My brain was full of bees. A holiday season of stacked deadlines, social engagements, family priorities, and personal challenges left me feeling like a dancing circus bear in the days before animal welfare regulation. My shoulders were tense; my jaw clenched. I needed quiet. My heart ached for peace, snow, fresh air. I longed for the blank slate of a solo trip and a satisfying burn in my calves while racing down a mountain slope, feeling my old, tired self ripping away in the frosty chill of acceleration. But where? To achieve this state of mind, crowds are the enemy. Utah? Utah.
I decided to nestle myself for the weekend in the Wasatch Front of the Beehive State, hoping to leave my brain buzz there forever. The dream of a quiet ski vacation still remains in existence in the area’s powdered mountains, somehow, for now. Luckily, getting there couldn’t be easier. I hopped on a breezy two-hour flight from SD to Salt Lake City, where the airport was recently remodeled to the tune of more than $5 billion. I grabbed my little rental car and within 15 minutes was in downtown Salt Lake, just in time for lunch.
A frothy pint and French onion soup at White Horse Spirits and Kitchen helped temper my San Diego blood to the 35-degree atmosphere. I got steak salad, too, peppery and perfectly seared, with candied walnuts, apples, and goat cheese. I was tempted to try one of the digestifs (White Horse boasts the largest selection of aperitifs and digestifs in Utah) but refrained to brave the icy roads ahead clear-eyed.
I made my way to Huntsville, about an hour from Salt Lake, passing idyllic snow-covered hilltops and rocky cliff sides and spotting the chairlifts of Snowbasin Resort winking at me under the golden sun setting below the Wasatch Mountains.
Wrapping around the Pineview Reservoir, Huntsville is tucked behind willows and pines, a charming little Christmas village home to less than 600. I pulled into the Compass Rose Lodge, a 2018 project founded by ski-industry vets. It’s also the closest accommodation to Snowbasin, only a 15-minute drive to the base of the chairlift. Running about $300 a night, the lodge is family-owned and rustic-industrial-chic with a communal hearth and coffee shop downstairs that makes a decent egg sandwich for pre-slope fuel. There’s an observatory for stargazing on clear nights, should the mood strike. Huntsville also offers a plethora of Airbnbs and Vrbos for larger groups or those looking to stay an extended stint in ski country.
Once unpacked and settled, I took a stroll through the neighborhood, past quaint farmhouses and luxury estates snuggled together under the blanket of snow. Black-capped chickadees guided me down to the reservoir’s rocky shore, where I picked my way to the water’s edge and breathed in the solitude. The sky was still; nothing in the landscape moved except the rhythm of the shoreline. I could feel ease creeping its way back into my neuro-circuitry, the lazy lapping of icy water reminding me that all moments pass, but nature is eternal.
New businesses are thriving in the original buildings that line 25th Street in historic downtown Ogden.
My stomach growled, and I decided to make my way through the narrow canyon into Ogden in search of the evening’s distractions. I followed the many rippling turns of the Ogden River for a half-hour before the city appeared, a sprawling college town set against the mountain’s shoulders. Prairie and Art Deco architecture mixed with small mid-century and Colonial homes as I moved into Ogden’s heart. Its downtown strip on 25th Street sloped gently downhill, culminating at the old train station.
The town arose in the late 1800s as a major rail transfer hub from east to west, becoming the closest city to the Golden Spike of Promontory Summit. It still exists today as a center for rail freight. With the rail came workers, booze, and brothels. Ogden’s reputation for sin and dereliction remains against the religiosity of greater Utah, which means a vibrant nightlife scene persists here like an oasis. Young people flock here on weekends, and with the influence of the college, the town feels like a refuge for artists and dreamers and weirdos amid a largely homogenous cultural landscape. Walk down Electric Alley and you can still see windows and balconies of the parlors and cat houses run by the madams of the day.
The town was largely ignored until the mid-1990s or so, when new business started to take residence to turn Ogden into more of a travel destination. The old brick façades remain in elegy to their lurid former lives. Enterprising locals transformed these decomposing old fixtures into new community hubs. The Mercantile took residence in the city’s former bus depot to create a stylish and bustling coffee shop in the heart of the downtown strip. The Monarch, built in 1929 as a parking garage, is now a collective arts center.
