By the time we reach the ridgeline, it’s blowing a blizzard. Small flakes, scraped sharp by the wind, mingle with the spindrift being whipped up beneath our feet. It’s hard to know if the snow is falling up or down. “A bit of both, I think,” says Wes Shirley, my backcountry ski guide. He’s raising his voice to be heard over the wind, but beneath his frost-encrusted moustache, I can see a wide grin. We take shelter behind a clump of Utah junipers – stubby trees with bent and twisted trunks that look like they’re barely clinging on at the best of times – and begin the process of peeling the climbing skins from our skis and preparing for the descent. Visibility is near zero. I can only just make out the shape of the 9,990ft Desolation Peak up the ridge to our left. But with snow this deep and this fresh, none of that really matters. The ride down will be epic.
Utah is famous for its snowfall. So much so that they boast about it on their car licence plates, which feature the slogan, “The Greatest Snow on Earth”. It’s a bold claim, but the state has stats to back it up. According to Ski Utah, a local trade association, the eight ski areas closest to Park City, the state’s biggest ski town, get between 30 and 42 feet of snowfall each winter (French resorts like Tignes, by comparison, get around 20 to 23.) In some backcountry areas, including the Cottonwood Canyons where Shirley and I were skiing, the average is more like 46 feet. This puts the Wasatch Mountains, as Utah’s sub-range of the Rockies is called, in the same ballpark as legendarily snowy destinations like Niseko in Japan. Better still, the dry, continental climate means the snow that falls here tends to be low in moisture, light, and fluffy. Perfect for powder skiing.
Unsurprisingly, this bountiful natural offering attracts skiers of all stripes – from backcountry lovers like me to the rich and famous. The very rich and famous...
The Utah town trolley in a snowstorm
At one point as we work our way up the hill, Shirley points out a group of mansions in the distance. Even from miles away, with the mist swirling around, their sheer size is striking. “That’s a development called ‘The Colony’,” he says. “Will Smith owns one of those.” According to a local real estate agent, another was recently rented to Taylor Swift.
Park City’s reputation as Utah’s skiing Mecca was cemented by the 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics, when the three local ski areas – Deer Valley, Park City Mountain, and The Canyons – staged the bulk of the ski and snowboard events. The specially built Olympic Park, just south of town, hosted the bobsled. Just months before my visit, in February 2024, Salt Lake City was announced as the preferred location for the 2034 Winter Games. So with Park City set to be thrust into the international spotlight once again, I’ve come to see what all the fuss is about – and, hopefully, to sample some of that legendary snow for myself.
So far, I’ve not been disappointed. In fact, nothing that happens on my first morning gives me cause to doubt Utah’s reputation as one of the snowiest places on the planet. It’s snowing when I wake up, with fat, wet flakes caking the tarmac outside my hotel, the Goldener Hirsch in Deer Valley. As my taxi driver winds his way through the streets of Park City, we see the local Sheriff helping stranded cars off the road. Their number plates say the snow is “the greatest”; the expressions on their faces suggest otherwise.
It’s still snowing as we reach the offices of Inspired Summit Adventures, but Wes Shirley, at least, is better equipped. Inspired’s company car is a plus-sized Chevrolet pickup truck that looks cartoonishly large to my European eyes. We throw his powder skis and my splitboard (a snowboard that’s specially adapted for touring) into the back, and head off into the Big Cottonwood Canyon.
The dry, continental climate means the snow that falls here tends to be low in moisture, light, and fluffy
Touring skis and splitboards come with synthetic skins that attach to their base, so they can’t slide backwards down the slope. This allows skiers and snowboarders to climb uphill under their own steam, without relying on lifts. “The Big and Little Cottonwoods are two of the most popular spots around here,” Shirley explains – and not just for their Niseko-like snow record. “The terrain here is kind of perfect. There are high ridges on either side, with different drainages, so there are a lot of options for skiing down. And then there are all these old mining roads and logging roads that are perfect for skinning up everywhere.” As if to prove his point, he parks in what looks like a random lay-by – and announces that we’ll be starting the day’s tour from here.
