From the breakfast tables at Remington's at the Ritz-Carlton, you can look directly out at the lift line. On a sunny forty-degree Wednesday in mid-March, the scene had almost as much in common with a beach as it did a ski area. Skiers riding up the Bachelor Gulch Express lift were wearing T-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses. The cloudless sky was a sapphire blue. A flotilla of ten Sno-Cats moved in formation across the mountain face like synchronized water-skiers. We finished our last sips of coffee and headed to the lift, where there was virtually no line.

To warm up, we wanted some wide intermediate trails. Everything at Bachelor Gulch fit the bill, and all morning Tom and I skied in first-day-out nirvana: Gunder's, named after an early settler, was immaculately groomed. Sawbuck was a wonderful runner—not too narrow, not too flat. Grubstake was a nice blend of corduroy, corn, and the occasional soft spot. Midmountain, we passed hikers trekking with crampons clamped to their boots, accompanied by Bachelor, the Ritz-Carlton's companionable Loan-a-Lab.

For our fourth run, we decided to ski over to Arrowhead Mountain and take two blue trails, Pow-Wow and Cresta, to the base. There wasn't another soul to be seen, and it reminded me of late-season skiing at Sundance, when the crowds, the film buffs, and probably Redford himself have packed it in. Even the topography of the slopes was Utah-esque, with sage-colored scrub poking through the snow trailside. But the sun hadn't yet softened Arrowhead's runs, and our skis skidded—kkkkccch—over a thin sheet of ice. So we worked our way back to Bachelor Gulch peak, planning to slip down into Beaver Creek Village for lunch.

The access trail between Arrowhead and Beaver Creek, Stirrup, is a greenie but no mere cow path: It's steep enough to gather speed on, broad enough for turns. Just before we hit the juncture of Cabin Fever (a wide blue runner), an immense cabin appeared on our left: Walls of windows were separated by wide beams, and a large chandelier of woven branches hung inside the main room. Even among the impressive homes around Bachelor Gulch, this one is a showstopper. As it turned out, we were admiring Zach's Cabin, which has reservations-only dining at night, members-only dining at lunchtime. "Not a bad piece of real estate," Tom commented as we watched a small group of people stamp their boots and head inside.

We joined the hoi polloi at the Beaver Creek Chophouse (formerly the Beaver Creek Tavern) in the village, dropping into chairs on the patio. As Tom slipped off to strike a collegiate-style deal with a ski-tuning attendant (a quick lunchtime turnaround in exchange for a six-pack of Molson), I stripped off my outer layers and tilted my face to the sky. There's something about basking in the sun while skiing that seems an even richer experience than lying on the beach. It's tied up in unexpected luxury, the same phenomenon that, when camping, makes cheese and stale bread taste like something whipped up by the Barefoot Contessa.