The Sentinel of the Volcano: Seventeen Winters Under My Skin

The winter of 2023 is etched into local memory as the "year of the miracle." Weeks passed and the ground remained dry; rocks jutted out like dark fangs through the thin frost, and morale in town was at rock bottom. It seemed the season was slipping through our fingers, but the mountain keeps its own time. Suddenly, the sky turned leaden grey, the wind shifted, and it dumped a snowfall so deep and perfect that it changed the region's fate in a single weekend.

Seventeen years here toughens both your skin and your character. You learn to read the steam from the fumaroles and understand that skiing on this volcano is a game of pure perseverance. The story of that opening day is a tale of victory over uncertainty. Those of us who work here know that no amount of high-end gear matters if you lack the necessary respect for the pitch. When we saw the first groups arrive, with that mix of anxiety and fear in their eyes, we remembered why we are still here after nearly two decades. The advice we give to those who come is always the same: do not wait. Time on the mountain is a non-renewable resource. If you have the chance to feel your board edge against virgin powder, take it—because once the cold gets into your blood, there is no turning back; you become a slave to the summit.

That day was a procession of wipeouts and triumphs. We saw people who had never stepped foot on snow face their first few yards with a clumsiness the volcano punished immediately. Hard falls, crossed skis, and snow sliding under layers until it burned the skin. But that is how a real skier is forged. The mountain is a teacher that doesn't use words; she uses gravity. Every time one of those kids got back up, shook off the white dust, and looked back up the hill, the mountain yielded a little ground. The sport up here isn't just about technique; it’s the will to get up over and over again until fear turns into adrenaline, and adrenaline into control.

We pushed up toward the mid-mountain sectors, where the altitude starts to tax the lungs and the air feels sharper. In these spots, where the slope gets serious, being a local makes the difference. In seventeen years, you learn that vertigo is just a sign that you are alive. We guided groups through stashes where the snow was just right—that "buttery" texture that lets you carve with almost surreal smoothness. We saw guys who couldn't balance in the morning challenging steep faces by noon that made their legs shake. That is the magic of Chillán: the ability to transform a person in a few hours, taking them from total frustration to the glory of a clean line.

The day progressed through laughter, the occasional heavy hit, and the camaraderie that only exists on the snow. For a worker who has seen seventeen seasons pass, fatigue is no longer a nuisance—it’s part of the uniform. You feel the weight of the years in your knees and the wear of the sun’s glare in your eyes, but when you see a beginner conquer their greatest fear and ski a difficult run with confidence, all the effort makes sense. The mountain saps your physical energy but gives back a spiritual strength you won't find in the valley.

As evening approached and the sun began to tuck behind the volcano’s fumaroles, tinting the steam with purple and fire, the group began the final descent. We headed down with burning quads and sweat-soaked layers, but with the satisfaction of having won another day against the giant. At the base, the vibe was pure euphoria. Those who had fallen a thousand times were now celebrating, faces flushed red from the cold and joy. Being a local at Nevados de Chillán means understanding that every winter is a chance to start over—to teach that the mountain isn't something to fear, but something to belong to. We said our goodbyes to the volcano under the first stars, knowing that as long as there is snow and will, the story of these seventeen years will keep being written in every turn, every jump, and every miracle the mountain decides to gift us.