This is the beauty of ski touring – the ability to go anywhere and ride anything you want. Even if it hasn’t snowed for weeks, you can find fresh tracks if you’re prepared to put in the effort. Although in this case, there won’t be much effort required. The snow abates slightly as we pull on our boots and I split my snowboard lengthways to form two ‘skis’ for the climb. However, by the time we set off through the forest of silver birches, it has started coming down once more: initially in light flurries, and then in a steady stream of flakes so fluffy that they feel more cotton wool than Cottonwood.
Fresh snow can be perilous, but the gradient in this part of the canyon is fairly mellow, and the trees, which can provide some protection, grow at 3,000 feet higher altitude in the Wasatch Range than in the Alps. This means that the avalanche risk is relatively low, so Shirley asks if I want to lead on the first run. I don’t need to be asked twice, bouncing down through the trees, throwing up rooster tails of spray with every turn, and whooping as I go. “Best run of the winter!” I shout back up to Shirley, as he skis down after me. But we’re not even close to being finished with our downhills yet.
After a quick switch to climbing mode, we skin up to the windswept ridge before dropping down into the terrain of The Canyons ski area. Even here, just a few hundred yards from the lifts, the freshly fallen snow means we find very few tracks. On our way back up, we make a detour to stop off in a ski patroller’s hut. Shirley, who works part-time with Canyons Ski Patrol, is between guiding jobs. He talks about snow and safety with his colleagues while I take the opportunity to dry my gloves on their warm heater. “If you think this winter is good, last year was off the charts,” Brian Selvey, the senior patroller on duty tells me. Incredibly, Alta, a nearby resort, recorded 72 feet of snow – a state record. Shirley nods. “Yep, we were still ski touring in June.”
Fireworks over Utah
Statistically speaking, 2024’s snowfall might be closer to the average. But there’s nothing average about our final run of the day – a long, leg-burning descent of more than 2,300 vertical feet back to the truck. I’m exhausted by the time we reach the bottom. We’ve climbed well over 3,000 vertical feet in total, and I’m still suffering jet lag from the 10-hour Heathrow-to-Salt Lake flight the day before. But I also feel elated – the endorphin rush you get from “earning your turns” is another of the many benefits ski tourers like to shout about. It’s high time for a well-deserved beverage.
There’s a common misconception that Utah is a dry state where alcohol is verboten. This isn’t true, but like the size of its cars, the quirky local licensing laws do take a bit of getting used to as a foreigner. Regular bars can serve anyone over 21, but any pub offering food can only sell alcohol if customers demonstrate what’s called “intent to dine”. In practice, this means you can buy one drink, but they’ll place a menu next to it on the bar. You’ll be expected to order food before you’re allowed a second. As recently as 2017, alcohol had to be poured in a separate area, screened off from diners by a so-called “Zion Curtain”. The nickname came from the fact that these restrictions were implemented to comply with Mormonism – the religion that’s as synonymous with Utah as its snow.
Walk around Salt Lake City, as I do on a down day, and the money and power of the Mormon Church (or the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, as it’s properly known) is hard to miss. The main Temple is unfortunately off-limits behind renovators’ scaffolding, but I pop my head into the Tabernacle (the church’s 19th-century hall of worship, with its beautiful 11,000-pipe organ), wander past its modern replacement (a vast 21st-century conference centre), and marvel at the megalithic Church Headquarters building (an imposing skyscraper that wouldn’t look out of place in the 1982 film Blade Runner).
In the Church History Museum I learn about the foundational role Mormons have played in Utah’s history. After being persecuted for their unorthodox beliefs in the eastern United States, the early believers trekked west, becoming some of the first white settlers in this area. Under the leadership of their prophet Brigham Young, they set about building their version of heaven on Earth next to the Great Salt Lake. Like most white settlers of the time, their plans rode roughshod over the wishes of the native American population, who were killed in shocking numbers. On the back of these atrocities, they soon turned Salt Lake City into a bustling industrial hub. Young became the first governor of what was then the Utah Territory in 1850. And of the 33 governors who’ve served since then, all but three have been affiliated with the Mormon church.
