One Way Ticket to Patagonia: Learning to Let Go

Four and a half months after hip surgery, my surgeon cleared me to return to skiing.

The next day, I was back on snow.

It was already the beginning of May, and winter was barely hanging on in the mountains. I started slowly, one groomed beginner run at a time. Each day, I added a little more—more vertical, more challenging terrain, more time on snow—until I was skiing full spring days off-piste on the steeps at Mammoth.

Then I headed north in search of snow, determined to finally put skins on my skis again.

After a low-snow year, finding backcountry skiing by late May and early June wasn’t easy. But I had a goal. I wanted to ski in South America later that summer, and before I spent the money and committed to the trip, I needed to know that I could handle it.

Eventually, I found myself climbing 3,500 vertical feet on Mt. Shasta and skiing back down through difficult spring snow. I was confident I could do it. So I did something I had never done before: I booked a one-way flight to Chile. No return ticket. Not much of a plan.

Learning to Let Go

Throughout my life, I’ve always been a planner. When I was younger, I struggled when things didn’t go according to plan. Learning to adapt was a skill I had to develop over time. The sport of skiing helped teach me that.

Years later, an injury took the ability to plan away from me. For nearly two years, I couldn’t say what I would be doing a week in advance – I didn’t know what my body would be capable of, when I would have surgery, how recovery would go, or even if I would be able to return to the things I loved.

During that time, something shifted. Instead of constantly trying to plan and prepare for what came next, I started becoming more comfortable with not knowing. I had no other choice. I began to appreciate spontaneity, staying open to opportunities as they appeared. I discovered that some of the best experiences are the ones you couldn’t have planned in the first place.

Returning to Chile

The Andes have the kind of terrain I love most: huge, steep, rocky mountains with seemingly endless lines to ski. But it wasn’t only the mountains that drew me back. I loved the culture, the slower pace of life, and the heart of the people I’d met there.

I had been to Chile twice before—both times for work. My first trip was to the Tres Valles to coach a ski racing camp. My second was to Portillo, where I spent the season working as a ski instructor and guide. I loved both experiences, but because I was working, I never had much opportunity to explore beyond where I was based. And as an adult, I’ve never been on a ski vacation or traveled to ski outside of work.

Alpenglow Expeditions, a company I guide for in Tahoe, had a trip heading to Villa Cerro Castillo in Chilean Patagonia. It honestly wasn’t a destination on my bucket list, but I was able to join the trip as a tail guide, and that was enough to get me down there.

I booked my flight to Chile. I knew where I was starting. I didn’t know where I would end up.

Welcome to Patagonia

One of the other guides from South America and I made plans to meet in Santiago and travel south together a few days before the clients arrived to scope the terrain and get oriented before the trip began. I had worked with him before when he’d come to Tahoe on a similar guide exchange, so I was excited for the opportunity to ski together again—this time in his part of the world.

Getting to southern Patagonia, however, was an adventure of its own. After a long flight—and what felt like endless travel—we finally landed. It was raining. I would quickly learn to get used to that.

We rented a high-clearance truck and headed into Coyhaique to stock up on food and supplies. There wouldn’t be much available once we got to Villa Cerro Castillo. Another guide had offered us his cabin, but he was still away traveling for work.

By the time we reached Villa Cerro Castillo, it was almost dark. I had been awake for close to two days. The road to the cabin wasn’t paved or plowed. Cerro Castillo doesn’t normally get this much snow, and though that was good for skiing, the village wasn’t equipped for it. Our truck barely made it, crossing two creeks before finally reaching the cabin.

The cabin was completely off-grid, and after sitting empty through the winter, the pipes were frozen. That meant there was no running water—and there wouldn’t be for the rest of the week. We would later fill bottles from the creek as we drove through on our way back home each day.

The cabin ran on solar power, but after months without anyone there, the battery bank wasn’t charged. It was getting dark. We gathered wood and started a fire. Frozen for months, it would take days before the inside actually felt warm again.

Eventually, we unpacked and went to make dinner. There was no gas. We had cold cereal.

I crawled into bed exhausted and fell asleep easily. The adventure was just beginning. And I couldn’t have been happier.