In the other hemisphere II
WhiteHearts went to Chile in order to ski the Andes and watch huskies run around volcanoes - but ended their trip on surfboards in the Pacific.
Lava rock is sharp. So sharp it cuts open the tyres of our old four-wheel-drive Dodge Durango for the third time. It's bad timing, given the impending start of the Villarrica Volcano Race, so we move fast and change our tires Formula 1-style. Higher up on the mountain, we can hear the infernal barking of dogs. Many packs of huskies - along with their human leaders, called mushers - have assembled in the heart of Patagonia, on the southern lower glacier tongue of the 2,840-metre-high volcano, to race one another.
Overnight, 20 centimetres of fresh snow have turned the surrounding landscape magical - strange monkey puzzle trees, gnarled Chilean cedars and dark black rocks are all covered in a fluffy layer of white. It only makes the countless Alaskan and Siberian huskies more competitive. When we finally reach the start, panting like the dogs, the German starter and race organizer, Konrad Jacob, jumps into the fray.
Smoke rises as we arrive - the volcano, enthroned in the background and sparkling in the sun, has a permanent smoke plume: a reminder that its vent is directly connected to the Earth's interior. Mystical and majestic, it's an extreme backdrop for a sled-dog race and represents an extraordinary climb for the ten four-legged members that make up each team. The race will go on for over a day and a night, as far as the dogs' paws will carry them. The mushers have to schedule their own breaks and provisioning stops and the terrain's complete isolation gives the extreme winter sport an element of unpredictability.
A few days earlier, we got a sense of the glacier slopes' imposing size and the Villarrica's countless ribs and valleys when we climbed up the volcano and skied back down. Now all of the husky teams have disappeared into the white expanse. The silence is absolute for hours on end. Late in the day, the setting sun plunges the horizon into a mesmerising combination of crimson and orange colours unknown to our European eyes.
Then night falls like a velvet curtain over the gleaming white volcano and millions of stars sparkle as the Milky Way stretches across the sky. It's high time for us and the other race helpers to climb into our sleeping bags in the small, draughty wood huts. Ice-cold air wafts against our noses, but then we think about the temperatures faced by the husky teams up on the glacier fields, and we feel warm again.
The next morning, excitement spreads through the camp. The two support snowmobiles have conveyed via radio that the fastest teams will soon be arriving at the finish. In the end, the Argentinians take the top three spots: The winner with the fastest dogs is Javier Alvarez, followed by Maximo Junquet and Hernan Cipriani. Fourth place goes to the German Chile-expatriate Konrad Jakob, who not only organised this unconventional race, but managed to bring FALKE onboard as a sponsor. Given that, we won't get too worked up about the fact that he raced on behalf of Chile, his adopted home, and not Germany.
The huskies' accomplishments are truly remarkable, whereas our ski exploits, after more than two weeks in Chile, are somewhat meagre in comparison. But we have a high-flying new plan. We had already contacted the helipad at the Puma Lodge - located in the lonely expanses of the Andes east of Rancagua, about 100 kilometres south of the capital, Santiago - back in Germany. In order to get there from our current location in Villarrica Patagonia, we have to drive 850 kilometres on the well-maintained Ruta 5 highway, another 50 kilometres on winding mountain roads and then another 30 kilometres on dusty, steep dirt roads.
In the end, we struggle up a scraggly path with boulders, river-crossings and deep ruts. After the final serpentine, an aluminium helicopter hangar and a giant timber lodge appear in a high mountain valley. It's the last thing you'd expect to find in such isolated surroundings. Skiing with a helicopter means high altitudes and, therefore, powder - it's not our preferred way to ski, but this is our last chance to leave the sad snow situation behind and press forward. At altitudes above 4,000 metres, we'll finally get some of that perfect Andean snow under our skis.
Then we discover find out how much the helicopter ride and the luxurious accommodations cost, and it immediately becomes clear that, in the next two days, we'd literally be throwing the entire rest of our budget for the trip into the wind. The friendly lodge manager won't go along with our idea of taking our sleeping bags and spending the night in the helicopter hangar, but he offers us a heavily discounted price for three nights in his posh hotel. Pancho, the helicopter manager and head mountain guide, makes some calculations and, to our surprise, tells us he'll provide us with our very own Andean playground.
In the following days, that's exactly what happens: Early in the morning, the helicopter flies us into high-altitude bowls and then pick us up late in the afternoon. In these bowls of snow, we climb up and ski down varied routes. At the end of these extraordinary days filled with crazy heights and absolute solitude, we not only manage to plough the surrounding powder slopes, we save a lot of money; instead of always staying at our side, the helicopter merely ferries us to otherwise inaccessible altitudes.
That's all we can do in this 2013 South American winter: It doesn't make any sense to keep hunting powder. Yet, as we enjoy our evening red wine, we remember H2O is interesting in its liquid form as well. After all, Chile offers some extreme water-sport opportunities. But how should we determine the best surfing spot on a more-than-4,000-kilometre-long coast?
In this expansive land, the best is once again tangible. Just west of Rancagua, 150 kilometres away, is one of the most interesting wind and kite-surfing spots in South America: Matanzas, which means "the carnage" in English. We discover the true significance of that name a few days later, when, after only two hours of driving under the shining sun, we look over the bay of the same name. A wind (strength six) blows over the Pacific, and massive waves crash against the surrounding cliffs and secluded beach.
That's where you can find the stylish Surazo Hotel - built on wooden stilts, with trees that grow through its terraces, a glass-walled restaurant, a breathtaking menu and an unobstructed view of the Pacific. Incidentally, the only three windsurfers showing off their skills on the seething Pacific are the hotel chef, the cook and the surf-school manager. Bingo!
A few hours later we've checked into this dream accommodation, organised kite and windsurfing gear and are eating pulpo salad and grilled fish at the beautiful larch-wood table of the unconventional beach hotel. Luckily, the trade winds and Pacific waves, unlike the mountain snow, don't leave us in the lurch in the next few days. It's hard to believe our ski adventure in another hemisphere ended at the ocean. Now we're back in Germany, and we can't even tell whether the fine dark lava sand falling out of our travel bags and backpacks comes from the slopes of a volcano or from a Pacific beach.
Text by Dirk Wagener
Photos by Dirk Wagener, Kilian Kimmeskamp
