Fire on the Mountain - Bucket list goes up in smoke
By Lee Ormiston
I just got back from a Masters ski racing camp in Chile. After years at the top of my bucket list, I finally made it there. I had spent the prior three months planning, packing, and training, to make sure I was ready for nine days of training and races at altitude in Nevados de Chillan.
We all arrived late Friday night and were up-and-out for free-skiing and drills the next day. By Sunday afternoon, things were going as expected. My fitness was in a decent spot but I was still working the rust off of my skiing (I’d like to gloss over the digger I took, but the two bandaids on my nose meant everyone knew the obvious.)
5:24 P.M.
That evening, at 5:24, the needle was dragged across the record. While sitting in my room, I heard a whistle being blown and shouting (my Spanish es no bueno). I looked out my window and saw smoke coming down from the roof (my room was on the top/5th floor). My first thought was “Jesus, did the volcano explode?” It was then I heard a knock on my door. As I opened it, someone from the hotel was standing in a dark hallway and had smoke above him. Oh shit, things just got real.
I closed the door, grabbed my work bag that had my passport, wallet, and computer, put on shoes and headed back for the door. This took about 15 seconds, but I probably blew five in my failed attempt to grab ski boots and liners that were strewn across the room.
When I reopened the door, he was gone and the hallway was now pitch black with smoke. I closed the door, went to the sink and drenched a towel. Putting that over my mouth to breathe through, I turned on the flashlight on my phone and headed out. Thinking the flashlight had turned off, I flipped it around to check and nearly blinded myself. All the smoke had rendered it useless.
There was a stairway to my right that was closer, but I’d never been down it in the daylight. Gotta head to the main stairs - at least I’ll know where I’m going.
With one hand holding the towel over my mouth and the other in front so I’d know if I hit anything, I made my way down the hallway. When I finally got to the stairway, some light appeared. It wasn’t until I reached the 2nd floor that I could take the towel off my mouth to breathe. Not deep breaths yet, because despite the air being clear, it still felt like I was breathing smoke - the wet towel helped, but it wasn’t perfect.
Continuing down through the lobby and out past the cafeteria, came the flood of emotions: I’m safe; where do I go now; where are my friends; are they safe; what do I do now? As I got out on the snow and past all the ski racks, I began to see my fellow racers.
The Longest Roll Call
Lisa, the director of our camp and general rock star, was already in take-charge mode. On her way out the door, she grabbed the list of everyone on the program and began the roll-call. Partway through, Gary’s name was called. No answer. Two more times, louder and slower. Still no answer. Long pause. Lisa looked down at her list, back up, and then down again. The roll-call continued. After all 40 names were called, we were still missing one.
“Has anyone seen Gary?!” Someone yelled “I think he went down to the hot springs.” Coaches’ radios crackled and another coach close to the hot springs headed over. And then someone noticed that Gary had quietly slid into our huddled group.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do when several people were shouting his name while he was getting hugs from others that would make the most secure person feel uncomfortable. We were all safe.
Trying to Process
Well, now what? Some of us were in shorts and a T-shirt. The sun was setting and the temp was dropping.
Lisa (remember the Rock Star?) was already on it. She had coordinated with the hotel to produce a bus and get us to one of their other venues. Once on the bus, another headcount ensued. We could leave.
On our way down the access road from our burning hotel to our new, not-burning hotel, emergency vehicles were still racing up the hill, sirens blaring. We were now about a half- mile down the road, out of harm's way, but close enough to still feel the intensity of the situation.
As we piled out of the bus wondering where to go, the Rock Star said “to the bar.” That was the best idea I’d heard in a long time! Bulk orders of beer and wine were delivered as we settled in to our new refuge. Not long thereafter, the not-burning hotel restaurant provided a buffet. We were lubricated and fed, in that order. Primary needs met.
As I leaned back in my chair, I was able to survey the room. The body language of each was easily read; anger, shock, grief, disbelief. I noticed many, myself included, releasing tears without knowing which feeling predominated, just red leaking eyes.
