Off The Grid And Into The Wild In Argentina
No Hay Nieve
The army captain’s eyes narrow as he searches my face, clearly concerned for our safety as apparent halfwits traveling through his border control station. I return his gaze, trying to appear confident as he clutches our passports.
We’re more than a hundred clicks from the border with Chile, with nothing but dusty, scrub-covered rolling hills stretching to the horizon. This is the last checkpoint on this desolate dirt road in rural Argentina. The captain asks where we are going and why. When I tell him the truth—that we’re on our way to Cajón Grande to go skiing—it feels like a lie. The snowcapped Andes are nowhere in sight, and despite the bright sunlight outside the station, it feels more and more like we’re descending into the Twilight Zone.
The interrogation is unnerving, and I hope the officer can’t see the blood draining from my face. Surveying me and my four North American companions, he says, “No hay nieve. Nadie vive en Cajón Grande. No hay nada arriba en el invierno.” There is no snow. Nobody lives at Cajón Grande. There is nothing going on there in the winter.
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