Chile: Wine and Adventure

My first trip to Chile was in 2006, during that beautiful phase of life when parenthood was new but my wanderlust remained undiminished. My wife Gillian and I had always been spontaneous travelers, ready to explore distant corners of the world at a moment's notice. The arrival of our son Sage, then just three years old, hadn't dampened our adventurous spirit—it merely added a new dimension to our travels.

Without iPads (still four years from invention) to entertain a toddler on long flights, we packed an arsenal of children's books. Dora the Explorer became our constant companion, her bilingual adventures unknowingly preparing us for our South American journey. We departed from New York, connected through Houston, and finally landed in Santiago, Chile's vibrant capital nestled between the towering Andes and the Pacific Ocean.

From Santiago, we headed south in our rental car, the landscape gradually transforming from urban sprawl to the lush vineyards of the Central Valley, and eventually to the dramatic volcanic scenery around Osorno. The drive south revealed Chile's remarkable geographic diversity—a country impossibly thin yet stretching over 2,600 miles north to south, encompassing deserts, valleys, mountains, and fjords.

Parenting on the Road

Parenthood had changed me in unexpected ways. Before Sage, I'd never set foot in a McDonald's, priding myself on seeking authentic local cuisine. Yet there I was, scanning the horizon for golden arches, knowing they represented the certainty of a Happy Meal that my son would actually eat. The practicalities of traveling with a toddler had humbled my culinary elitism.

What we hadn't anticipated was how Sage would become our unexpected cultural ambassador. At each hotel, he would count the steps in Spanish—"Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco"—skills gleaned from hours of watching Dora the Explorer. The hotel staff would light up, delighted by this small American child attempting their language. They'd encourage him with gentle corrections and exaggerated praise, creating instant connections that transcended our tourist status.

One evening, flipping through channels in our hotel room, we stumbled upon a familiar face—Dora la Exploradora was playing on Chilean television. Sage was mesmerized by this mirror-image version of his favorite show, where the language dynamics were reversed: now Dora spoke primarily Spanish with occasional English words. "¡Podemos contar! Can you count with me?" she'd ask, and Sage would count along, amused by this flip in linguistic roles. It became our nightly ritual, a serendipitous complement to his growing Spanish vocabulary.

Unexpected Detours

Our plan was to cross into Argentina through a mountain pass near Lago Puyehue, where the Andes revealed their full majesty. The snowcapped peaks and crystal-clear lakes created vistas that even Sage, between bites of chicken nuggets, would point at in wonder. But at the border crossing, we encountered the immovable force of bureaucracy—rental cars from Chile weren't permitted to cross into Argentina. No amount of pleading or explanation would sway the stern-faced border guards.

Travel, I've learned, is as much about adapting to unexpected circumstances as it is about following carefully laid plans. We pivoted west and then north, deciding to embrace Chile's renowned wine culture instead. The Central Valley's Mediterranean climate creates ideal conditions for viticulture, and we embarked on an impromptu tour of vineyards stretching from the Colchagua Valley to the Maipo region.

We visited the sprawling Concha y Toro estate, where centuries-old vines produce some of Chile's most widely exported wines. At Viña Montes, we admired their gravity-flow winery built according to feng shui principles. MontGras impressed us with innovative blends, while the boutique operation at Attilio & Mochi offered an intimate tasting experience. Yet despite sampling dozens of excellent wines, nothing quite inspired us to ship a case back to New York.

A Perfect Ending

On our final evening, we found ourselves at a modest guesthouse on Santiago's outskirts. Tired from our journey and resigned to returning home empty-handed, we sat down for a simple dinner. When I asked about the wine list, the waiter smiled and shrugged: "Tenemos solamente vino de casa." Just house wine.

Sometimes the most profound experiences come not from elaborate planning but from surrender to simplicity. The wine arrived in plain glasses—deep ruby red with hints of violet at the edges. That first sip revealed layers of black cherry, bell pepper, and spice, with a velvety texture that belied its humble presentation. I turned to Gillian with raised eyebrows, and she nodded in silent agreement.

