Skiing

The problem with conventional ski holidays is that every day is more or less the same. You step eagerly out after your hotel breakfast to take the same ski-lifts and ski on the same slopes every day, and return to the same room every night. It can feel like a work commute, albeit a bit more fun.  Ski ‘safaris’, by contrast, offer a far less humdrum experience; but the terrain must be right. In the case of the Dolomites, a ski safari works precisely because the ski area is made up of loosely interconnected resorts with, crucially, a series of rifugi (mountain huts) high up on the slopes providing food and accommodation for an overnight stay.

It’s that time of year again. No sooner have you recovered from Christmas than the posh start talking about their skiing jaunts planned for the February half-term. But let’s use the term posh advisedly, because – make no mistake – skiing is now anything but. Where once flinging yourself down the Cresta Run may have been a solid-gold toff signifier or ‘the Sloanest sport’, according to class anthropologist Peter York, now it simply means that you’re rich. No snow cannon pumping out snow on the low slopes can fool anyone. The fact that ski resorts are now melting before our eyes seems to be where this social morality tale ends. Skiing and British class have long been caught in a complicated embrace.

By complete fluke, my delayed shuttle bus rose through the Coast Mountains at dusk. I pressed against the window, outing myself as a tourist amid seasonaires snoozing through another spectacular sunset. Hot pinks and deep purples streaked between towering pines, transforming the outline of snow-capped peaks. I’d crash with local friends for a month, with support from Vail Resorts to explore stories beyond the slopes. Tales of Whistler Kids ski school were already family lore – I’d once visited as a 10-year-old, buzzing to see snow. Stuck at Vancouver International, I’d pulled up a chair at Salmon n’ Bannock on the Fly – Canada’s only Indigenous restaurant in an airport. As travelers, how often do we pause to ask whose land we’re actually on?

“Arnold Schwarzenegger was sitting exactly where you are,” the boot fitter said, as he handed me K2 Anthems at Aspen Collection, perhaps the world’s most sophisticated ski rental shop and café. “He was drinking Sancerre.” It’s an impossibly “Aspen” anecdote – where else would the Terminator sip French wine, but the resort famous for Champagne showers and fresh powder? Such a scene seemed perfectly fitting in Colorado, where I have come to explore Aspen and Vail – two titans of American skiing. Vail remains the more accessible of the two, its European-inspired village just 120 miles from Denver, while Aspen's extra hundred miles of mountain road maintain that coveted layer of exclusivity. Bouncing between the resorts, I’ve discovered a season of transformations.

Biohacking, one of the more bearable buzz words of recent times, refers to the practice of using science, technology and self-experimentation to improve the body’s function and performance. When I was recently invited to experience the Alpina Gstaad’s new three-day wellness program — designed to “biohack your ski trip for improved performance and mood” — I didn’t hesitate. Here was not only a chance to improve my disastrous skiing but also to restore my pitiful liver, which had taken a particularly heavy beating in the festive run up to 2025. What better place to kick off “Dry January” than a five-star spa tucked away in the Bernese Highlands?

"Insane, isn’t it?!” Kyle yelled from thirty feet below, leaning back on his snowboard to watch me struggle. I summoned every ounce of strength in my jet-lagged body to prize my legs, still attached to skis, from several feet of fresh snow. Wedged sideways, I pulled myself up by a tree root, alternating between hysterical laughter and acute panic as little progress was made in five minutes. I’d come to Japan for the powder — and I’d sure found it on my first morning in Furano, Hokkaidō. Fighting to stand up, I steeled myself to tackle the impossibly light powder reaching my armpits, on the widest skis I’d ever clipped into. It really did feel different to snow in the US or Europe. This would take some getting used to. “You said you wanted ‘Japow’!

“Wow.” My younger brother stopped still on the runway as we disembarked our plane at Innsbruck. In every direction, snow-capped mountains shot up to the sky. I found myself rubbing my eyes like a cartoon character, while he picked his jaw up off the floor. Delivering us across the border to Brunico, our cab driver felt moved to score the scene. “All this untz, untz, untz music, I can’t do! Phil Collins OK?” The Alps looming majestically on both sides of the road, “In The Air Tonight” blasting comically loud, the journey fast became a core family memory. It felt stupendous, exciting; like your first time seeing Manhattan sparkle in the distance from JFK. “This is the Brenner Pass... and now, Italy. Welcome in Italy!