While we were imbibing, the Rock Star was working with the not-burning hotel to find rooms for all of us. The hotel didn’t have enough space, so they found the rest of us some condos further down the access road.
When that was arranged, the Rock Star moved on to the consulates. Nearly half of us were now without passports. The Rock Star had already acquired all our passport numbers before the trip, so our process was being expedited en masse.
Having not had any alcohol for some time in preparation for this trip, I found myself more easily affected but stayed till the bar closed. Since I was one of the people staying down the valley access road in a condo, there was a driver waiting to take me there. I got on the bus, and he took me to what looked like a college dorm. Walking me to the stairs of the building, he handed me a piece of paper with my condo number on it and motioned for me to head up the stairs. Up I went. But it wasn’t until I was standing in front of my door that I realized he never gave me the access code. He was long gone. FKCK!
Well, the cell service was surprisingly good so I texted Dodge who was back at the not- burning hotel. “Can you go down to the lobby and see if they could get me the code?”
It was his idea to do this trip, so technically it was totally his fault that I was in this predicament. I felt no remorse getting him out of bed. Of course, over the next few minutes I began to worry that he was already asleep.
Ever reliable, he wasn’t. Though the first two attempts at a code failed, the third one was the charm.
At this point, it was well past midnight but I needed a shower. Even after the second one, I still smelled smoke. I decided I’d try again in the morning and went to bed.
The Morning After
A shower the next morning didn’t make much of a difference, but it also wouldn’t matter. The clothes I’d wear for the next three days were permeated with smoke.
Walking back up to the not-burning hotel, there was an eerie calm. The access road was closed, the mountain had suspended operations, and the fire was mostly out, so the emergency sirens had been turned off. One of the hotel service trucks slowly rumbled past me. They gave me a questioning look. I could have asked for a ride, but the walk was helpful.
At the hotel, I found everyone back in the restaurant for the breakfast buffet. I’d like to tell you it was the best French toast I’d ever had, but it still smelled like smoke.
Arrangements were being made for flights out, and hotels the next day for those that needed a new passport. Oh, and the local authorities wanted to talk to us.
Those without passports needed to talk to the local police to begin the passport application process while all of us would need to talk to the Carabineros at their local station.
The shuttle down to the station began around nine that morning and finished after 8pm that night. We were processed in small batches so as to not overwhelm them.
The conversation was quite amicable and friendly. A couple Carabineros spoke English quite well, but others did not. Google Translate saw a massive spike in activity in Las Trancas, Chile that day.
When it was my turn, it went something like this: ”Hey, help us document the value of your losses in the fire”, but they also wanted to know exactly where I was, and what I was doing when the fire started. Were we suspects?!
Finding Joy Among the Carnage
Around mid-morning the next day, we learned that despite only having the clothes on our backs, many of our skis had somehow been rescued. They had been stored in a basement locker room of the hotel, and a few brave souls from our team rescued them while the hotel was still burning. The mountain staff went and got them the next morning and the recovered skis were now in the basement of our new hotel. Like children at Christmas, we went down those stairs with the hope that Santa had delivered our wishes: All of our skis survived.
"Finding joy among the carnage was a welcome moment."
Sir Malcom, our handsome 83-year old Brit that ski races as hard as a man 50 years his junior, had spent the night in the hospital. Having lost all his medicine in the fire and battling prostate cancer, he found himself back at the hotel the next morning toting around a catheter and catch-bag.
But when he found his skis downstairs, the joy we saw radiating from him brought more leaking eyes.
I had wanted to walk back up the mountain to see what remained of our burned-out hotel. I thought it might help in the process of finding closure. Instead, the day was spent talking to the authorities and documenting our losses. Taking inventory by using the mental image of your hotel room as you run out to a smoke-filled hallway brings all the emotions flooding back in, so you need to restart this process several times.