Snowbasin offers the benefits of both expansive terrain and grand amenities.
I stepped off the snow-blustered street into Hearth on 25th for dinner. The restaurant is wood-oven driven with a surprisingly inventive chef’s tasting menu. Highlights included a leek-ash pasta with tallow-roasted kale chips, duck breast with mushrooms and hazelnuts, and lavender granita. Overstuffed but hungry for my date with the slopes the next day, I followed the river back to Huntsville.
I awoke early in the still-grey morning, grabbed my coffee and sandwich downstairs, and scraped the ice off my windshield. In 14 minutes, I was pulling into a spot at Snowbasin. With hardly a car in front of me and free parking for all, it felt as if I had rolled out of my comforter and onto the mountain slope.
A short line later, I was on the express gondola, which drops off at Needles Lodge and Snowbasin’s primary runs. The jagged, exposed peaks of the summit caught my sightline on the ascent. But halfway up, I turned to take in the view of the valley stretching out for miles beneath me. I grabbed my snowboard at the top, blinking at the glittering trails awaiting. Snowbasin’s runs are generous and diverse. Wide, sweeping catwalks and tricky little tree-lined sections abound throughout the 104 runs and three terrain parks over three main peaks. You can even ski the Olympic downhill track—it’s been maintained since 2002 and will remain through the 2034 Olympic Winter games.
The Snowbasin Resort’s Cinnabar lounge has a new Après program, set under red Venetian glass chandeliers.
Snowbasin is run by the Holding family, who also own Sun Valley Resort in Idaho (and Sinclair Oil Corporation). As an independent operator, the resort feels somewhat less corporate—and is worlds less busy—than competitors like Park City or Deer Valley nearby. The décor is extravagant, with giant Venetian glass chandeliers, stone inlay, and gold finishings throughout the multiple lodges on the property. The Cinnabar lounge’s Après program features fondue and cocktails under the striking red chandeliers of the main dining room.
With the small-town vibe, locals clearly feel a sense of ownership to the slopes, and you may run into some gentle ribbing on the chairlift should a resident realize where you’re coming from, but it’s all in good fun. After all, the fact that a ski resort this large still exists with this much local influence is astounding. February is arguably the time to go for the best snow after the holiday crowds have dissipated. The season lasts until mid-April.
Shooting Star Saloon is one of the country’s oldest operating bars. Stop by for a pint and a burger after the slopes, but remember that it’s cash-only.
Enjoying the ease of moving about the mountain, I explored Snowbasin’s terrain. I whipped and s-curved until my knees shook and my shins bruised into my bindings and I could take no more. One more gondola ride took me back up to Needles Lodge for flatbread, clam chowder, and a sweeping view from the bar as fresh snow began to descend on the mountain. I was fed and happy-sore, with snowflakes filling my eyes—mission accomplished. I felt the weight of the last few months slough off of me, like I was a pine branch flinging itself free from inches of built-up snowpack.
That evening, I celebrated my success at Shooting Star Saloon—famed as America’s oldest bar west of the Mississippi and conveniently located only a block from the Compass Rose. Winter ale cooled my sun-chapped cheeks. The mounted carapace of the Guinness Book’s once-largest recorded St. Bernard, Buck, gazed down on me with approval.
If a rich grandmother’s idea of unmitigated lavishness is your thing, stay at The Grand America Hotel on your way out of Salt Lake City.
On my way out of Utah, I enjoyed the hospitality of the Holding family one more time at The Grand America Hotel. Also bedecked in glass chandeliers and gleaming Carrara marble splendor, the 24-floor hotel—Salt Lake’s largest—is glitzed to the nines. But after all my backcountry woodsiness, who’s to blame a sore girl for wanting a bubble bath in a pink-wallpapered powder room? I sunk into the hot water and realized my bees had flown away somewhere in between runs four and six yesterday. A proper solo trip helps remind you who you are and maybe even how to ask for what you need. This weekend I needed Utah, and she obliged.
