Roy’s blue jacket flashed by and I raced him, sculpting parallel Ss through the powder. We spent the day hiding out on the backside, riding the T-bar with the six-year-olds then disappearing up the boot track to our private backcountry run. We only saw Bob only once more at the top of Windowpane, leading another pair of backcountry skiers to the secret delights of Big Mountain. We waved our thanks before he disappeared, spitting a rooster-tail of powder behind his boards.

Later that evening, I sank into the hot tub grinning like the Cheshire Cat. No crowds again, superlative skiing and now this: a steamy soak to cure aching muscles. We went out for dinner again, and even though it was Valentine’s Day, we didn’t wait more than two minutes to be seated at a small table for wine and fettucine alfredo. The village was hushed with fresh-fallen snow as we hiked back through town to the lodge. I cracked the window in our room to breathe the crisp smell of pines and listen to the icicles drip on the gutter.

On Monday morning we woke to three more inches of fresh snow, ate, and hurried to the rental shop. Sunday night I had dreamt of skiing on short, shaped skis like Bob’s. They propelled me down the mountain with grace through powder, slush and ice, on steep and shallow terrain. No buried tips, no forced turns. I had to try them for real.

I emerged from the rental shop with a glossy pair of She’s Piste by K2, decorated with hibiscus flowers on a white, gold and powder-blue background. Roy carried a longer set of World Piste, and we kicked over to the lift operator with pride.

"I see you upgraded from those toothpicks," he said, grinning. "We wondered how long it would take you."

Struggling through the dreamy powder the previous day, we had unknowingly been the brunt of jokes by the younger set of lift operators. These kids believed a skier would be foolish to ignore the advantages gained through the new technology of shaped skis. While no longer skiing in jeans like the cowboy, I am still a curmudgeon about gimmicks, and reluctant to shell out hundreds of dollars every time ski manufacturers staged a revolution.

"Hey, they were fat when we bought them," I said, trying to justify our aging Tuas to this kid, who was probably ten years old himself when our skis were the new, radical item.

He grinned and waved us off.

We ascended to the foggy summit and headed for the T-bar. I wanted to recreate the magic of the previous day on my dream skis. Skiing down to the T-bar, I felt light and quick. I only had to think about turning and the skis responded. Rather than muscling my thighs through every turn and hanging on for the finish, I had to pay attention to come out of the turn quickly or I would end up facing uphill - that’s how responsive the shaped skis were.

On a turn, the extra wide edges catch the snow and cause the ski to flex under the boot, forming an arc, and producing a nearly effortless turn. Because the skis are fat, the skier glides on the surface like a hydroplane. And because they are short, the skis are more maneuverable and the skier does not trip herself by crossing her tips.

Roy chiseled the slope like a dancer. Shoulders square and poles glancing off the ground, he swished down the hill and reached the T-bar barely breathing hard.

"It’s closed!" he shouted up the hill. The quiet slope betrayed the truth: the T-bar ran only on weekends.

"This would never happen at a real resort," I pouted. A 'real' resort would open the T-bar every day. But even as the words left my mouth I realized this was what made Big Mountain special. It is a throwback. It doesn’t cater to the gold-jeweled, pink-parka snow bunny mob like bigger resorts; it caters to 'real' skiers who wore jeans and ten-year-old gear and were willing to hike up the slope if they wanted their backcountry so much - which is exactly what we did.

As we climbed, the ubiquitous fog thinned, like a good omen whispering through the firs. Gray jays whistled and followed us up the slope. By the time we reached Windowpane ledge, the broad peaks of Glacier National Park poked between the clouds. I picked out Jackson Peak on the horizon and basked in the brief view. Silvery-gold rays of sun glinted onto the slope below like a message from the heavens. "Ski here," the rays seemed to demand. I obliged.

My runs down Windowpane were silent and feathery. The shaped skis led me through narrow niches I wouldn’t have dared on my Tuas. I held on through fast dips and tight corners, under branches that dumped snow on my head, and through the hushed glade. We had the place to ourselves - even Bob had stayed home today. I shouldered the She’s Piste and clumped to the top of the knob three times before hunger sent us to the Summit House and another steaming bowl of chili with extra crackers.

The final runs in the afternoon were cruddy and warm, but the K2s performed like champs. We returned them to the rental shop reluctantly. After a final hot tub and quiet dinner, we boarded the train for a cozy ride home in our sleeper car. As we rolled by the white world of Montana and Idaho, I swayed to sleep dreaming of hourglass skis covered with hibiscus.

Info:
Big Mountain opens on Thanksgiving day, 2004 and closes April 10, 2005. The Bigfoot T-bar is open weekends only. Average snow fall is 300 inches.

Glacier Park International Airport is 19 miles from the lifts, 11 miles from Whitefish. Non-stop flights from Salt Lake (Delta), Minneapolis (Northwest), Seattle and Spokane (Horizon) and Calgary (SkyXpress) arrive daily.

By train, take Amtrak from Seattle, Spokane, Portland (with stops in between), or from other points to the east of Whitefish. Call (800) 858-3930 or go to www.bigmtn.com for information on package deals including train tickets, shuttle bus, lodging and ski passes.

By Patricia Hughes