When they come, lots of the biggest stars choose to stay in Deer Valley. People kind of just let them be
Despite the church’s continuing influence, however, Utah is far from a theocracy. In Salt Lake City’s newsstands, you can find Slug Magazine – an alt-monthly filled with adverts for out-of-state weed dispensaries – next to copies of Deseret News, the official Mormon paper. Up in Park City meanwhile, restrictions on liquor have had little impact on what is a vivacious après scene. It turns out that the “shot ski”– a row of tequilas lined up on a specially adapted ski – is something of an institution locally. My host, Megan Collins, who works in marketing for the Park City Chamber of Commerce, is a particular fan of the beverage, and the lethal party-starters become a running theme throughout my stay.
“Park City has always been a bit of a renegade outpost,” Collins explains one evening as we sip cocktails in the Park City Social Aid & Pleasure Club beneath the town’s craft gin distillery. It’s the final stop on a culinary tour that has seen us enjoy each course of our dinner in a different upmarket restaurant, with well-paired wines to match. In addition to her enthusiasm for all things après, I’ve learned over the course of this posh pub crawl that Collins has an encyclopaedic knowledge of local history that she draws from.
“This was never really a Mormon town,” she explains. Unlike many of the settlements in Utah, it wasn’t built by the Latter Day Saints, but rather “by soldiers that the US government had sent to keep an eye on the Mormons.” In 1865, these soldiers were the first to find silver in the Wasatch Mountains, and Park City first blossomed and then boomed as people moved in to the area to stake their claims. “It was kind of a rough military and mining town at the start,” says Collins. “And many of the women living here would not have been, erm, the upstanding, religious type,” she laughs. You can still see Park City’s mining heritage in the buildings that line Main Street, but while a whiff of the old, freewheeling sense of fun lingers on, there’s nothing rough and ready about the town as it exists today.
By the time the mines ran dry at the end of World War II, enterprising Salt Lake City businessmen had already identified a new source of wealth in the Wasatch – swapping silver for the fluffy white gold of winter. Utah’s first chairlift was built from the remains of an old mining tram in nearby Alta in 1938. By 1946, a resort called Snow Park followed, built on the present-day site of Deer Valley, and in 1963, the United Park City Mines Company itself got in on the act, opening the first lifts of what is now Park City Mountain Resort – then called, appropriately enough, Treasure Mountain.
An apres ski bar
If American businessmen ran things behind the scenes, it was two Norwegian expats who really put Park City on the map. On a visit to the 2002 Olympic Park, I read about Alf Engen, the 1930s ski jumping champion who helped set up Utah’s first ski schools, in the museum which bears his name. There’s also plenty about Stein Eriksen, Engen’s compatriot, who won a medal at the 1952 Olympics before moving to Park City. With his striking blue eyes and improbably square jaw, Eriksen became the area’s unofficial ambassador. He skied well into his 80s and helped bring the 2002 games to his adopted home.
From the museum, I’m whisked to the top of the hill where I get the opportunity to feel the excitement of the games as well as reading about it – with a run down the venue’s bobsled track. Before we set off, the driver asks: “Are you ready for the most exciting 50 seconds of your life?”
Travelling at 70mph, pulling 4Gs around each corner, I feel like I’m taking a literal rollercoaster ride through Park City’s Olympic history. But it also feels like a vision of the town’s future. This track will be reused for the 2034 Games, I’m told, when new records will doubtless be set, new chapters written, and new heroes crowned.
“See over there? That’s the future,” says Brendon Nesbit, my ski instructor at Deer Valley. We’ve just stepped off the Mountaineer Express chairlift, for once it isn’t snowing, and on the hill opposite, we can clearly make out the outlines of new pistes, cut between the trees. “They haven’t put the lifts in yet, but when they do, that will more than double the size of Deer Valley.” Park City Mountain and The Canyons, which are linked by lifts and accessible on a single pass, already make up the single largest resort by acreage in the US. By the time Deer Valley opens this vast terrain expansion, from winter 2025-26 onwards, the wider Park City area will boast over 13,000 acres of skiable terrain.
