WORDS AND PHOTOS | MIKE TRUELOVE
Despite the question of a little animosity due to a small war not so long ago between our two fair nations, Argentina has rarely been a primary destination for the British. Until recently, skiing in South America has been an activity reserved solely for Argentina’s wealthy. Not only has it been a logistical nightmare for us simply getting there it has also been an incredibly expensive one. But things have changed; due to the corrupt tendencies of the government and a recent collapse of the Argentine wool trade, the local currency, the Peso, has seen a massive devaluation. “No, way! Stop the car man, stop the car!!!” This was a desolate, featureless and wind-torn place, scarcely different to every other mile of scenery we’d seen the last 24 hours. Yet in the blink of an eye things had changed. My whole world had changed; we had passed the sign that read ‘Welcome to Patagonia’.
Unfortunate for the locals maybe but not for us gringos as it’s opened up the country to adventure tourism giving the serious skier another string to the southern hemisphere bow in the search for the endless winter. So forget about dendex and glacier skiing in Europe this summer and get your atlas and phrasebooks out…
Many people know Patagonia as the name of a successful outdoor clothing company, not the wilderness area straddling Chile and Argentina at end of the world. But I had finally stumbled into my Shangri La, the wildest place on Earth, a place I’d always dreamed of experiencing. I couldn’t contain myself. The others stood bemused as I bounded from the car screaming with joy and rolled about on the dusty soil like a five-year-old with ADHD.
To be honest, I had never known exactly where it was, or much about it but just the name ‘Patagonia’ had conjured up mystical images in my mind for years. And now the prospect of what lay ahead of us had just become that much more intriguing.
With the hectic bustle of Buenos Aires far behind us desert tundra turned to rolling hills, delirium to elation as we reached the foothills of the Andes to be greeted by a wall of growling storm clouds. The last 48 hours of monotonous travel faded into insignificance as we approached our goal deep in the midst of a hefty snowfall. San Carlos de Bariloche was our oasis in the desert; a stunning lakeside town in prime National Parkland, twinned with Aspen Colorado (of all places) and Argentina’s most important destination for adventure tourism. The change in scenery was incredible and it reminded me of Queenstown, NZ. Apart from bungy jumping, there were facilities to do any outdoor pursuit here, summer or winter, you name it, they had it. Direct flights come in from Buenos Aires for around £75 and Bariloche acts as the central hub to South America’s ski areas – you can access three, relatively, nearby fields as well as the gateway across the Andes into Chile.
With a population of 100,000, Bariloche is a big city, by Argentinean standards, so it’s not surprising that its ski station, Cerro Catedral, is the most established and accessible in the country.
The Gods had delivered; high above Lake Nahuel Huapi, surrounded by fresh snow we stood on a peak and surveyed the mind-blowing vista around us. We had been placed in the capable hands of local freeskier Gabriel ‘Chimango’ Martinez who spearheaded Argentina’s skiing revolution over the past few years. (‘Chimango’ is the name of a local parrot-like bird the locals tell us it’s not worth wasting bullets on…mmm).
There was no person more qualified or willing to show us around his backyard and we took full advantage of the next few days milking his extensive knowledge of the awesome terrain. Despite the language barrier, we deduced that his secret spots were named after parts of the human digestive tract – we particularly enjoyed the fresh dump accumulated in a couloir named ‘Colon’.
I have never felt such an overwhelming feeling of space and seen such varied terrain than in Cerro Catedral. It was unlike any mountain environment I had ever been in before. Mighty condors soared above the multitude of gnarly minarets that crowned the summits, we skied bamboo-lined pistes and through petrified forests hanging thick in old man’s beard. On or off the mountain a unique and unparalleled beauty surrounded us at every turn, and the hospitality of our hosts and warmth of the locals was humbling. Catedral is indeed a special place.
Famed for its chocolate production, Bariloche is as cosmopolitan as any European ski town and its multitude of bars, clubs and restaurants make for buzzing nightlife. Vegetarians beware, Argentina doesn’t appear to have any; Parrillas (steak houses) are the pride of the country. Washed down with a bottle of fine local Malbec we scarcely broke a fiver at each sitting.
