WHEN PEOPLE HEAR ABOUT MY BACKCOUNTRY igloo project, they sometimes cock their heads and look at me funny. I admit, it sounds foolish—spending thousands and blowing off work to build happy fun pods. But after they hear the whole story, they just want in.

"Call it an igloo village," I say to Nancy Pasternack, a friend and colleague. It's November. We're in a bar in Bend, Oregon, with snow piling up outside—the soppy kind that makes for excellent igloo mortar. "Envision not just one or two igloos but many," I tell her. "I'm thinking of at least a dozen out there."

"Out there" is the Deschutes National Forest, just east of the Cascades. Drive 20 minutes from Bend and you'll find 1.6 million acres of old-growth forests, bulging volcanoes, and easy ski glades that groan under 20 feet of snow every winter. It's the best mountain real estate money can't buy: spectacular views, quiet lakes, unlimited natural runs. An igloo development will be my own destination resort, a place where my friends and I can warm up with hot chocolate and slippers before venturing back out for more turns. Tents would never last, and snow caves are too confining. But igloos, built in the shade, should hold up most of the winter.

"Poor man's ski cabins," I say. "Lay down indoor-outdoor carpeting. Stash some fuel. We'd never need a ski pass again."

Nancy looks confused. Like many people, she's probably never seen a real igloo. So I cup my hands, palms down, to approximate an igloo shape, and then move them all over the place to suggest many. This might also suggest "maniac."

A few months ago I'd never seen an igloo, either, and I assumed they were a hassle to build. But after Googling "winter camping shelter" one night, I stumbled upon the Icebox, an igloo-building tool that promised fast-'n'-easy 'gloos strong enough to stand on. So I ordered one, imagining tuckered skiers and weary snowshoers filing over a ridge to discover—what's this?—an igloo village!

"That's a great idea!" said my friend Tania Kneuer, an occupational therapist. "It'll be like building forts." She and her husband, Scott Weber, signed up, as did my office mate Alex Berger.

Of all the people I told about the village, few ever asked why I wanted to do this. Nancy didn't. Alex didn't. My fiancée, Heidi, did—but only after I'd dropped $2,300 of our money on a snowmobile. How else was I supposed to ferry in sleeping bags, tiki torches, and other amenities? I named the machine Betty.

"Why do you want to do this again?" Heidi asked when I fired Betty up in the garage, anxiously awaiting the first snow.

"What do you mean why?" Betty and I rocketed out into the driveway, her track spewing gravel all across the yard.