I’m a lifelong skier. My husband, Sam, is not. For the first nine years we were together, he gamely joined me for the long slog up to Maine or Vermont and endured snowboarding lessons from a somewhat crazed but endlessly patient English friend who also learned the sport as an adult. Still, going much beyond the bunny slope induced panic, and while Sam enjoys ice skating, snowshoeing and even cross-country skiing, hoisting a cocktail after the lifts closed was the only part of being on the mountain that he really liked. (He was an instant gold medalist in après skiing.)

It’s perfectly understandable. It’s one thing to start hurtling down a mountain as a 3-year-old with a low center of gravity. It’s entirely another to be nearly 6 feet tall, feeling awkward and intimidated, as you try to get down the bunny slope, while a bunch of toddlers hurtle past you at Mach speed, like a barrage of supersonic Skittles.

Add to that the often icy conditions in our neck of the woods, the mediocre food at most New England ski lodges and the prevailing Yankee attitude that amenities are somehow unseemly, that some level of discomfort is necessary to justify anything fun, and I fully appreciate why Sam would routinely say, “It’s really beautiful up here, but it just doesn’t seem worth all the effort.”

So last year, we agreed to spend a week in Utah’s Deer Valley. I figured that the famously fluffy powder, sunshine (fingers crossed), extensive terrain designed for a beginner and ski-luxe accommodations might finally win him over. He would take ski lessons (since he’d given up on the snowboarding experiment) and not have to deal with intimidating hordes of snowboarders (since Deer Valley, along with Alta and Mad River Glen, is one of the three ski resorts in America that don’t allow snowboarding). If he didn’t fall in love with it, I agreed I’d never bug him about going skiing again.

We arrived in Salt Lake City on a sunny March afternoon, and after dodging the annoying hordes of bros towing ski bags and large Mormon families welcoming their kids home from their missions, we found our driver, who conveyed us into the Wasatch mountains with an ongoing but entertaining monologue in a luxury SUV. Bonus point: The trip is only 45 minutes.

The Stein Eriksen Lodge was Utah’s first Five Star resort and remains one of its most alluring. Named for the late Norwegian ski champion, it’s the epitome of tasteful alpine opulence: Think a log cabin on steroids, with amenities you never dreamed existed. Two ice-cold martinis appeared seemingly as soon as we ordered them. Our suite had a kitchen that could produce a Thanksgiving feast, a spacious living room with a fireplace, a bedroom and bathroom you could land a plane in, and a deck with a Jacuzzi looking down the valley toward Park City. Things were off to a good start.

They continued that way as we dined in the award-winning Glitretind Restaurant, where the 10,000-bottle wine cellar gives the lie to Utah’s reputation as a place where you can’t get a decent drink. The food was superb, and the altitude worked its charm, so that both of us were snoring before we’d even finished our cognac.

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Ski rack, ski helmet, ski goggles—all familiar terms. Ski butler? Not so much. But we were eager to learn. After a hearty breakfast watching the visual symphony of a sunrise in the mountains, we went downstairs to what looked like the men’s locker room at a 1-percenter’s country club. Our ski butler (a studly Argentinian) wedged our feet into our boots, adjusted the buckles and announced that the rest of our equipment was waiting slope-side. Outside, waiting for us, was Sam’s instructor—a handsome, laconic local—and my guide, a lovely woman who knew the mountain like the back of her hand. It’s a luxury I’ve rarely experienced but always enjoyed: skiing an unfamiliar mountain without having to consult a trail map. And preferred chairlift access is like being let loose in an amusement park with no lines.

I bid Sam adieu, and we went our separate ways, me remembering the words of a friend I’d once skied with in Sun Valley, Idaho. He’d made the mistake of trying to instruct his beginner wife, and after they’d gotten into a voluble fight in which she used language thoroughly unlike her, he and I went to fetch the car. “Skiing and golf,” he said. “Two things you never teach your spouse. You hire an instructor and keep your mouth shut.”

Despite the fact that it was spring break week, the slopes were blessedly uncrowded, and although Deer Valley hadn’t enjoyed its usual abundance of snowfall, conditions were no less than champagne powder, corduroy or packed powder. Temperatures reached well into the 40s, with plenty of sunshine. Because the lift lines were short, it was easy to get 10-15 runs in before lunchtime, and when Sam and I would meet at a lodge, he had a smile on his face and just the slightest hint of swagger.

In the afternoons, we took advantage of various luxury brands’ promotional yurts, where cocktails and Champagne were served at a 1920s pace and we kicked back in Adirondack chairs with Gatsby-like insouciance. We paid a visit to Montage Deer Valley, a Five Star palace with a 35,000-square-foot spa where the swimming pool is modeled after one owned by William Randolph Hearst. (His original fortune came from the silver mines in the surrounding peaks.) One valley over, meanwhile, lies the equally cushy St. Regis, where every evening, the staff opens Champagne with a sabre as dusk turns the surrounding peaks into a melting box of Crayola crayons. We sipped appreciatively before heading out for dinner in Park City, the old silver mining town that spawned it all and hosts the Sundance Film Festival. A 10-minute drive down from Deer Valley, it retains its 19th-century façade while boasting cutting-edge galleries, boutiques and some of the finest dining on either side of the Rockies. The High West Distillery offered us a tasting flight of whiskeys, while Handle and Riverhorse on Main both served outstanding food, and despite the thin air, we managed to stay awake past 10 pm.

Mornings skiing. Afternoons relaxing. Evenings imbibing and eating delicious and overly caloric things that we could justify because of mornings skiing. It was a fantastic vacation, and when I skied with Sam, he was slow but confident. More importantly, he was smiling and relaxed.

On the morning the limo came to drive us back to Salt Lake City to fly home, both of us looked wistfully at the statue of Stein Eriksen at the resort’s entrance and commented on the beauty of the lights in the trees lining the drive as we pulled away.

“So?” I asked Sam.

“So,” he repeated, “I’d say mission accomplished…except that I only ever want to ski here.”

I think I created a monster.


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