Argentinean hospitality it seems is second to none and this was apparent at our very cool hostel in town, La Bolsa Del Deporte. A melting pot of nationalities hung out here, coming and going in all directions, amazingly even a few familiar faces from Europe’s hills rocked up over the duration. Far better than any Lonely Planet™ guide book; all the information you could ever need to know about Argentina’s mountain secrets was being shared around. From this, we learned that the conditions in Las Lenas, our intended next stop were the most shocking in recent years. The three snowfalls Catedral had experienced in as many weeks had brought these dedicated skiers flocking down from the highest and steepest of all the Argentine stations. Knowledge came at a price though; Catedral’s backcountry was getting noticeably busier by the day and fully aware we’d had the best of it began to hatch a plan to get as far away from the cluster as possible.
An uncomfortable silence spread across La Bolsa’s lounge, Diego from the hire car office looked twitchy. The long haul we had planned as our escape was to take us through countless miles of Patagonia’s steppe (the largest desert in the Americas) and across the Straits of Magellan into Tierra del Fuego. We wanted to experience the raw nature of this landscape and we knew, despite a few hardships that the car was the only way to see it. And so it was that five brave souls left the safe bosom of Bariloche heading south 2600kms toward the southernmost town in South America, Ushuaia and the last ski hill on Planet Earth, Cerro Castor.
Patagonia is without specific boundaries. It is neither a country nor a state but a loosely defined region of South America; twice the area of France and stretching as far south as man can go before Antarctica. Shared between Chile and Argentina it also encompasses the southern quarter (a 1,500 mile stretch) of the majestic Andes and some of the most diverse, remote and untamed environments on the planet.
The stark contrast from city to complete wilderness is all too immediate, as is the change from an area of obvious wealth to one of extreme poverty. The arid landscape of the steppe has been raped by the elements, mainly the vicious winds that tear across it stripping it of habitation and trees and earning it the title of ‘The roaring forties’.
The skeletal remains of the vast Estancias (sheep farms) are evident in the landscape, once a thriving culture and the backbone of the Argentine economy. The eruption of Mt Hudson in Chile spewed tonnes of ash across this landscape, clogging its watering holes, suffocating its grassland and leading to the swift demise of the wool industry in the 90s. As we drove on, a gaucho (shepherd) appeared on horseback at the side of the road, a pack of sheepdogs at his heels, a lone figure in an infinite space and a ghostly reminder of what used to be. His sheep were nowhere to be seen, the only sign of wildlife was a glimpse of the occasional herd of guanacos (llama-type animals) or emu.
Chasing the horizon across the empty plains in a dome of blue sky encountering no other cars or civilisation for hours on end, the infinite expanse provided a sense of great freedom but the feeling of sheer remoteness was equally unnerving. And it became more apparent when we found ourselves driving anxiously on the fumes we had left in the tank praying for the next fuel station to arrive. When it finally appeared it could easily have been a mirage, a run-down gas station sat on the edge of a frontier settlement consisting of a few bare streets lined with near empty shops and houses. How did these people survive out here? They surely couldn’t all work at the gas station?
Having refuelled, I pictured Diego’s face as we screamed down the pothole-infested roads in his Kangoo towards El Chalten. This was a 700km detour from the tarmac of the RN 03 in the name of sightseeing but Mt Fitzroy (3405m) and its sister peaks were a sight to behold and definitely worth the extra miles. Some of the most imposing mountains on the planet; their vertical granite walls are fabled as one of the toughest challenges for alpine climbers all over the world. Had I not had a blowout at 80mph we would have arrived a lot earlier and spent more time taking in the majesty of these jagged peaks. But then attempting to change an egg-shaped wheel in the middle of the desert with the wrong tools takes a while – two hours passed before a car drove past and stopped to help. With fewer people per square mile out here than in the Western Sahara, we were undoubtedly blessed to have seen these Good Samaritans.
A day on and in the heart of the Parc Nationale de Los Glacieres near the town of El Calafate another absolutely awesome spectacle awaited us. The Moreno is one of the only advancing glaciers in the world and just a small finger of an incredible 3,000 kilometer square piece of ice that covers the Southern Andes. This beast descends into an azure blue lake groaning and creaking as it moves forward an average of 3 metres a day. Huge chunks of blue ice continually break off the 65m front wall and plunge into the water below. The noise is deafening and the iceberg-filled waves that are created by these falling tower blocks have been the fate of many people unfortunate to have ventured too close. Eventually the hour we planned on staying here effortlessly drifted into five as we stood mesmerised by this gargantuan feat of nature.
