At Selkirk Mountain Experience, deep in British Columbia's rippable fluff, the drill is simple: Climb up, scream down, with nary a helicopter in sight

By Mike Harrelson

Bob Allen

Here I am, almost a year to the day, to do it all over. I'm not alone; in fact, seven of us in our disparate party of ten are repeat guests. Shuffling my purple-skinned skis upward, one pathetic step after another, I feel my quads may combust in a lactic explosion. Day Two of this year's "holiday" is adding up to be a 7,600-foot day of climbing—a certifiable bonk. Yet on the plus side, that's 7,600 feet of pow-perfect descent.

Back at the Durrand Chalet, under its Swiss Army–red roof, I peel off my sweat-encrusted layering system and lay it to dry on the west-facing deck. Odoriferous boots are pulled apart to facilitate the airing process, steam rising from the chartreuse, custom-molded footbeds. Just then Florina and Charlotte, the Beglingers' six- and eight-year-old porcelain-doll daughters, roll our afternoon snacks onto the veranda on a little cart—mango tortes, asparagus wrapped in phyllo, and a citrus sun tea.

Just like that, my recollection of borderline masochism, or at least a spirited dose of self-abuse, is erased by comforts akin to afternoon tea at the Ritz. This is the nut of Selkirk Mountain Experience: Take pushing yourself at redline on glaciated peaks, blend in a polished chalet setting, add a shot of mountaineering angst, and top with a week's worth of north-facing, shin-deep fluff. It's a yin/yang recipe for misery and bliss.