As we reach the top of the chairlift, the snow gets heavier, forming a thick blanket between the conifers
In many ways, the very existence of Deer Valley shows how far Park City has come since its days as a scrappy mining town. Founded in 1981, it pitched itself as an exclusive alternative to its neighbouring resorts from the outset. “The founders wanted to recreate the experience of a five-star hotel on the snow,” Nesbit explains. Out on the slopes, this means an incredibly high staff-to-guest ratio, where Nesbit and his colleagues have time to greet everyone, stop and snap photos for families, or help clients clip into their skis. When we eventually arrive at our lunch spot, a green-uniformed member of staff rushes over to shuttle my equipment to a ski rack.
Of course, this level of service doesn’t come cheap. As a rule, lift passes in the US are much more expensive than in Europe. But even by local standards, the $279 (£220) it costs for a single day’s skiing at Deer Valley is prohibitively high for many people. However, keeping numbers low is part of the point – by capping ticket sales and limiting the use of the discounted Ikon Pass, the resort claims, it can prevent the slopes from ever getting crowded.
Understandably, Deer Valley attracts a pretty exclusive kind of clientele. When Goop-y wellness guru Gwyneth Paltrow had her infamous skiing accident, resulting in that ridiculous media circus of a trial, she was skiing here. She’s not the only Hollywood A-Lister who stops in regularly, either. The Sundance Film Festival, founded by Robert Redford after he fell in love with Utah filming Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, now takes over Park City every January. “When they come, lots of the biggest stars choose to stay in Deer Valley,” Nesbit tells me, “but they like it because here, people kind of just let them be.”
If you’re used to the shoebox-sized apartments of the French Alps, Deer Valley feels like a whole different world. The resort’s exclusivity is further hammered home by the fact that snowboarding is banned on the slopes. The policy apparently dates back to the 1980s, when snowboarders were seen as young troublemakers. But for a visitor like me – who has never tried sliding on two planks, despite more than two decades of snowboarding experience – there’s the added entrance barrier of learning to ski.
Bluebird ski day
Luckily, Brendon Nesbit is the consummate instructor. I feel a little sheepish as the only adult learner on the magic carpet lift – my fellow beginners are barely the same height as my knees. But it quickly turns out that some of my skills are transferable from snowboarding. Before long, we’ve left the bunny slopes behind and are cruising – a little shakily at first, but with growing confidence – down some of Deer Valley’s many easy, green runs.
In some ways Nesbit feels like an atypical fit for Deer Valley. As a New Zealander, he grew up skiing in the country’s club fields, where lifts are often little more than a tow-rope with handles attached, and après consists of a few cans in the carpark. On the chairlifts, he regales me with tales of the snow safety protocols at his home resort, Turoa. He and his colleagues fly around dropping their explosive charges out of helicopters, he says, and they once triggered an avalanche so big it swept away a snowcat groomer. “That was an expensive mistake,” he chuckles, with classic Kiwi understatement.
Before Nesbit and his wife arrived in Deer Valley, he taught in Japan and Whistler. Yet this is now his 21st winter here, in a very mellow, family-focused resort. What keeps him coming back? “Well, they take ski instruction really seriously here,” and instructors are paid well enough to do it as a full-time job. “It sometimes gets called ‘Career Valley’ because there’s lots of us who stick around,” he says. Nesbit also waxes lyrical about the atmosphere and some of his favourite repeat clients. “But a large part of Deer Valley’s attraction is this,” he says, gesturing to the snow that has started to fall again. “In New Zealand, with that maritime snowpack, you have maybe 18% or even 22% moisture. Here, we’re so far from the sea, it can be as low as 9%. That means it’s more than 90% air – super light and fluffy.”
As we reach the top of the chairlift, the snow gets heavier, forming a thick blanket between the conifers on the edge of the piste. Unfortunately, I don’t feel confident enough – yet – to make the most of it on the strange-feeling sticks beneath my feet. But that doesn’t really matter.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back on my snowboard, exploring the slopes of Park City, and with snow this heavy, I know that any tracks that were put in today will have been filled in overnight. I’ve now had nearly a week skiing “The Greatest Snow on Earth”, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there’s more than enough to go around.
