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ONE OF THE WORLD'S LONGEST toboggan runs begins on a hill informally called Kneegrinder, in British Columbia's Purcell Mountains near Golden. Actually, it isn't much of a knee grinder, unless your anterior cruciate ligament is already shot.

Nobody told us this was a world-class toboggan hill. A half-hour snowshoe climb from our base at Purcell Mountain Lodge, it overlooks the open rolling meadows of Bald Mountain and the dominating sawtooth massif of Mount Sir Donald.

Until now, Kneegrinder had been the start of a challenging 350-metre tree-skiing run. But after a few days of ski touring, my wife Sasha and I wanted to try something different, so we strapped on snowshoes and dragged two old-fashioned ash-and-hickory toboggans to the hilltop.

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THIS WAS A SECOND HONEYMOON for us, although cynics might call it a first, since our actual honeymoon was a two-month trek by ourselves in the High Arctic. First or second, it was a rare opportunity. Paul Leeson, co-founder of the lodge, had asked us to caretake the place for Christmas week, before the first clients of the 20-week winter season were brought in for New Year's. Sasha and I had visited this lodge once before, with a group of paying guests, but this time, we were on our own. Our duties were hardly onerous: keep the daily weather log, check the pipes twice weekly to make sure they didn't freeze, and make a radio call every morning to Leeson's base in nearby Golden, a 15-minute helicopter flight away. Nice work if you can get it, and this time, we got it.

I first skied this area almost 20 years ago, when I joined some Winnipeg telemarkers — yes, they do exist — on a week-long tour based out of two Mongolian-style yurts. One of the Winnipeggers, Ann Sutton, was so smitten with the place that three years later, she returned and met Leeson, a local guide who had bought into the yurt outfitting operation (they later married; evidently, the Purcells' deep powder includes some romance dust). In 1989, Leeson and his business partner retired the yurts and built the lodge.

For most people, I'd say, "winter" and "luxury" are an oxymoron. For me, as an Arctic trekker, winter luxury usually means a cup of hot chocolate savoured in an unheated tent. For mountaineers, it's an alpine hut with a bunk and a shared stove on which to cook your noodles.

Purcell Mountain Lodge is a luxurious hotel in the wilderness. The rooms offer beckoning views of the surrounding peaks and bowls. Twenty pairs of high-end snowshoes hang from pegs. The staff quickly sweeps the balconies after every dusting of snow. The meals have won gourmet awards. The guides put in 14-hour days, rising while guests sleep to listen to the avalanche report on the radio and plan the day's routes and finishing late in the evening by washing up the supper dishes. Attentive service, attention to detail and no cut corners are the rule.

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This time, of course, there were no chefs, guides or clients. Sasha and I were ensconced in the private chalet, a small detached cottage for two next to the main lodge, with a kitchen, bathroom, sunken bedroom and stargazer's window. Couples in the honeymoon suite can spend as much or as little time as they wish with the group next door.

Late December in the Purcells is wonderful for skiing. Ample snow has already fallen, and with mild winter temperatures of -5° to -10°C, you don't risk the cold snaps that occasionally frustrate Christmas vacationers in Banff. Later in the winter, the sun glares off the snow all day long, like burning magnesium, but in December, the light falls soft and blue on the gentle timberline meadows of Bald Mountain.

True, days are short, but for us, this is a blessing. We have time to enjoy a leisurely breakfast — not quite as exotic as the zucchini pancakes and homemade bread of Purcell's chef, but more upscale than our usual camping fare of granola and powdered milk. Then we pack a lunch and ski for seven hours, followed by wine and an elaborate dinner. Finally — and this is the kicker — we sit on the sofa, nurse our cups of tea and read for three hours straight. I love reading, but I can't remember the last time I read a book for that long without answering an e-mail or Googling something. It's like evenings spent by a 19th-century couple, except there's electricity, indoor plumbing and a sauna.

Sasha and I are natural tourers. She's quite new to skiing and can put in distance but isn't comfortable with downhill slopes she can't snowplow. I am an experienced winter traveller, but I'm also a transplanted Easterner and know little about avalanches. Yet I've seen how avalanche awareness dominates ski-touring choices here in the Western mountains. The lodge has never had an accident and has unusually safe terrain. I had already bashed my way down its steeper routes on guided trips.

Occasionally, we snowshoed. Sasha redid the world's longest toboggan run twice more. Most of all, we roamed every corner of Bald Mountain, the open meadow in which the lodge is set. No chance of a green Christmas here — frequent short snowfalls erased our tracks, so every day, we were writing on a fresh sheet of paper.

On the last day, we skied until darkness gathered. The sun shone warmly all day, richly texturing the snow. Each surface flake had its own little blue shadow. Grey jays landed in distant treetops, sending showers of snow down into the forest. Even big Copperstain Mountain, not the most aesthetic peak, looked shapely in this sunshine.

Finally, as shadows crept over the rolling hills, we hurried back to the lodge, stoked the stove in the sauna, opened a bottle of Oregon Pinot and toasted to close friends: the fathomless powder, the sweet après-ski twilight and, of course, Kneegrinder.

Jerry Kobalenko is a writer, photographer and adventure traveller based in Canmore, Alta.

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