Termas de Chillan (3 weeks late)

15 de septiembre

Today, we journey from Chillan, resting peacefully in the valley, to the jagged eastern horizon. We will be staying at the Hotel Nevados de Chillan, a ski resort complete with hot springs. We piled into the bus after stowing skis and snowboards and bags packed for the two-day trip in early dawn light. These are the last days of winter and it is cold, and the eyes around me in the bus are red and half closed, but glinting with anticipation.

The drive to the mountains will be around an hour and a half. After the intensity of the travel the week before, a mere hour and a half on a bus is a welcome luxury. The buses, again: amazing. Bathroom, TV (turned off as it was), reclining seats with ample cushioning, a window complete with curtain and the capacity to admit the chilled air if you so choose--what more could one ask for?

The bus winds through the small communities along the heavily forested highway, and if I close my eyes for a minute and empty my mind, when I open them again I am moving through highway 20 to the Oregon coast. Then the bus rounds a bend and the snow-capped Andes appear, and I am again thousands of miles away.

As we enter the "foothills" which look more like the coast range back home, the bus drops off the pavement and onto the switch-back gravel road leading up to the resort. Suddenly, my ears pop, and there is snow on the ground, and a little waterfall of melted run-off. Then the Hotel peeks around the curve and we inch into the parking lot... where a Saint Bernard lies peacefully, sleeping. The driver sounds the horn in a long blast and revs the engine. The large head lifts off the gravel and the eyes look on curiously at the rumbling beast in front of it. The bus moves forward, and she (Clara, we found out later) gets up and ambles up to the front steps.

Check in moves quickly, and all too soon I am standing outside the hotel, dressed in full ski apparel, trundling in awkward ski boots to the edge of the deck. After a few quick pointers from one of the others with some experience, I stomp my way into the skis and head off toward the lift. The first lift drops us off at a little halfway point, and I have yet to fall. I remember thinking, "Hey, I have yet to fall." And then of course, "Oh, great..." because, of course, you can't think a thing like that and not expect to fall within the next two minutes. As fate would have it, at the next lift, sliding into position, the snowboarding gringa next to me plants her free foot firmly on my ski, and tips... teeters... falls, and I can't move my foot... I tip... teeter... down into the snow. The lift chair passes over our heads as we attempt to stop the laughter.

Finally, minutes later, we are on top of the easy slope, gazing down. Another first time skier in the group gives the thumbs up and pushes off, flying down the hill hunched over her skis with the poles tucked under her arms like a professional. Then I push off, poles flailing, remembering to "snowplow" or "pizza" my way to the bottom. And hey, I didn't fall. To tell the truth, my head may have swollen beyond any advisable measure. Another time or two down and I feel invincible, ready to take on the larger hill the more experienced folks are heading for. Yeah, why not?

Of course, on the lift looking down and the course rolling below me, my stomach begins to tighten. The slope is steep. The lift disgorges me at the top.

Staring down the slope of glistening white, I realize this is not going to be a short trip.

(switching tenses) I pushed off, picked up speed, lost control, and slid on my belly 20, 30, 40 feet, before coming to a stop. By the end of the first half hour, I had mastered falling. I am proud to say I can fall with grace and impeccable style. I had also mastered the art of regaining one's feet, of putting on wayward skis lost in a tumble, and shouting "Ski! Ski!" (ski in spanish thankfully remains "ski") when a ski remained upslope to those skiers trailing my bumbling attempts. Only once did I ski into another skier, and she was gracious. By the time I reached the bottom, I was able to stay upright for nearly 50 feet or so before attaining the much easier prone position.

On my return to the hotel (after climbing the hill with awkward ski-booted steps, getting lost, decending the hill, asking directions, ascending the hill, dropping my ski down the hill, returning to the bottom of the hill to retrieve it, ascending the hill, getting lost, asking directions and finally stumbling into the lobby exhausted) I felt it necessary to enjoy the bounty of the hot springs and donned my swim trunks.

That night, the group met for dinner, and drinks in the hotel lounge. There was karaoke of which I did not partake. Others did and recieved free drinks as reward. There was discussion, by political science major and english major and archeology major, of how the public stock system will be the downfall of quality journalism. This came of course before the ghastly dip in fortunes that tipped the world on its axis, and sent it tumbling down a hill. As yet we are unsure of the exact depth of the valley into which we have wandered, but effects have been felt (front page news in the Santiago paper for a full week). I blame the political science major for broaching the subject of the stock market.

In the night, we walked the snow-gleaming paths under an almost full moon. It was a fantastic landscape, pale glowing. The stars (different stars, but still stars) wavered and the mountain smiled. Pictures were attempted by others, but it was a night uninterpretable on photographic paper or ever (gasp) the almighty word scrawled in a notebook. Nature has an affable way of laughing at our silly attempts to capture her.

The next day, after sloshing through snow, visiting sled dogs, and packing, we left, the sun sinking behind the trees.