If you’re bent on putting tracks in the powder at the twin world-class ski resorts— Big Sky and Moonlight Basin —that loom over the Gallatin about 50 miles south of Bozeman, there are scads of accommodations more convenient and tonier than the 320 ranch. But we keep going back to those no-frills cabins set back from the main road to West Yellowstone because we like the creaky homestead feel, never tire of the view of the Madison Range soaring straight across the valley floor, and don’t mind staggering through snow ruts in the parking lot to reach the hot tub. We appreciate the fact that they welcome dogs—and we love the prices (there’s a sweet skier’s package that combines lodging with lift tickets at Big Sky or Moonlight or both). The restaurant’s nothing to sniff at either—herb-crusted elk or buffalo au poivre for those who majorly shredded; pan-seared rainbow trout for those who watched.
We woke on Sunday morning to a north wind, temperatures in the teens, and the promised new coating of snow—about six inches of powder so light you could clear it from the car windshield with a feather duster. Twenty minutes after breakfast we were shivering on Moonlight Basin Resort’s Six Shooter high-speed six-person chair as we climbed toward the 11,188 foot summit of Lone Peak that the resort shares with Big Sky. It was Barrie’s idea to ski Moonlight rather than Big Sky—diehard, seasoned skier that he is, he definitely made the right choice.
Big Sky has a lock on the name, the fame, and the lion’s share of the terrain (3,800 versus 1,900 skiable acres), along with higher prices ($79 versus $55 for an undiscounted adult day ticket). But the snow’s the same at Moonlight, and since we couldn’t possibly access all those snowy acres in a single day we figured we’d save a few bucks. Skiing blue routes and a few black diamond bump runs off the Six Shooter and Lone Tree lifts, Barrie and I rarely encountered a soul. Groomed, powder, tracked-out, crud, cruisers, bowls—it didn’t seem to matter—the runs were flawless. By quitting time a grin was frozen firmly to my face.
The grin did not quite survive the 7am Monday—morning flight home. But I have to say, I stepped off the plane at Sea-Tac with a little Ted Turner–esque swagger.
Published: January 2010
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