Photo by Patricia Hughes

Shelley wriggled in her seat. She was used to groomed slopes, but she was keen for an adventure. She was scared, but she wanted to challenge herself. Her friend, who had traveled with her from Ottowa, pouted as Shelley considered separating from her.

Secretly I loved the idea of a private guide for myself and my husband.

"Oh, come on," Anne said. "You'll never know if you don't try. If you hate it, you can do something different tomorrow."

So the next morning at 8:55 a.m. the four of us clipped into our skis and climbed the hill outside the lodge. The sun had not yet reached us and hoarfrost clung to our poles and bindings as we made our way to the ridge. Our breath froze into mist. We reached the small pinnacle before the other group even had their mittens on. I looked over at Shelley, who had unzipped her five layers. She was not used to the exertion of the uphill part of backcountry skiing.

Anne led us down through the trees on "Kneegrinder Hill," so called because it dropped nearly 2,000 feet to the valley floor. We lost Shelley in the trees for a few minutes, but then there she was - coat flapping and hair flying as she crashed through the last small shrubs. What this woman lacked in skill she made up for in spunk. From here we set out for Copperstain, now nearly 4,000 feet above us.

As we gained altitude the meadow and the lodge came back into view. A tiny procession of black dots spread single file across the plateau. When I looked back several minutes later, they hadn't moved. They must be getting those photographs. Certainly the brilliant, blue and sun-filled sky was spectacular. The photograph I wanted was from the summit of Copperstain. We reached it nearly two hours later. It was still and damn cold. We quickly ate lunch, and pointed the skis downhill.

"Waaahhh-hooooo!" I cruised down Copperstain, sculpting one turn after another. THIS was what skiing was all about! My quads gave out before the snow did, and I collapsed into the hillside to watch Roy and Shelley. Roy's fire-engine-red ski pants glinted in the sunlight as he schussed expertly to where Anne and I waited. He arrived breathless and ecstatic.

"That was unbelievable!" He panted. "Let's do it again."

We turned and waved encouragement to Shelley, who had pitched sideways into the slope after her first turn. She was determined to try the telemark turn. But with just a few years of downhill skiing under her belt, the new stance kept sliding out from under her.

"Don't waste the snow," Anne called up to her. "Ski downhill style - I'll give you a lesson down here."

Shelley struggled to her feet. She must have realized now was not the time to practice. So she shifted her weight, leaned back and zoomed straight for us. Arms tucked, brown hair flying out from her headband, she swooped down on us without a single turn. As she approached, she edged her skis into the hill and sent a spray of powder across our knees. She attempted to stop, all cool and predictable, but her skis slipped and she landed with a plop at our feet. She lay there sucking air.

"Oh -my - God," she breathed. "I am so out of shape. We don't have hills in Ottowa." But she was happy, and game to try again. The afternoon stretched out in front of us - just four skiers on several thousand acres of powdery goodness.

Photo by Patricia Hughes

Ordinarily my goal-oriented personality would have been peeved while we waited for Shelley to get up. But I was feeling something quite different. I felt peaceful, even generous. I breathed in the fresh mountain air and felt the anxiety of the night before dissipate. I was grateful for my gourmet sack lunch, the sauna that awaited, and the companionship of my three ski buddies.

Shelley was back on her feet now, and I led the way across the slope to pick up our uphill tracks. We did three runs on Copperstain before Anne shepherded us down to the valley floor and back up through the trees.

Back at the lodge we swapped stories with the other group, and point out our "esses" before darkness claimed our slope. Dinner was exquisite, complete with wine and bread pudding for dessert.

For the next two days, we repeated the pattern. We rose at 7:30, had a big breakfast, packed a sack lunch, and climbed away from the lodge to the top of Kneegrinder Hill. The second day we summited Ptarmigan, another graceful dome that lay just beyond Copperstain. We did more travelling and fewer runs, but I didn't care. The sunny skies had lulled me into a more relaxing pace. After Copperstain, anything additional was icing on the cake.

The third morning Anne took us in a different direction toward Porcupine Peak. Near the summit rime ice halted our progress, so we unclipped the skis and hiked to the top for the obligatory summit shot. Anne, Shelley and I had frozen wisps of hair escaping from our caps.

Anne had saved the best for last. She led the way down the smooth slope and waited at the bottom. Then it was my turn. I tried to remember everything she had told me in the last two days: point the body down hill, arms in front, weight on the back ski and carve an effortless telemark turn. And another. And another. In three days I had improved a hundred percent. Anne's tips and the opportunity for constant practice in perfect, predictable conditions had enabled me to ski like a pro.

While the three of us trekked back to the summit for another run, Anne disappeared around the ridge to dig a snow pit. She had assess snow conditions and avalanche danger to qualify for full mountain guide status. She also was scouting out the safety of our last run - a 40-degree gully that dropped several hundred feet through a solitary stand of evergreens.

Late in the afternoon, she re-joined us at the bottom of Porcupine and led us toward the "short cut." The last run on Porcupine took my breath away. It turned out I wasn't such a pro skier after all. The steep grade demanded all the skill and strength I had left. I plunked head-first into the snow at least twice. Roy and Shelley didn't fare much better. But as they say, a bad day skiing beats a good day at work, anytime. We all came up grinning.

The last night at the lodge was boisterous. People shared their success stories and their bungles. Anne thanked the "advanced" team for helping her log another 24 hours of guide time, plus one snow pit. We toasted Paul, Anne and Gail and promised to write.

In the morning our helicopter whirred into view, taking with it the silence and sweet air of the mountains. As I prepared for my re-entry into civilization, I realized that sometime in the last four days my preconceptions of a communal skiing experience had been smashed. Under a brilliant sky, nestled against Mt. Sir Donald and his brethren, Purcell had offered an unexpected slice of perfection in a hectic, humming world.