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It had been snowing hard the morning Heidi Voelker and I jumped onto the Empire Express chair at Deer Valley Resort. A veteran of the U.S. Ski Team and a three-time Olympian, the thirtysomething Voelker, now Deer Valley's ski ambassador, was taking me on a midday tour of the resort. The fast-moving storm had just lifted, leaving behind six inches of fresh snow and a sky so blue it crackled. In less than two hours we covered a lot of ground — starting out on the intermediate runs of Flagstaff Mountain and winding our way over to the steeper, more expert terrain of Empire Canyon.

As we rose toward the summit, Voelker pointed to a high ridgeline to the left of a precipitous bowl, where a series of slivers snaked down a broad, tree-lined face. "Those are the Daly Chutes," she said. "We should try them. They're some of the steepest in Utah."

Her comment took me by surprise. As an avid skier who had visited every major resort in North America, I didn't normally associate the words steep and chutes with Deer Valley, the blue-chip resort in Park City, best known for its meticulously groomed intermediate terrain. Granted, it had been nearly five years since my last visit to Deer Valley — and that was just a long weekend with my husband. Even so, the words that immediately came to mind at the mention of Deer Valley were corduroy (as in groomed corduroy, the buttery consistency of the snow after a snowcat has tilled the top layers into a soft, ridged surface) and hero snow (as in the kind of confidence-building conditions — i.e., groomed corduroy — that can make even the most tentative schusser feel like, well, a hero). Also chocolate, which has nothing to do with snow conditions and everything to do with a certain signature dessert at the resort's Mariposa restaurant, which in a roundabout way has something to do with skiing after all.

Because for me, skiing has always meant more than simply strapping on a pair of boards and going down hills. It is as much a lifestyle as it is a sport, one to be savored and enjoyed with family and friends whenever possible. Ever since I was a little girl mastering my snowplow turn on the Mitten at Stratton, I have loved every aspect of the ski life, from buckling my boots in anticipation of the day's first, easy warm-up run to sniffing out powder stashes in the trees, from relaxing over après-ski drinks in front of a fire to browsing through shops full of glamorous ski outfits. I love feeling my muscles melt under the exquisite warmth of a hot-stone massage, dipping chunks of bread into pots of bubbling cheese, going on sleigh rides through pine forests and nibbling on cocoa-dusted truffles at the end of a fabulous meal. I love it all. And based on my experience last winter, no place in North America does skiing as lifestyle better than Deer Valley.

This Utah icon of classic luxury has had plenty of practice. When it opened in 1981, its owners, Edgar and Polly Stern, hoteliers with properties in New Orleans and San Francisco and passionate skiers themselves (Edgar was one of the original developers of the exclusive Starwood complex in Aspen), were focused on creating a new kind of resort, one totally dedicated to skier comfort. Deer Valley was the first I knew of to refer to skiers as "guests," to provide curbside valet service to help folks with their gear, to put tissue boxes in lift lines, to offer free overnight ski storage, to serve delicious food (crab quesadillas, pizza with serrano ham) in the cafeterias. In fact, all the niceties that skiers take for granted at U.S. resorts today? They started here.

The Sterns' timing was auspicious. From the outset, Deer Valley attracted a stylish, affluent crowd that was drawn to the terrain and the country-club ambience. Over the years the demographic has changed some; the clientele has gotten younger and more adventurous. I was amazed by the number of people who looked as if they'd just stepped off the tram at Snowbird — and skied like it too. Deer Valley has also become popular with families. At peak holiday times it's not unusual to see three generations of a single family on the hill at once.

"Everyone in my family skis," Dr. Tony Marlon, a longtime Deer Valley homeowner, told me after hopping off a lift. He and his wife, Renée, first came to Park City in the early 1970s, and they built their slopeside abode at Deer Valley more than a decade ago. The couple has three kids and three grandkids, so the house is designed for a crowd. "Believe me, we use up every one of the bedrooms at holidays," Marlon said. "Last winter we even had the youngest out on the hill, and he was just three." Like a lot of Deer Valley fans, he and his wife were originally attracted to the area because of its location; just forty-five minutes southeast of Salt Lake City, the resort is easy to get to.