"This is incredible," I told the waiter. "Could we see the bottle?"

He laughed gently. "No hay botella, señor. Solo barril." No bottle, just a barrel. The wine came from the small vineyard adjacent to the guesthouse.

When I asked what grape produced this remarkable wine, he replied simply, "Carménère." The name meant nothing to me then—I didn't even write it down. Little did I know this forgotten Bordeaux varietal, once thought extinct after Europe's phylloxera epidemic but rediscovered thriving in Chile, would become the country's signature grape.

It would be twenty years before I returned to Chile, by which time Carménère had gained international recognition. But that evening in the modest guesthouse remains etched in my memory—a perfect encapsulation of travel's greatest gift: those unplanned moments of discovery that stay with you long after you've returned home.

Part 2: The Gringo Perdido

In September 2024, I took an overnight flight from Miami to Santiago, skis in tow and solo this time. The years had passed—Sage was now in his 20s, worked for United Airlines, and had a younger brother in high school. I was eager to experience Chile's winter season, something I'd missed during our family summer trip nearly two decades earlier.

Valle Nevado, one of South America's premier ski resorts, beckoned from its perch high in the Andes, just 35 miles east of Santiago but worlds away from the capital's urban bustle. After landing early morning, I collected my rental car and drove straight up the mountain, fueled by excitement and the meagre breakfast served on the flight.

The 40 switchbacks leading to the resort climbed through barren, ochre-colored mountains that reminded me more of Mars than Earth. As I gained elevation, patches of snow appeared, gradually transforming into the pristine white landscape of Valle Nevado, sitting regally at 10,000 feet above sea level.

After checking in and hastily changing into my ski gear, I was on the slopes by mid-morning, sleep deprivation be damned. The conditions were perfect—late spring in Chile meant sunny skies, comfortable temperatures, and surprisingly good snow coverage. I spent the morning reacquainting myself with skiing, finding my rhythm on the well-groomed runs that cascaded down from the resort's highest point at nearly 12,000 feet.

By early afternoon, confidence restored and adventure calling, I began exploring beyond the main runs. Near the Tres Puntas t-bar lift, I noticed a ravine running south that promised untouched powder. Without pause—or proper consideration—I skied under the chairs of the Las Ballicas lift and headed down the gorge, oblivious to the warning signs posted in Spanish.

The descent was exhilarating. Virgin snow sprayed around me as I carved wide turns down the increasingly steep ravine. I stopped occasionally to capture selfie videos, my grin as wide as the Andes themselves. The run seemed endless, and I mistakenly assumed it would eventually curve back toward the resort as many off-piste routes do.

From Paradise to Predicament

After about thirty minutes of pure skiing bliss, paradise quickly transformed into a predicament. The snow gradually thinned until I found myself staring at a vast, snow-free valley ahead. In the distance, I could make out what appeared to be a trail, which I naively assumed had been trodden by other adventurous skiers before me.

It was spring in Chile after all—September marked the transition from winter to summer—so running out of snow wasn't entirely unexpected. What I hadn't anticipated was just how far I'd traveled from the resort boundaries.

I removed my skis, slung them over my shoulder, and began hiking toward the distant trail. The afternoon sun beat down, and I quickly realized I was woefully unprepared for an extended trek—no water, no food, and dressed in ski clothing that was becoming uncomfortably warm.

Checking my phone, I noticed the battery was running low. I remembered I had arranged to meet Brett Ploss, a young American writer from Snow Brains travel website, for après-ski drinks. I sent him a quick WhatsApp message: "Skied a bit out of bounds. Might be late for our beverage."

Almost as an afterthought, I sent a photo of the trail ahead and dropped him my location pin. "If you see a ski patrol," I wrote, "ask if I'm on the right track to get back."

Rescue Operations

Within minutes, my phone rang. It wasn't Brett but Ski Patrol. "Do not follow that trail," came the urgent instruction. "It's used by shepherds who bring their flocks up in summer. If you continue that way, it'll be at least three days before you reach a road or any sign of civilization."

