Cerro Benéte Couloir

Juan Pablo picked us up this morning and drove us out on the Panamericano, which winds from Ushuaia all the way through South America, Central America and, in theory, to Alaska. We'd come out this way when we went to Cerro Castor, but with poor visibility we hadn't really experienced the journey. At the start, this time looked to be little different.

With a forecast calling for increasing winds and light snow all day, we assessed our choices on the edge of the Valle Major, a two mile-wide river valley that divides the mountain range from north to south. With likely poor visibility, we decided to ski the 450 meter couloir on the far side of Cerro Benéte, so named for its resemblance to the steep-sided huts that this region's original inhabitants used while hunting guanaco. To me, it looked like K2. Steeply pyramidal with sheer rock walls, it wore a long banner of snow on its peak, testament to the wind we expected to feel in a few hours.

On our short ski into the valley we passed a dog sledding operation, with dozens of lean, muscular dogs staked outside their individual barrel-houses. They greeted us with a pack howl, then decided we'd passed the test and simply watched us pass. To our credit, we refrained from squishing their heads and biting their ears, but it was a near thing.

The tour to Cerro Benéte was to be a circumnavigation (sans summit), so we skinned down Valle Major for three or four miles, during which time the sky full of clouds above just evaporated. Blown away, burned away, whatever, but with the veil lifted the alpine terrain around the valley did its best to impress us, showing off couloirs and cols, jagged spires and perfect ski lines everywhere. The wind was light and the sun warmed our backs as we began our climb through the lengas and guindo trees, eventually reaching tree line and getting a good look at our high point, but not before discovering a small refúgio and having hot tea and fresh empanadas, courtesy of Juan Pablo's wife Elena.

When we were finished, as predicted, the clouds collapsed back down like a blanket, limiting us to a few hundred feet of visibility. Juan Pablo knew the route well and we made good time, though AA and I were slowing a bit by the time we reached the col. What amazes me still about these mountains is that the elevation was 3250 feet, yet we could have been standing at the top of Snoqualmie staring down into the Slot, or skiing down the Cowlitz with the trees far below. They feel big, and they ski big, but they average 1200 meters.

So we pointed the tips down, in marginal visibility, and bounded like dolphins through 1500 feet of blower powder. My beard, which needs a trim, was caked with it. The line shifted from an open bowl up high to a narrow constriction through rock bands and into a series of delicious gulleys and chutes. You could almost feel the shape of the mountain below your skis, so varied was the terrain.

And then we were done. The couloir dropped us onto a high valley bench and we skated and scooted back toward Valle Major, to ski another day. Fabulous.