsewhere in the world.

However, when I took a left off the trail and found myself skiing through unspoilt powder, granted in my jeans since they ran out of rental snow pants, I found myself somewhere special. The mountain, not even a slope, stretched down below me, emptying out into the valley. On the other side of the valley, a sharp rock formation loomed over everything. And right now, I weaved down the side of the mountain, skiing along a ridgeline, marveling at the breathtaking scenery around me.

The Andes were no longer just a name and a line on a map, they were an experience. Something to live.