Photo by Alex West

Our pilot, Quack, doesn't talk to me very much but when he does it seems to be about something called a dobro. Now he's near a couple of girls at the dinner table and circles in on Carrie who let it slip that she can sing. Then he hovers big over me again and describes it in more detail: "spider bridge," "custom mahogany inlays," "walnut neck." Oh I get it - we're talking about some kind of guitar! I feign a little knowledge because, as everybody knows, you want the heli pilot on your side. You never can tell when he's going to throw in a bonus high-speed earthmapping dive or pull a few G's on the ride up to a summit between runs. Best policy: stay on his good side. And so I agree with my man that the dobro is the best instrument since sticks were first knocked against turtle shells. He smiles.

It is just another cozy night at Ruby Mountain Helicopter Skiing (RMH) in the high desert of eastern Nevada. John Quackenbush, or Quack, livening up a willing crew of strangers after another amazing meal. A man, a woman, a Dobro and ten other folks who just met, sitting around a classic, peeled-wood lodge and getting to know each other a bit. After he and Carrie perform for us the pool balls begin to clank on the far side of the room, then the TV comes on lightly, a few more beers get opened and some people sneak off to bed.

And now, here we are - center stage and feeling very small between two rock curtains that stand fifteen feet apart. The chute rolls over and drops into a desert abyss over 3,000 vertical feet below our boots. The guide gives a thumbs-up to the heli. It shows its steel belly and powers down and away from our perch. There are about ten inches of Utah-grade fresh lying smooth in the chute and it is time for someone to claim this thing. Looking at the three clients and our guide, I smile and they say, "You're the writer. You take it." 'Huh?! OK.'

"The runs are long, forested powder shots with gentle pitches..."

I drop in and...fall right out of the bed. I'm a tangled ruckus on the floor and the guy I just met is now awake in the bed beside mine asking what the hell is going on. Sordid dreams near Elko, Nevada, buddy.

It is the best of heli-skiing. It is (never really) the worst of heli-skiing. We have everything: first-class lodging, incredible food, competent and entertaining guides, tons of Jet-A fuel, a Bell 407 helicopter, a relatively little-used mountain range, and it is snowing. On the first day we fly eight runs with a little cat-skiing mixed in during a foggy noon. The higher peaks have questionable snow stability and weather is imminent so we stay on the front part of the range. The runs are long, forested powder shots with gentle pitches. The heli passes overhead, shuttling another group to the top as we go down. We end the day with a long, winding gully called Snake and jump in the 'ship' for a quick hop back to the ranch.

The weird ski dream could have happened for a few reasons. First being the strangeness of Nevada itself. Seen on a billboard 100 miles west of the Rubies on Route 80: "Battle Mountain - Voted the Armpit of America. We didn't know you were looking!" Try telling someone that's not the beginning of a creepy high-desert courtesy call center death-ring movie. Then there's day two of the trip.

"This is the biggest single snowstorm we've had in a few years." "This doesn't happen here!" You never hope for it to stop snowing except when you go to a heli-skiing joint. We get whiteout snow all day. And all night. The storm sits right on the range and settles in, nice and comfy for two whole days. For those of us who have been priming ourselves during the preceding three weeks for this, being grounded creates a little mental anguish. Anguish undoubtedly leads to loud dreams. Loud dreams lead to an awakened stranger in my room and that can't be good for anyone.