Nozawa Onsen and Hakuba, my favorite ski resorts near Tokyo, are booking up fast. A trip to Japan guarantees novelty, not least if you book a ski trip. Underpinned by excellent food, surreal views, reliable snow cover, fantastically cheap prices and delightful onsen culture, it’s no wonder the country is increasingly popular with gaijin (non-Japanese). Australian, American and European powder hounds now fill the towns every year, but there are endless authentic experiences waiting in each charmingly idiosyncratic resort. A quick Google betrays that my favorites are already filling up for winter ’24/25. So here’s a run-down of what to expect, and where I’d recommend you book, subayaku.

“Welcome to your thirties,” my friend Rich roared, throwing open the balcony door leading onto our hotel room’s private loggia. The sound of gushing water filled the room as I flopped, exhausted, onto the bed. The Ziller River rushed through the valley below, fast. Verdant hills stretched upwards to create a preposterously bucolic scene, practically begging for your best Julie Andrews impression, arms outstretched. I laid there, and took it in through the window. I pretended I didn’t mind that I was missing the party, Snowbombing Festival raging on in Mayrhofen town. The “Snolympics?” Didn’t sound like much fun. Pond skimming on skis, surely soggy and impractical.

I’ll fight you to the death on this one: Colorado’s dining scene is hotter than a habanero.  A land-locked state within spitting distance of the culinary vacuum that is the Midwest (sorry, Chicago) might not spring to mind for its food scene. But nods from the Michelin guide prove the Mile High City and wider Colorado have a story to tell, minted in September 2023. I hopped in the Subaru and sampled a smattering of them, from Denver’s farm-to-table outposts, to whimsical epicurean adventures in Aspen, via stylish Italian brunches in Boulder. Denver Glo Noodle House 4450 W 38th Ave, Denver, CO 80212 As a tourist, you’ve got to hit Denver Biscuit Company for brunch, once.

Quizzed on how to assimilate to new cultures, travel writer and celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain once said: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” The “Opening a bottle with…” series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, in new places. To me, booking a ski trip at the start of the year is the ultimate luxury. With my birthday falling on the first of January, when the ball drops, I feel a sense of melancholy. As hangovers descend and diets begin, I want to carry on celebrating.  In European ski resorts, they keep the festivities going well into March. Christmas lights and religious displays stay twinkling. Fresh snow combats the winter blues. Everyone’s happy to share a bottle of good wine.

“What the f—” “Don’t look directly at it. I’m serious, that thing is cursed.”  My childhood best friend Sofie has just scooped me up from the epicenter of weirdness that is Denver International Airport, one hand on the steering wheel, the other blocking my view of a thirty-five-foot, bright blue fiberglass horse rearing at nothing in particular. I’m sleep-deprived, but I’m not seeing things. “Why are its eyes burning red?” “Not sure. The man who built it died during construction. Blucifer fell on him and severed a main artery.” I’ve no energy left for questions. I’m fresh from nine hours in a tin can sitting next to an effusive new “friend,” insistent on sharing conspiracy theories linked to our destination.

Arriving to spend a month in Denver, Colorado, decision-paralysis hit me like a ton of bricks. Almost as hard as the altitude. And the jet lag. I’d dreamed of downing tools come the weekend, hopping in the car to explore different ski towns at the tail end of the season. What a life locals have, so close to some of the best skiing in the world. But with thirty-two resorts, how to choose? And more importantly, get there? Local friends quickly schooled me on the (insane) highway traffic to the mountains and reminded me to check for snow storms up top. Denver weather is famously mercurial during the springtime. “What should I pack?” I’d phoned to quiz my host, surrounded by thermal leggings, bikinis, summer dresses and snow boots. “Everything,” came the reply. Right then.