Later that evening, my NH compatriots (Dodge and Wilson) were removing eleven pairs of bindings from our combined eleven pairs of skis (by hand, no power screwdriver - that’s 176 screws, yes they counted) while I headed out to find a duffel bag, socks, clean underwear, phone charger, rope and tape. You see, they left their ski bags in the locker room and were thus saved, while my bags had been taken to my room.
Delta Airlines has a max of 70 lbs per bag, so just fitting my skis in with theirs would never make it past the bag-check.
Wilson had the kind, and brilliant, idea of putting all eleven pairs of skis ex-bindings in their three ski bags and then putting all the bindings in one duffel bag. Dodge had no choice but to go along with this plan, because remember this whole thing was totally his fault!
There were others who also lost their ski bag, and Brilliant Wilson had the idea of wrapping them in blankets appropriated (liberated?) from the hotel and using the rope to secure it and fashion a handle. These ski bags were later deemed “las momias (the mummies)”.
Three hours later all the bags were loaded. One small problem, the hotel didn’t have a scale. Somewhere, two dumbbells were located that totaled 30kg. At about 66lbs, we each took turns picking up the dumbbells and then the bags - were we over 70lbs? We knew we were close but couldn’t agree - the plan became… let’s hope the baggage attendant would take pity on our story.
At this point it was after 9pm, and I needed dinner and a drink. Formerly-warm spaghetti would have to serve as a good base because the restaurant had already closed. I ordered myself two margaritas with extra salt and settled in at the bar with new friends and old. Smiles, gratitude for each other, and free-flowing spirits brought what felt like an early end to the night. The bartenders were welcoming hosts for the last two nights, but they wanted to go home.
The Long Journey Home
The next morning, we all piled into the bus for what became a 9-hour ride back to Santiago. Those without passports needed to get the appropriate photos for their new one before heading to the consulate the next morning, while the lucky ones stayed on for the last stop at the airport that evening.
We could have knocked an hour or so off the bus ride, but the hugs goodbye were hard to let go. We had several stops at various hotels along the way, and we weren’t sure when we’d see each other again.
I was among the lucky ones, I had my passport and was on one of the first flights out.
Despite 30+ hours of travelling opportunities to sleep, I’ve probably had four in total. The first nine hours on the bus I got to sit next to my new friend Hil (All-World Athlete, Coach, and Human). I wasn’t going to waste an opportunity to talk with, and learn from her.
The 12 hours on the plane probably could have been better utilised, but it was an opportunity to process more of what I wanted to share with you.
It’s Wednesday, and I’m home now, back in NH, and my family is a little worried about why I disappeared as soon as I got here. I guess I needed to get this all out. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading.
NB: This is the second time this hotel burned to the ground. The hotel did not have a sprinkler system, let alone smoke alarms (at least none thaany of us ever heard.) Had the fire started at night, most of us would probably not be here today.
We all know ski racing is expensive. But totaling just the things we left in our room, it was quite surprising. Many of these things have been acquired over time so that helps spread the cost. Others are worthless in the eyes of an insurance company, but a t-shirt can have enormous value, especially if it came as a gift or from an experience.
But, of all the things we lost, ski boots were universally cited as the most lamented - everyone lost their ski boots.
Replacing passports, credit cards, and a license are a chafe. Stretching and grinding race boots to fit feet deformed by decades of abuse from ski boots three-sizes-too-small? That is an arduous process.
For the people who live and work at Nevados de Chillan, I am grateful for their help and support: the woman who had cleaned my room just hours before, was there in smoke-filled hallways banging on doors; chefs, waiters and bartenders who at that point would have preferred to be served rather than serving us; the bus driver who made multiple 3-hour round-trips down to Chillan for medicine and supplies. With the hotel now gone, many face an uncertain future. Thank you doesn’t feel like enough.
Oh, and yes, the baggage attendant at Delta did take pity. Wilson was right, we were over.