"Portillo, the Speed Skiing World Cup, and the day I finally understood skiing."

Portillo and the Magic of the "CP"

Back then—I’m not sure how it works now—hotel staff were allowed to bring children or relatives (I fit the profile) for a few days by paying a minimal, almost symbolic fee. Everything was charged to the famous "CP" (Cuenta Personal or Personal Account). I remember perfectly the sense of importance I felt: you’d show up for lunch surrounded by "gringos" and pro skiers, swipe your card with the air of an expert, say “CP,” and they’d punch it for you. For a young kid, having that kind of "power" in a luxury hotel was pure magic.

The "Click" Between Wipeouts and Giants

My first few days were, to be honest, a disaster. Skiing didn’t love me, and I didn’t love it back. I "ate dirt"—as we say in Chile—an obscene number of times. I’d get buried in powder, my skis would cross, and I’d end up in a tangled ball of wool. But after several hits, something clicked in my head. Suddenly, I found the logic in the weight, the meaning of balance, and the relationship between my shoulders and the slope. That’s when everything changed: I started to truly love skiing... and once that happens to you, there’s no turning back. It’s a lifelong romance.

That year, Portillo was a carnival of snow and adrenaline. There were journalists from all over the world, elite teams in uniforms that looked like spacesuits, and cameras everywhere. I had never seen professional skiing, and suddenly, I was surrounded by "planks" over two meters long, heavy as steel beams, and bizarre prototypes with aerodynamic shapes.

That’s where I saw Steve McKinney, the American pioneer. That man was a true force of nature. It was that same year, 1978, right there on our snow, when he broke the 200 km/h barrier. Seeing that incredible speed up close, hearing the hum of the air being sliced as those men in red flew by—it blows your mind. I watched everything with wide eyes, feeling like I was at the center of the universe.

Learning from the Best (Tailgating Team USA)

Over time, I realized something that bruised my pride a bit: I could ski, but I had no style. I could get down the mountain; I could finish in one piece; but my skiing was pure brute force and zero elegance. I looked like a tractor coming down a sand dune.

Years later, on one of my returns to Portillo, I crossed paths with the U.S. Women’s Ski Team during their pre-season training. They would head out together in formation, and I, bold as brass, would tuck in right behind them. I tried to imitate them in the long slalom, making the exact same movements, trying to guide my skis through the very tracks they left behind.

Spoiler alert: I couldn't keep up for long. After 4 or 5 minutes, they’d lose me; their speed and physical endurance were in another league. But the visual learning was massive. Those women skied like ballet dancers on snow: impeccable technique, knees like springs, and total fluidity. I watched them, copied them, and corrected my mistakes on the fly. Every two or three laps, I’d manage to catch them again at the Escuela 1 and 2 lifts to keep studying their art.

Mind you, I was terrified of "bumps" (moguls). I hadn’t mastered the technique of absorbing with the legs, setting the edges at just the right spot, and hopping from one to another as if you were weightless. They made it look like a dance; I’d try it and, with luck, survive without my skis popping off. They probably thought I was some psycho kid following them all over the mountain, but at that age, you don't care what others think. I just wanted to stop skiing like a log.

Lagunillas and the Leap of Faith

While Portillo was my spiritual home, I also explored other corners. Lagunillas, for example, was my true school of courage. It wasn’t the most sophisticated resort, but it was the most honest and affordable place to learn. That was where I decided it was time to stop being a "flat-track skier" and face the vertical.

I remember one class in particular. The instructor took me to an area with steep slopes—actual walls of snow that, from the top, made it look like you were about to fall into a void. The wind was howling, and the cold bit into my bones. The instructor looked at me, didn’t say much, and headed down first with insulting ease. He stopped at the bottom, becoming a tiny orange dot, and yelled: "Do exactly what I did!"

I was left alone at the top. The silence of the mountain at that moment was deafening. I took a deep breath, felt the freezing air burn my throat, and threw myself in. The first few seconds were pure instinct. I felt like I was literally flying. The speed increased in a heartbeat, my heart hammered in my chest, and suddenly, I began to link turns just as I had been taught. The adrenaline was liquid fire. I reached the bottom shivering—not from the cold, but from pure emotion. That afternoon we repeated that run over and over until my legs begged for mercy. It was glorious.

The Carving Revolution: From Prehistory to the Light

For years, I skied on "old school" gear. Those long, straight, stiff Dynastars that required tremendous physical effort to turn. If you made a slight mistake, the ski didn't forgive you.

Later, while I was studying and working, the technological miracle happened. I went to a shop and the salesman told me: "Look, I have these new parabolic skis. The owner who ordered them never picked them up. They were 300, I’ll give them to you for 100 with bindings and poles included." They were mint, still in the plastic, and exactly my size.

Switching from straight boards to carving was like going from a horse carriage to a Formula 1 car. Suddenly, skiing became a game. I no longer had to fight the snow to turn; the ski did the work for me. Everything became cleaner, more precise, and above all, much more fun. It was like rediscovering the sport all over again.

A Closing and a New Beginning

That’s how I fell in love with the mountain. I went up countless times, sometimes doing the madness of a day trip from Santiago—skiing non-stop from 10:30 until the lifts closed at 4:30. I’d get home destroyed, but with my soul full.

Today I look back and realize I’m just a lucky amateur. Someone who crossed paths with the mountain not because of an excess of resources, but through a series of fortunate coincidences and a passion that wouldn't let me let go of my skis.

My name is Mauricio (Mauri, Mauro... whatever you like). I’ve left many tracks in the Chilean snow, but my story doesn’t end here. I’m currently living in the Middle East and soon I’m moving to Europe. I already have my eye on the Alps and the Pyrenees, and I promise to tell you how it feels to ski those distant lands, where the mountains have different names but the cold and the freedom are the same.

Because once skiing gets into your blood and you understand its language, there’s no way to get it out of your system.

See you at the summit! ❄️⛷️