that probably didn’t translate too well—this wasn’t my first rodeo, and a bonus Ushuaian couloir wasn’t something I would pass up. Eighteen hours later we were stand-ing atop the jump in a whiteout. Luckily, we had built it a few hundred feet from a small hut (or “Doma” as the Argentin-ians called it), which turned out to be the perfect place to spend a few hours drink-ing maté and waiting on the weather to clear. Essentially a large dome tent with a wood floor, this hut is primarily used by local splitboarders and skiers to wait out Ushuaia’s notoriously fickle weather, as well as a spot to stay the night and launch missions deeper into the range. While es-tablished huts are fairly common up north in Bariloche, this one was a rare respite from the wilderness of southern Patago-nia. With the exception of one ski resort about six miles east, we were in the middle of uninterrupted wilderness. Five or six cups of maté later, the sun broke through the clouds and we hustled back over to the jump under perfect eve-ning light. Alfonso arrived with impec-cable timing and as the freestyle contin-gent of our crew sessioned the kicker, he climbed the broad face directly above us. He dropped in right as the slope caught warm light, gracefully threading through cliffs that broke up the face, making per-fectly placed turns all the way down with-out the slightest hesitation. After one more hit each for Fede and Grant, it was time to go. We exited the alpine just as the sun dipped below the horizon, and by the time we got back into the trees, it was dark. If you’re ever look-ing for a bit of excitement in your life, I would recommend riding down an icy skin track through dense trees in the dark without a headlamp—truly a riveting ex-perience. But we made it back to Fede’s car without incident. Having caught wind of a party at the nearby al-pine resort of Cerro Castor, we crammed all our gear into his small hatchback as quick-ly as we could and made haste. Snowboard boots still on, we walked into the base area lodge and found ourselves in the middle of an energetic group of ski area employees. Loud reggae-ton music filled the room, and someone handed me a beer. The views of e surro ding mo tains w ’t too bad ei — big lines wi sious exposure kept my eyes upw ds as I sp t e approa mind-surfing long white ribbons surro ded by jagged rock.
The Snowboarder's Journal The Snowboarder's Journal 21.2: Page 65
