Our initial runs were slopes spilling into high lateral valleys. They were nice, medium-length routes with moderate pitches and doubtless good most of the winter, but they weren't high and steep enough o have good snow on a warm day in April, and despite an otherwise enthralled group, I suffered a brief jolt of fear that this was, you know, it. But as we headed in, and in, the terrain got higher, and steeper. The landing for Beer Run was a tiny notch between two huge faces of mottled black granite-as Ian said, "Like something from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas." We quickly discovered the steep, shaded slopes held excellent pow.

After lunch, we ended up on the kind of terrain brochures are made of: enormous, wide-open, rolling glaciers spilling off the huge massif known as Mt. Athelstan. We did three landings here, skiing runs of 3,200 vertical feet in what seemed like a blinding rush,the turns going on and on, stopping only once or twice each run. We landed at a new spot each time, and we'd occasionally glimpse our old tracks a mile or more away, but each time I asked Glen the name of the run, he merely relied, "Athelstan." At this point, he said, we were maybe 80km from the lodge, and we could see peaks in the distance that Glen figured must be near Whistler.

On the way home, as we were pushing 30,000 vertical feet for the day, we crossed a ridge of enormous, shattered flakes of granite built up into massive ramparts like a gargantuan mountaintop fortress from a weird sci-fi flick or a J.R.R. Tolkien tale. That flight took us to Vayu, which I thought was the run of the day: perfect pow courtesy of an enormous black wall casting perpetual shade onto the upper pitch, the a long right turn onto an easterly pitch, and suddenly, nice corn snow to the final heli pick-up. I'd skied pow and corn in the same run precisely once in my life. At TLH, I'd done it three times in a weekend.

TLH operates out of Tyax Lake Resort, a big, crescent-shaped log structure with a hunting-lodge atmospheres straight out of the '50's. The heli-guiding operation is technically separate from the lodge, which operates year-round, although heli-skiers are the only winter guests. The rooms are normal hotel rooms, with TV, phone and bath. There's an outdoor hot tub, indoor sauna and exercise room, and the de rigueur massive stone fireplace. The food is excellent, buffet-style, plentiful and varied.

The guests were a mix of western Canadians, Brits vacationing in Whistler and, even making generous allowances for the fact that they were snowboarders, a pack of the most ill-mannered Californians on a Quicksilver clothing company retreat.

The contrast to the lodge staff couldn't have been greater. They're what you'd call characters, people who seem to have spent some time in the bush-like, maybe four decades. Our waiter sported an intricately twirled, 19th-century-style moustache. There was also a resident singer named Tom, a 60-something woodsman in flannels and suspenders who ruled his Fender Stratocaster.

Out of this potpourri of humanity emerged our harmonious skiing group-sans Californians. It included John, a computer wizard from England who sold his company and at age 40-something is now rich, semi-retired and travelling the world; Trevor, a golf pro from Panorma, B.C., and his girlfriend, Vicki, a Level III ski instructor: Alvin, a ski patroller from the Okanagan, and his wife, Cathy; Mervin, a Singapore dentist clearly more at home in the tropics; Gregg, an aircraft mechanic from Denver, and his girlfriend, Jamie, who bought him the trip for his 40th birthday but didn't' ski; David, another vacationing Brit on a 40th birthday present from an absent wife; and Sue, wife of local guide Charles Wood. Many were first-time heli-skiers with average skill levels.

Lead guide of the two groups the next day was Gerald Duenser , an Austrian from near St. Anton who's know locally as "super schnitzel." Gerald snowboarded with the appalling Californians. Several times we saw him screaming down some enormous face well ahead of even the best pro riders in his group, wearing a ridiculous pink wig to mock his much-unloved charges.

The lead guide gets to choose the runs, and Gerald seemed intent on hitting some high, open slopes. Glen smirked at "the danged foreigner's" crust-ridden picks, muttering that the only good snow was on tight, steep, northeast faces. Eventually, Glen's exhortations prevailed, and we did two runs down Jumpin' Jack in wonderful settled pow. As the pitch steepened to that magical 40-degree mark, several of us accelerated to New School speeds and ripped huge turns that kicked up waterskiing-like roostertails. Jumpin' Jack's easterly lower pitch held delectable corn.

That afternoon, two more runs were phenoms. The first had an extended steep upper face where I ripped the biggest, fastest powder turn so of my life, my butt brushing the slope every turn. The second had a short roller that fell away to nearly 45 degrees, the steepest pitch I've ever heli-skied. Laying my knee and hip deep into the turn, the settled pow extracted about as much effort as a 15-degree groomer. As the last skier pulled up, Glen peered down the next bowl and asked. "Who wants to guide the next pitch?" Several eager skiers headed straight down the fall line, an easterly line that held some okay corn. I led Sue and Gregg all the way around the bowl, towards, yup, a northeasterly face beneath another one of those ubiquitous black granite walls. Did we make our last turn of the trip in pow? Does Glen hate snowboarders?

— George Koch, MountainZone.com Correspondent