Instead, they explained, I needed to make a 90-degree turn to my right and climb approximately one kilometer—about 3,000 feet—straight up the embankment. The route would take me first over rocky terrain, then through snow, eventually reconnecting with a service road leading back to the resort.

It was already 3 PM, leaving just a few hours of daylight. The patrol officer presented an alternative: "We could send a helicopter to pick you up. This will cost about $1,000."

I weighed my options, balancing budgetary concerns against my desire for safety (and to ski the remaining days of my trip). Just as I was about to agree, he called back with unwelcome news. There was no helicopter at the resort; they would need to dispatch one from Santiago. The distance and fuel costs meant the price had jumped to $3,500.

With my phone battery rapidly fading, I told them I'd consider it and send a message shortly. A voice in the back of my head whispered: "I'll give you $3,500 to climb up this mountain." Before my phone died completely, I informed them I would make the ascent myself.

Into the Wild

The climb began reasonably enough over rocky terrain, but I quickly realized the magnitude of my miscalculation. With no water, no food, and declining energy from a sleepless night and day of skiing, each step became increasingly laborious. I drank from a creek but had nothing to carry water in for the journey ahead.

Soon the ground gave way to deep snow. Carrying my skis across my shoulders, each step broke through the surface to my knees, demanding extraordinary energy for minimal progress. After climbing roughly halfway, with the sun sinking toward the horizon, I started thinking about a contingency plan: dig into the snowbank to create shelter for the night and resume the climb at dawn.

Just as resignation began to set in, I spotted movement on the ridge above—a head bobbing up and down over the horizon. "Hey! ¡Hola!" I shouted, frantically waving my ski poles overhead. Moments later, a ski patrol officer appeared, his wide grin a beacon of hope as he greeted me in Spanish.

"You must be the Gringo Perdido! I set off as soon as I knew you were going to try and climb up," he explained, making his way down toward me. "You've discovered my favorite off-piste run by the way—except you should be prepared with skins or snowshoes to climb back out of this valley."

His name was Sergio Vega Valenzuela, and I immediately dubbed him my St. Bernard—the only thing missing was a small barrel of whiskey under his chin. He worked as ski patrol in Chile during their winters, then migrated to Andorra for the northern hemisphere season to do the same. Today, his experience and foresight may have saved my life.

Sergio even brought snowshoes for me, which made it infinitely easier to stay on top of the snow rather than plunge through with each step. He also carried energy bars and electrolyte drinks, which I gratefully accepted. As we began our ascent together, I reflected on my hubris. I'd taken survival courses with the National Outdoor Leadership School and should have known better than to venture into unfamiliar terrain so unprepared. I simply hadn't realized that following that enticing powder would lead me so far from safety.

Sergio, my savior.

We hiked steadily over the next hour, reaching the service road just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The smog from Santiago created a brilliant sunset, bands of orange and purple stretching across the sky—a beautiful conclusion to a day that could have ended much differently.

I offered to buy Sergio dinner and pisco sours, Chile's national cocktail (although Peruvians beg to differ). He declined, saying that evening was his father’s birthday celebration and he would have to leave immediately for the drive down to Santiago. I appreciated him even more knowing he had almost missed that important occasion because of me.

Carménère Closure

Sergio and his ski patrol colleagues dropped me at my rental car just as darkness settled over the Andes. I drove down the same forty switchbacks I had driven up that morning—slowly this time, muscles aching, adrenaline finally ebbing—until I reached the simple, remote guesthouse I had booked online. I arrived late, exhausted, and ravenously hungry. Predictably, the cafeteria was closed and there wasn’t another restaurant for miles.

I explained my predicament to the manager, and told her about the day's adventure. Without hesitation, she disappeared into the back and woke the cook, who emerged moments later carrying a plate rescued from the refrigerator. “Es solo una pasta sencilla,” she apologized gently. Just simple pasta. “Y tenemos vino.”

“What kind of wine?” I asked.

“Carménère,” she replied.

The perfect end to an unforgettable adventure, and the perfect beginning, for my return to Chile.