My friend bounced and jiggled in the vinyl snowcat seat next to me like a vertical Jell-O mold. He was desperately scratching at the frosty window, trying to get another glimpse at the slope we had just seen. Through the tiny hole he whittled with the finger of his glove, we could see what must have been 10 miles of ridgelines. Steep cirquest and jagged peaks marched along their tops, and treed slopes stretched from mid-mountain down to deep draws and valleys. A fresh, three-foot blanket lay thick and white over the alpine scene. Mesmerized by the vista through the frosty peephole, I realized I had dreamed about this place once. I slammed my boot heel into the rubber floor mat to make sure I was awake. Thud. I was. Thud. thud. I craned my neck over the plastic piping on my friend's seat, looked out the window, and realized that this was going to e my best day of skiing ever.

We were deep in a range I had never heard of, nearing the top of a run a 40-degree powder slope with a spattering of trees with no name. At any resort in the U.S., this would be the secret, protected locals' stash, the first hit on a powder day. But this was not a resort. And it wasn't guarded by local thugs. In fact, this was our 10th run of the day.