Photo by Patricia Hughes

"Waaahhh-hooooo!" It was the only fitting thing to scream as I carved ess after ess down the most perfect 35-degree slope my skis and I had ever met.

I linked my turns with the snaking trail left in the foot-deep powder by our guide, Anne. For safety reasons, she took the lead. Or so she said. But as I approached and saw her enormous grin, I suspected the real reason was to snag the first run on this virgin slope.

That was fair. She had broken trail most of the way up Copperstain, an 8,600-foot gleaming peak that poked from the Purcell Range in western British Columbia. We had reached the peak just before noon on a brilliant February day. After a quick lunch, we turned our attention to the mountain, prepared to spend a joyful afternoon yo-yoing across the unmarked, treeless slope.

It was my first time skiing with a guide. For me, backcountry skiing is a very selfish experience. It's about solitude and freedom. Ten years ago I turned my back on crowded ski resorts with their overpriced lift tickets and long lines, blaring music at the half-pipe and smell of hotdogs in the winter air. I chose the quiet. I chose the extra effort to climb for hours through quiet forests for the chance at a spectacular summit and a stunning descent. My maximum number of companions on any outing was three, tops. So what was I doing out here with a guide and a lodge full of guests?

Blame it on the tent. A major drawback of backcountry skiing is access. In order to ski several days in a row, you either have to stay at a resort and escape to the backcountry nearby, or take a tent into the freezing night. Purcell Lodge offered a middle ground. A rustic lodge set amidst remote and sparkling peaks, complete with gourmet chef, sauna and feather beds in private bedrooms.

I'd heard horrific stories about these Canadian lodges: family-style dormitories with ten to a room; skiing single-file for hours behind a coddling guide; listening to the drivel of the other guests. One friend who had visited a different lodge the winter before got stuck on a three-hour ascent behind a guy who talked non-stop about his gastro-intestinal distress. The last thing I needed in the backcountry was a dissertation on irritable bowel syndrome.

"Soon we had crested the Whitetooth ridge and Mt. Sir Donald loomed into view, towering above the horizon to greet us, a sentinel to Canada's Glacier National Park."

But Purcell Lodge seemed different. Formerly run as Mongolian Yurts, the lodge was built a few years earlier to provide access to a real wilderness experience. The brochure boasted hot water and guides who knew the terrain. I decided to give it a try.

The day before, I stomped my feet and flapped my arms against the zero degree temperature in a parking lot in the tiny mountain village of Golden, British Columbia. Eight of us were covered in Goretex and fleece, and some had their ski goggles on already. I couldn't see anyone's face for all the hats and earmuffs and balaclavas. Who were these people I'd be spending the next four days with? Were they good skiers? Were they noisy types? Did anyone have the croup?

The tarmac was piled high with gear: duffel bags, ski bags, knapsacks and twenty boxes of groceries. A helicopter loomed into view and hovered over the "X" as the ground crew motioned for it to land. Spewing dust and snow, the chopper put down. The pilot hopped out and started loading bags and boxes into the belly of the aircraft. The ground crew strapped the skis to the side and motioned for us.

"Everyone in!" one of them shouted against the roaring of the blades. We scrambled into the wind and grit churned up by the whirling blades, and climbed into the compartment. The pilot showed us the seatbelts and the earphones which would protect us from the noise, but also allow him to speak to us. My husband Roy took a window seat and I squeezed in beside him.

Minutes later we lifted from the ground and spun around to face the mountains. We passed over Whitetooth Ski Area, a friendly hill where we had warmed up our technique the day before. It was "community" day when we arrived. Everyone skied for a dollar - Canadian. Two years later the ski hill would be transformed into Kicking Horse Ski Resort, an international destination for year-round outdoor recreation.

It took only seconds to leave behind the Trans Canada Highway and residential neighborhoods of Golden. Soon we had crested the Whitetooth ridge and Mt. Sir Donald loomed into view, towering above the horizon to greet us, a sentinel to Canada's Glacier National Park.

After a twenty-minute flight, the helicopter put down on a snowy platform in the middle of the Purcell range. With the blades whirring above us, we climbed down and were met by Anne, Paul Leeson, the owner and lead guide, and Gail, the chef. Bags and boxes were unloaded onto the platform and covered with a tarp. Paul and Anne spread their bodies over the pile as the helicopter lifted and spun away.

Silence filled the meadow. It was the last machine we would hear for five days, other than a coffee pot and CD player. We picked up the bags and trudged toward the lodge. Nestled amidst the evergreens was something straight out of an L.L. Bean catalogue. It was a rough-hewn, two-story wooden structure with a large porch overlooking the Mt. Sir Donald range, and one outbuilding that held the dry sauna.

Inside was a modern and functional kitchen and a large living room featuring deep couches, warm rugs and an enormous fireplace. The bedrooms, yoga room, library and bathrooms were upstairs. Our room had one window that was completely iced over - on the inside. That explained the two down comforters that covered the bed.

After we got settled, Paul welcomed us and gave us the avalanche rescue lesson. Then we trudged outside to practice. We spent two hours burying transceivers in snow mounds and digging them up. Toward evening we did a bit of skiing on the hill near the lodge so Paul could judge our ability. I noticed several skiers on cross-country or light backcountry gear, one snowboarder and Shelley, a gung-ho, twenty-something novice who was trying Randonnee gear for the first time. She spent the afternoon laughing and falling.

As the sun disappeared behind the mountains we stomped the snow from our boots and entered the common room. The lodge smelled of garlic and homemade bread, and interesting music played softly in the kitchen. The other guests went upstairs to play cards while we settled into the soft chairs to read. It was quiet. So far, so good.

But I was curious - okay a little anxious - about skiing the next morning. Would Paul insist the group stay together? Several of the card players had mentioned they were looking forward to sleeping in and taking photographs. I wanted to get up early and ski until I couldn't walk. I wanted to get high and go remote. I was so inspired by the surrounding countryside I couldn't wait to start bagging some peaks.

At dinner Paul said we would leave the lodge at nine a.m. Nine! I could be halfway to the border by then! He would take a group of moderate to easy skiers on a tour of the meadows around the lodge. He looked over at me and Roy. If he noticed my distress, he didn't show it through his bushy red beard.

"You guys will go with Anne," he said. "She needs to get in shape for her guiding test. There are some beautiful peaks out there that I think you can handle." Yes! Then he looked at Shelley. "Which group are you up for?"