Since skiing came to Utah in the 1920s, enthusiasts have gravitated to this western state for the consistently good snow conditions and easy access. The Salt Lake City airport is rarely affected by the huge storms that sweep in off the Pacific each winter, yet those systems routinely drop hundreds of inches of powder a year on the Wasatch Range ski areas (including Deer Valley and its neighbors, Park City Mountain Resort and the Canyons Resort). But the state has always battled an image problem — it's too hard to get a drink, people said, too conservative — and its ski destinations never attained the cachet of their Colorado counterparts. The 2002 Olympics helped dispel the stereotypes; suddenly, the rest of the world had a chance to see the area's immense appeal for themselves.

Park City, the site of many of the Olympic events, has benefited tremendously from the attention, and during the past five years the area has blossomed. There are new shops and restaurants on downtown's Main Street, and the real-estate market is booming. (Last year, sales topped $1.8 billion.) It also hasn't hurt the town's image that for the past twenty-two years Park City has hosted the prestigious Sundance Film Festival. In early January celebrities and their handlers descend in their Fendi furs and Tecnica after-ski boots for eleven days of screenings, premieres, press events and parties — many, many parties.

Thanks to that exposure, it's not surprising that Deer Valley has seen its share of growth lately. The area has added new terrain and new lifts. Last year the first building at the much-anticipated, eco-friendly Talisker Club, a private golf-and-ski development, opened at Empire Pass. Called the Talisker Tower, the clubhouse features a stone-and-wood facade meant to evoke the area's silver-mining past. The Tower will be the social hub of the Talisker community; its great room has high, beamed ceilings, an enormous stone fireplace and walls of windows overlooking the heated-stone terrace. The use of glass and steel throughout is a departure for this part of the world, says Jim Thompson, president of Talisker, who was involved in the creation of Colorado's deluxe Beaver Creek Resort. "Our buyers are younger than in the past," he explains. "They still want a piece of the American West. But they want it to be contemporary."

The last time I was in Deer Valley, my husband and I rented a condo at the Snow Park base area for three days. On this visit I was staying smack in the middle of all the action, at Stein Eriksen Lodge. The lodge, like the resort, is warm and welcoming. It's beautifully located, on a knoll right above Silver Lake Village. One afternoon, after quitting the slopes at 2:00 p.m., I spent two blissful hours at the lodge's Scandinavian-style spa, having a Nordic Princess skin treatment plus a lavender-and-eucalyptus-laced wrap, followed by a deep-tissue massage and a facial. Another day, I hopped onto one of the lodge's shuttle vans and went into town for a little retail therapy. Although it was fun to stroll Main Street, I was a bit disappointed by what I found. Based on all the hype, I'd been expecting more of a chic, Aspen vibe. Instead, I found the usual assortment of art galleries and T-shirt shops. Regardless of my afternoon itinerary, I always tried to make it back to the mountain in time for an après-ski drink at Stein's. On sunny days I'd grab a table outside the Troll Hallen Lounge and watch the kids in snowsuits race down the hill on their blue and red flying saucers as the snowcats started wending their way up the empty slopes to prepare the runs for the following day.

Most of my time, naturally, was spent getting reacquainted with the mountain. While it's true that die-hard thrill seekers will be happier up the road at Alta and Snowbird, for me the best part of a Deer Valley vacation is still the skiing. As I stood with Heidi Voelker at the top of Daly Chute No. 6, my stomach did a series of flip-flops. "Follow me," Voelker said as she slipped off the lip, linked three perfect turns in the narrow gully and immediately disappeared from view. "Follow you?" I thought. "I can't even see you."

I took the plunge; luckily the snow was soft and forgiving as I dropped—inelegantly — down the steepest bit. Eventually, the slope eased off, and I floated along for a few minutes, enjoying the sensation; it was like skiing through a feather pillow. I caught up with Voelker, and we continued down to the village at Silver Lake, where we met our friends at the sit-down restaurant Royal Street Café. For the next hour or so, we reveled in the morning's adventures over bowls of crawfish bisque, grilled-tuna tacos, thick-cut French fries with homemade ketchup and, yup, the most decadent chocolate dessert I could find.