Skiing in Chile: The Day the Mountain Spoke to Me: Conquering Garganta del Diablo in Portillo

Growing Up in Portillo: From Beginner’s Luck to the Sanctuary of Juncalillo

Back then, Portillo was my playground, but a playground with very clear rules. I could navigate Escuela 1 and 2 with ease, and Juncalillo... ah, Juncalillo was my sanctuary. For me, going there was pure relaxation; I loved that feeling of cruising without a rush, letting the landscape wrap around me.

The Escuela area was different: that’s where you’d do chuts, hunt for speed, and feel the real grit of the sport. But there was one spot I always eyed from the corner of my mask with a mix of respect and sacred terror: La Garganta del Diablo (The Devil’s Throat).

I had been skiing Portillo for about two years and had never dared to go up. I knew some people took the chairlift just for the view, had lunch at the restaurant, and then rode the lift back down, staring into the void from the safety of the iron bar. But that wasn’t for me. I didn't go up to watch; if I went up, it was to ski down. The problem was, fear kept my skis glued to the familiar groomers.

Facing the Fear: Standing at the Edge of The Devil’s Throat

Until one day, without overthinking it—because if you think it, you don’t do it—I went for it. I hopped on the chair and started climbing, higher and higher. As the hotel shrank and the wind began to whistle a different tune, I felt that pit in my stomach that tells you you’ve gotten yourself into trouble.

When I finally reached the top and hopped off the lift, the world stopped. I peered over the edge of the Garganta and my first reaction was, "Wow... what the hell am I doing here?" The name is no exaggeration; from the top, the pitch looks as if the earth has cracked open to swallow you whole. I felt that chill that doesn’t come from the snow, but from the pure adrenaline surging down your spine.

Finding My Line: The Moment Everything Clicked

And then, something magical happened. I can’t explain it any other way: my mind synced with the mountain.

In a split second, the chaos of snow and rock organized itself before my eyes. My brain, almost instinctively, traced a perfect imaginary line. I saw the path, I saw the turns, I saw exactly where I needed to set my edges and where I needed to let it flow. It was as if the mountain had written a score and I just had to play the music.

I dropped in. It was a rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump—fast, almost electric. There was no doubt. My body responded to that mental command with a precision I didn't know I possessed. Before I knew it, I had shot out of the funnel and was back in the Escuela zone.

The Adrenaline Paradox: Why We Always Go Back for One More Run

I reached the bottom with my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest. What a rush! You can’t imagine the energy discharge. Right then, shivering and gasping for air, I told myself with total conviction: "Never again. This was the first and the last time."

That lie lasted five minutes.

As soon as I caught my breath, the same adrenaline that had terrified me gave me a shove. What do you mean never again? That was the most incredible thing I’d ever done! So, almost on autopilot, I found myself back in the lift line. I went up again, second time in a row, to prove to myself it wasn’t just luck—that the connection with the line was real.

After that second run, I hung up my skis for the day. I didn't have many days left in the season, and my excitement quota was maxed out. I needed to process what had just happened.

Lessons from the Slopes: Why You Never Truly Stop Being a Skier

That experience at the Garganta taught me something fundamental about my skiing. I was always a skier who needed to feel in control. If I felt the speed getting away from me, if I felt the boards starting to boss my legs around, I’d shut it down immediately. I’d throw a massive turn, cruise for a bit, and regain command.

Maybe it was trauma from the early days. Man, I struggled to learn! I remember the beginner’s area, the thousand times I fell trying to grab the Poma lift or the tow bar. I’d catch an edge and eat it in the most ridiculous ways imaginable. Losing control meant ending up as a human knot in the snow, and after enough wipeouts, you develop a fine-tuned survival instinct.

But that day at Garganta del Diablo, control wasn't a struggle; it was a dance. For the first time, I wasn't "braking to avoid a fall," I was "flowing to descend." It was a massive release, a moment where my anxiety vanished and turned into pure presence. It’s what I call the "mountain cure": that state where nothing else exists—not your problems, not tomorrow—only the next turn.

The Skier’s Return

Now, after some time away, I’m returning to skiing. I feel that connection is still there, tucked away somewhere in the muscle memory of my knees and my head. Truth is, I love remembering those old days, those times when Portillo was my school of life.

Once you’ve learned to read the line at the Garganta del Diablo, that vision stays with you forever. The mountain marks you. It’s a fragment of peace in the middle of the madness, a relief that only those of us who have paid our dues in the beginner’s pen and triumphed at the summit can truly understand.

See you on the slopes, hopefully very soon! ❄️⛷️