Andorra: of Princes, Powder and Dinner with a Lifesaver

Andorra is one of those places that sounds almost fictional — a tiny principality tucked high in the eastern Pyrenees, ruled by co-princes, draped in snow, and built almost entirely on steep mountainsides. I had driven through once in 2012 during a family loop around the Iberian Peninsula, but I hadn’t fully appreciated how dramatic the terrain really was. The peaks may not reach Alpine altitudes — nothing here touches 4,000 meters — but they rise sharply and relentlessly, ridge after ridge packed into just 468 square kilometers. It feels less like a country and more like a folded mountain range with a flag.

One of the most unusual aspects of Andorra is that it is governed by not one, but two heads of state. The tiny principality is a co-princedom, meaning sovereignty is shared between the President of France — currently Emmanuel Macron — and the Bishop of Urgell in Catalonia, presently Joan-Enric Vives. This arrangement dates back to a feudal agreement in 1278 designed to settle a territorial dispute between French and Spanish powers. Remarkably, the system has endured for more than seven centuries. Today, the co-princes serve largely ceremonial roles. At the same time, Andorra operates as a modern parliamentary democracy — but the symbolism remains powerful: a mountain nation balanced delicately between France and Spain, with one secular prince and one ecclesiastical one.

I returned to the country in February 2026 with my skis and a twofold mission: to tackle as many of the slopes as possible and to visit the Saint Bernard who had saved my life 18 months earlier in Chile (for more on that adventure, see this story on my visits to Chile).

The flight from Qatar landed me in Barcelona, and three hours later I was winding upward through Catalan foothills, slipping briefly across a slice of France, then climbing into the high Pyrenees. The road narrowed, the air sharpened, and snowbanks grew taller as I approached Pas de la Casa, the highest town in the country. It’s small, compact, unapologetically ski-centric — and, as I was super excited to see, home to a Tim Hortons.

Andorra may be smaller than Washington, D.C., and you can drive across it in under an hour (or ski across it in a few hours), but nothing about it feels small. The valleys plunge deeply between valleys, villages cling to slopes, and the elevation ranges from 840 meters to nearly 3,000 (around 9,800 feet). There are no plains. It is a vertical country.

A view of Pas de la Casa from the top of one of the many chairlifts.

Pas de la Casa also sits near the ski patrol station where Sergio Valenzuela works — the man who quite literally saved my life two years earlier in Chile. That story belongs to another continent and another mountain range. Still, the short version is this: I skied out of bounds in the Andes, far beyond resort limits, and found myself clawing up 1,000 meters of steep, unforgiving terrain as daylight faded (around 3,000 feet). In the Alps, skiing too far might drop you into a road or village. In the Andes, it is quite likely that no one will see you again. Sergio found me that evening, the “gringo perdido,” exhausted and humbled. A year and a half after that incident, when I skied up to the patrol station in Andorra, he recognized me instantly.

Sergio and his partner, Camila, chase winter back and forth between Chile and Andorra, working ski patrol seasons on opposite sides of the globe. They’ve done it for more than a decade, saving every euro and peso to build a lodge on land they own in southern Chile. “After a few more years,” Sergio told me over dinner, “we’ll stop working and finally see a summer.” I’m not sure I’ve ever met two people who have postponed a season for so long in pursuit of a dream, or two nicer people.

Midweek, I met Sergio and Camila for dinner at Blót Canillo, a Viking-themed spot improbably serving burgers and craft beer. The day Sergio saved my life, I wanted to invite him for dinner, but he had to rush to his father's birthday celebration in Santiago. A year and a half later, I again visited him at the Valle Nevado ski resort in Chile and invited him to dinner, but he had other commitments. I had to travel to Andorra to make the dinner happen so that I could thank him properly. We talked about mountains, about seasons traded for savings, about Chile and Andorra and the strange fraternity of ski patrols. I left that evening grateful—not just for the skiing, but for the reminder that mountains connect lives in unexpected ways (andfor being alive, thanks to Sergio).

Dinner with Sergio and Camila at Blot, in the hamlet of Canillo, central Andorra.

Most of my week was spent exploring the vast terrain of Grandvalira, the largest ski domain in the Pyrenees. It has more than 215 kilometers of slopes stretched across six interconnected sectors. The lifts are modern, the grooming immaculate, and the terrain varied — wide cruising boulevards above Soldeu, steeper faces near Pas de la Casa, and enough off-piste terrain to keep stronger skiers interested. It may not rival the mega-resorts of the French Alps, but it punches well above its weight. On clear days, the views ripple endlessly across the spine of the Pyrenees, a jagged horizon that feels wilder than its polished infrastructure suggests.

Early morning above Pas de la Casa — laying down serpentine turns in untouched Pyrenean powder, the first tracks of the day carving quiet signatures across the mountain.

Camila, meanwhile, patrols at Ordino Arcalís, a separate mountain tucked into the country’s northwestern corner. If Grandvalira is the well-connected heart of Andorran skiing, Arcalís is its untamed soul. Smaller and more compact, it carries a reputation as the snow sanctuary of the Pyrenees. The bowls are natural, the couloirs dramatic, and the atmosphere distinctly freeride. I spent my final day there under bright skies and deep conditions — some of the best snow in Europe that week. It felt like skiing inside a high-altitude amphitheater, ringed by jagged peaks and blissfully removed from shopping streets and duty-free storefronts in the capital city far below.

Recharging with Ski Yoga Energy, learned from SkiForeverYoga with Carl [link to free YouTube channel]

Close call on the way out

After a full day of skiing in Arcalís, I headed back towards Barcelona, stopping off in the bustling capital, Andorra la Vella, to pick up a new laptop charger. While I was inside the shopping center, a heavy snowstorm rolled in — the kind that swallows streets and silences traffic in minutes. I unfortunately did not have chains in the rental car. That oversight would soon become painfully clear.

As I eased out of the parking area in my Hyundai Tucson, I found myself driving downhill on a narrow side street. A car in front of me was creeping cautiously along. A few others were climbing toward us in the opposite lane. I gently pressed the brakes. The car slid forward and picked up speed, swerving to the side with each touch of the brakes. I realized I would slide directly into the cars ahead unless I changed course. So I released the brake, aimed for the impossibly narrow gap between the uphill traffic and the car in front, and committed.

A massive snowstorm hit Andorra la Vella while I was in a shopping mall getting a new charging cable.

Somehow — threading the needle — I slipped between them. There was a loud thud. I was certain I had clipped someone. I pulled over immediately. The first car that made it up the hill stopped as well. I stepped out into the swirling snow and inspected my vehicle—no visible damage. I called up to the driver in Spanish, apologizing and asking if there was any damage to his car. “Nada,” he replied. Just the side mirror had folded inward. He popped it back into place with a shrug.

I thanked him, the gods of mountain driving, and whatever guardian spirit watches over shortsighted drivers without chains. Then I crept carefully down to the main road, which was freshly plowed and salted, my pulse slowly returning to normal.

I reached Barcelona after a three-hour drive, and by dawn the next morning, I was airborne again, headed to Zurich and onward toward the Swiss Alps and the Winter Olympics in Milan.

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