Portillo para esquiar

Two years ago, I had the great good fortune to consult in Chile.  Once in a lifetime, right?  In the past, I had been asked to consult in places like Charlotte or Atlanta.  In an attempt to make the most of this unique opportunity, I tried to fit in as much as I could, including short trips to Viña del Mar and Valparaiso, a wine tour in  the Maipo Valley, a hike up La Campaña--a mountain in the coastal range that Darwin visited, and trekking up to the lake below El Moradao--a natural monument in the Andes.  That day, just me and a guide, was one of the finest days of my life.  In "mindfulness" terms, it was a day when I felt fully "present," fully aware of what I was experiencing, not thinking of much of anything else except the landscape and the feeling gratitude to be in it.  In the "being" mode.  

Me with my guide hiking to El Morado in 2011.

I assumed that I would never return to the Andes.  No way.  As Wordsworth says about the memory of the landscape in "Tinturn Abbey," that day in the Andes was a signature day that would pass "into my purer mind / With tranquil restoration," that I would remember when I was "in lonely rooms, and mid the din / Of towns and cities . . . [and] / In hours of weariness."  

Not only have I returned to Chile, but I have returned to the Andes.  I joined three other leftovers from the conference to ski at Portillo. 
Portillo is at the end of an incredibly engineered road that reminds me of Alp d'Huez from the Tour de France.  One yellow hotel looks out at Inca lake at the base of mountains that loom very large.  

We lucked out in terms of weather.  The day before was cold and windy with very poor visibility.  We had, well, the opposite.

The last time I had skied was before I was a parent.  Zachary is now 11.  I was by far the worst skier of the four that included an almost 70-year-old emeritus Harvard professor.  The two Johns, one from Denmark and one from South Carolina, were good enough to try even the most difficult runs and the virgin powder accessible from the main "pistas." 

You've got some good human figures to provide perspective in this shot.  The group of three skiers, two from our party, are about to be catapulted up to the top of this hill using a very fast pulley lift.  Midway up, between the diverging line that mark the skiers' path up the hill, there's a speck that is a person.  This was very steep and very powdery.  I watched.  

What none of us could figure out was why there were so few skiers.  It was Sunday during the high season, and yet we never waited for a lift.  We returned to Santiago with the delightful weariness of a day well-spent moving outside with congenial companions.  In the best possible way, it was as ideal a Hemingway day as I've had.