Judging from the crowds at the base area—and the relative emptiness of the slopes—the balmy afternoon was slowing everyone else down too. We paid the bill, my husband vowing to come back for a beer at day's end. I planned instead to test the spa back at the Ritz-Carlton.

Afternoon skiing in Beaver Creek's Larkspur Bowl was soft but not damp. Spring skiing without getting wet? Either I was really on my game or I was only hitting the easier parts of the mountain. The main Centennial trail, which runs below the lift of the same name, was well groomed even in its upper black-diamond section. The summit area, unlike that of many mountains, was almost entirely designated a family zone, all friendly greens and blues. Even Larkspur Bowl, one of three ski areas that make up the Talons (Beaver Creek's most difficult terrain), was surprisingly doable. From what I'd gleaned from conversations in the lift lines, the teeth-rattling runs were mostly within Beaver Creek's Birds of Prey and Grouse areas, whose slopes were only a lift ride away. I considered trying them out, but with my energy flagging, I opted instead for coffee at Spruce Saddle, the midmountain lodge. There, I shared the sun porch with a sixtysomething couple reclining in Adirondack chairs, who tapped their ski boots in time with the Big Band tunes being broadcast across the patio. Overhead, two paragliders floated above the Centennial Express lift, drifting slowly like bits of colorful lint caught in the breeze. This was not a day to exert any pressure or to push limits.

Tom and I reconnected for a few more runs, but at the bottom of the Centennial Express lift, we parted company. I skated across the bridge to the Strawberry Park Express lift, which accesses Bachelor Gulch. I ducked under the rope just as the attendant began to block off the entrance and pleaded my way onto the lift seconds after its four o'clock closing, visions of the Ritz-Carlton's grotto-style hot-tub pool making me more persistent than I would ordinarily be.

That last run down Gunder's was my best of the day: long, smooth S-curves composed in the Zen of solitary skiing. No need to match someone else's pace, no pausing to confer. Near the bottom, I passed a pair of hikers bringing the well-exercised Bachelor back home. (His dance card had apparently been full that day.)

I can ski hard, but I'm a sucker for creature comforts. The Ritz-Carlton's spa was labyrinthine, as if mirroring the circuitous route to the resort itself, but I honed in on my destination: the palatial women's soaking room. The hot-tub pool was surrounded by natural-rock walls, with tiny waterfalls spilling from between the stones. Opposite the pool were the glass-walled sauna and steam rooms. As I unwound in the pool that evening before my Altitude Adjustment massage, I couldn't decide which was more perfect: the sapphire sky, the radiant sun, the smooth S-curves, or the hot soak.

Tom met me outside afterward. The bonfire was again roaring, and a dozen or so guests were warming up around it—including a recently retired professional basketball player who was there with his kids, chatting amiably with the other guests. While I was having my massage, Tom had put in some patio time at the Chophouse, and we'd both begun looking forward to dinner. In a little while, a Sno-Cat would take us to Zach's Cabin, churning uphill like a mechanical sleigh. This was our first vacation dinner—and indeed our first vacation—away from our two children, who were back home with their grandparents. Tom and I welcomed the chance to recuperate from the grueling work of raising a preschooler and a toddler, but for a moment we were wistful about the separation. Still, a little distance is a good thing, we agreed, watching white flakes of ash drift from the fire like fresh powder.