Vail

9 pm and it’s long past the gondola’s bedtime. It’s pitch black-save for the lights of Vail flickering below and the miners’ lamps attached to our helmets. We hurtle downhill on four skis, narrowly avoiding the moguls and weedy aspen trees that approach fast and furious. Gung-ho grown men all around me are screaming like little girls. We bodycheck the banks of tracks made during the daytime through the forest, deliriously looking for those gaps and clearings between trees where we can hockey stop. 

We have the mountain completely to ourselves as we try out newfangled ski bikes-their two wheels replaced by skis, with two more mini skis attached to our feet. It takes just a few minutes to get the hang of them, and I’m reminded of that old skier’s joke: What’s the difference between a beginning snowboarder and an instructor? About half an hour. In this case, ski biking in Vail has proven to be the perfect way to extend my daily ski fix.

When it comes to skiing, I’m greedy. Whistler was high on my list of reasons for relocating from London to Vancouver 10 years ago. And it can be a hard place to tear yourself away from-the ease, the politeness and the record early snowfalls of late. But I had been starting to miss two things: an abundance of waist-deep powder that’s also extremely dry-a rarity on B.C.’s wet coast-and decent bouts of sunshine in January.

Which is how I find myself flying hurtling down Vail’s slopes on some crazy four-ski contraption. The next morning the whole resort feel Klieg-lit by sunshine. The slopes themselves are full of fun surprises: it’s still early and we’re gliding (now on two skis like normal people) through the powder on the Windows run in the Sun Down Bowl and, on our way back up the chairlift, we see the trees are adorned with cheeky panties, bras and colourful beaded necklaces. Welcome to Colorado.
Later that day we’re winding our way across the resort toward the huts of Belle’s Camp in the Blue Sky Basin, where we join the lucky locals-and a few well-guided tourists-for lunch. The outside barbecues are enduring heavy use as the chefs flame-grill lobster tails, marinated chicken and chunky sausages. Served with a Calabrese salad, this is fine dining at 11,480 feet. The dessert? Lapping up panoramic views of the seven bowls we spent the morning skiing. We end the day on Black Rock-a custom-gladed run that gives you the feeling of being in the trees without any of the scariness of quickly working out your route in the face of oncoming aspens.

The following morning we head to the resort of Beaver Creek (affectionately known as the Beav), some 20 minutes away by car. Although it’s technically open to anyone, this gated community styles itself as the Ivy League of ski and snowboarding schools. Here everyone is spoiled, not only by corduroy-groomed runs, but also by mini conveyor belts and escalators to ferry you around the computer-mapped slopes. Wild isn’t the word that comes to mind.

You’ll often hear that those who want to be seen head to Aspen; well, those who want to be left alone ski the Beav. I spend my final night at the über-luxurious private dining at Trappers Cabin, where Bachelorette Trista and Ryan stayed. Having hiked off the slope and into its solitary setting 9,500 feet atop the resort, we feast on chili (keeping it real) in the swish four-bedroom cabin-with our own chef and pool table.

There’s another well-known joke that swirls around the mountains: What’s the difference between God and a ski instructor? God doesn’t think he’s a ski instructor. But standing in the rarified air atop Vail’s peak, you can’t really blame anyone for feeling they’re a little closer to heaven than everyone else. WL