Gringo Gringoing Gringone
Well I am back from hiatus after a pretty wild trip in Patagonia
The plan began as no plan. A 65lb ski bag, a one way ticket, and one of the snowiest Chilean winters in recent memory.
Sometimes with traveling it takes a little while to find the plot, this trip was not like that. I began my trip in a ski town nestled between two 10,000 ft volcanoes. The valley of old growth leading up to them aptly named Shangri La.
In Shangri La there are A-frames scattered about the hillsides, cheap hostels to stay, “local bar” is a redundant term, the resort shuttle is hitching a ride with someone who hopefully has snow chains.
That’s how I met Anna—
A French woman whose effortless beauty and magnetic presence drew me in immediately. Like me, she was also traveling solo with the no-plan-plan off skiing volcanoes in Patagonia. Solid I thought, maybe there is a God…but he’s only in the Southern Hemisphere.
We became quick friends over Chilean wine, French spliffs, and some semblance of North American pow. It wasn’t long before we rented a van and were Patagonia bound.
The van was a N300 Chevy with far-too-large off road tires for its un-lifted frame which made every 3-point turn a 10-15 point ordeal. The power steering was shot to shit but not as badly as the clutch. The guy who rented it to us seemed to have neglected taking care of it in favor of putting all his time and money into a fleet of fixer-up Russian vans— the parts for which required some mafia connections he was unwilling to divulge.
To ski in Chile it is crucial
that you do not set alarms, do not move with any sense of urgency or directedness, and let your pace be dictated by the strength of the weed. It is with this leisurely pace that we somehow managed to ski 6 volcanoes. And here is how it went.
While we did ski six volcanoes,
the goal was never skiing. It was always about bathing naked in remote hot springs and being able to eat and drink as much cheese, meat and wine as we wanted without worrying about losing our perfect figures.
When the endless winter finally retreated down
to the southern tip of Patagonia, I headed to the desert. On the border of Bolivia and Argentina lies the driest desert in the world– Atacama. After a month of skiing 9000ft+ mountains, the desert seemed like the perfect place to unwind, decompress, integrate, and make my way through the 11 grams of mushrooms I smuggled into Chile.
Every day went like this: pack a ton of water, my yoga mat, and at least one bottle of sunscreen, and go find the best possible yoga spot.
The retreat could have gone on forever,
and booking a flight home was a grueling dissonance-filled process. But the snow photos kept coming from lovers in the north and with a now blanketed American west, I knew my heart wanted winter.
My desert reflections are as follows:
these adventures and the currency of spontaneity I trade for them are made possible by you. You sponsor me to live the free-spirited life of my dreams. What I was hoping to get out of this industry is sponsorship. What I wasn’t expecting was companionship. That I would think of you on my travels and that our relationship would make me see the world in a different way.
Now with the sun setting at 4 pm and a favorable early season storm track, the adventure continues. Coming in at number one on the bucket list this season: Heli Skiing. Suitors, new and old–take note.
I will be in BC the first half of the winter and AK the second half. I can be convinced to make one road trip through Big Sky, Jackson Hole, and Colorado. I will be available for fly me to you and or fly your ass to me.
That’s all for now stay tuned for another update.