By the time we reached the Straits of Magellan day four was upon us and as the ferry delivered us safely across the gateway into Tierra del Fuego and the “Furious Fifties” our spirits lifted. “The Land of Fire”, I had imagined volcanoes erupting as far as the eye could see but this strangely calm stretch of water had made little difference to the surroundings we had become accustomed to. The land is highly rich in natural gas though and fires burn brightly from towers dotted throughout the landscape. These beacons lit the route as we drove the final stretch toward our goal eager to taste the rewards of our efforts.
Four days after we set off we were greeted by a symbolic message written four feet high on the harbour wall. ‘Ushuaia end of the world, beginning of everything’, and it was exactly that. The southernmost town on the planet is balanced precariously at the tail end of the vast Andes range and the tip of South America. The only thing between here and Antarctica is Cape Horn, final resting-place of more dashed vessels and fine seamen than any other in the world.
Four days after we set off we were greeted by a symbolic message written four feet high on the harbour wall. ‘Ushuaia end of the world, beginning of everything’, and it was exactly that. The southernmost town on the planet is balanced precariously at the tail end of the vast Andes range and the tip of South America. The only thing between here and Antarctica is Cape Horn, final resting-place of more dashed vessels and fine seamen than any other in the world.
By the time we reached the Straits of Magellan day four was upon us and as the ferry delivered us safely across the gateway into Tierra del Fuego and the “Furious Fifties” our spirits lifted. “The Land of Fire”, I had imagined volcanoes erupting as far as the eye could see but this strangely calm stretch of water had made little difference to the surroundings we had become accustomed to. The land is highly rich in natural gas though and fires burn brightly from towers dotted throughout the landscape. These beacons lit the route as we drove the final stretch toward our goal eager to taste the rewards of our efforts.
This fishing town and naval base have grown enormously since its beginnings as a small penal colony 80 years ago. With a population of 50,000, it is also regarded as a city by Argentinean standards housing half of Tierra Del Fuego’s inhabitants. At 55 degrees latitude on the north shore of the Beagle channel, Ushuaia is renowned for its vicious winds and year-round hostile weather. Hence the ‘Furious 50s’, with an average yearly temperature of 5 degrees centigrade you can see the bitter salty air etched into the faces of the locals. The flip side of bad weather can mean heavy snowfalls and snow is often found at sea level for up to five months of the year. A stretch of good weather is therefore a rarity in these parts so advantage must be taken of these days on the mountain.
Despite its temperamental conditions, Ushuaia has become a tourist destination for Argentineans and outsiders thanks to its wild beauty and significant location. For the sake of those tourists, everything in this area is labelled as the southernmost version of whatever it is in the World. Try playing the ‘end of the world golf course’, well, pitch and putt. Or, catch the ‘end of the world train’, which coincidentally comes to a halt at the ‘end of the world station’. There’s also the ‘southernmost petrol station’ and ‘southernmost set of traffic lights’ on the southernmost street in the world.
It seemed our efforts crossing the continent had paid off; our first morning dawned with perfect blue skies and on the drive up to the ski station we were buzzing with expectation. There had been a good snowfall two days ago and the conditions looked perfect. Cerro Castor (that’s “Beaver Peak” to you and me) is just 14km from town and there are frequent buses and transfers from a big choice of £4-a-night hostels. It is the newest of all the Argentine stations and visibly more modern than Catedral and even most of Europe’s ski stations. Admittedly Castor isn’t huge; there are 3 quad chairs and two drags accessing 17km of piste on a mountain whose summit is a mere 1052m. Nevertheless, the vertical drop is 800m and we all know that’s more than enough when the snow is good and there’s no one else to share it with. Like Catedral, the weekends get busy with direct flights coming in from Buenos Aires (£70) but the hill is left empty during the week for most of the season.
We arrived in mid-September – late in the season. The holiday crowds had gone but the temperature was still unusually low for this time of year. It was a crisp, still Tuesday morning and in front of us there was a foot of snow, unaffected by the wind and without a track in sight. It would appear that no one skies off-piste in this part of the world and certainly nobody can be bothered to hike. Not that the hikes were any more than five minutes to access the goodies at this little gem. There was more than enough for the five of us, including the handful of locals now sheepishly following our boot pack, and we were surrounded by a blank canvas with all the time in the world to make our mark. Life seemed so simple at that point. We had a dream – a group of friends dropping lines all day in the bountiful snow and after an epic mission to get here we had hit the jackpot.
A perfect powder day coupled with the elation of standing on the summit of the most remote ski station on Earth, things just don’t get sweeter than that.
