Ridgelines: A ski trip that embodies the culture

Ridgelines by Tom Kelly is reprinted with permission from the Park Record.

The sun was dropping behind the Wasatch as we relaxed on our room deck at Stein Eriksen Lodge, watching the ridgeline fade into evening. A pack of Deer Valley’s Prinoth snowcats began their slow climb up Ontario, beacons blinking as they headed into the night shift.

Down below, horse-drawn sleighs made their way up the mountain. Far to the north, the summit of Mount Ogden hovered above Snowbasin.

Closer at hand, from Murdock Peak to Jupiter Peak to Bald Mountain, ski runs poured down the mountainside as enticing ribbons of snow.

A ski trip has a way of clearing your head. The urgency of early morning drives to first chair fades, replaced by something quieter — conversation, shared meals, and the gentle unwinding that follows hours outdoors.

Our weekend at Stein Eriksen Lodge was, by any measure, the lap of luxury. But the surroundings weren’t really the point. What emerged instead were the reasons we love skiing, and what it represents.

In Norwegian, friluftsliv is how we, as skiers, live our lives — open-air living. It’s not just an activity, it’s a lifestyle. In the Alps, skiing developed around mountain villages, hospitality and gathering, what German speakers call gemütlichkeit — warmth, companionship and lingering conversation.

This is how Stein Eriksen lived his life. And that feeling of outdoor activity, gathering, and hospitality is what makes Stein Eriksen Lodge so special to me.

Soaking in our hot tub with a Bohemia Czech Pilsener in hand, I found myself harkening back to the ’70s and my very first college ski trip when I joined a Hoofers Outing Club trip at the University of Wisconsin.

We boarded an overnight bus bound for Indianhead Mountain in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula — six hours through the dark, skis stacked in the aisle. The package was simple: bus, bunkhouse, and two days of skiing for $20, plus a few bucks chipped in for the keg rolling around in the back of the bus.

In Stein’s homeland of Norway, Glittertind, is one of the great mountains in the high-plateau ski touring destination of the Jotunheimen. Today, Stein’s restaurant, Glitretind, carries on its legend. Dinner at Glitretind makes you feel like ski royalty. You pull on your best European sweater and for a moment Stein’s feels like a high mountain lodge in the Alps or a mountain hytte in Norway. 

This was Stein Eriksen’s stage. In his day, he moved from table to table, greeting guests, presiding not as an Olympic champion but as a host. He made introductions, asked about ski days, and lingered in conversation. His genius wasn’t only how he skied — it was how he welcomed. He understood something essential. Skiing doesn’t end on the slopes. It continues on around a table that evening.

Chef Zane Holmquist’s kitchen provided the setting — elk tenderloin on some evenings, the comfort of Swedish meatballs with mashers on others. But the dining room still provides the cultural connection. It encourages people to linger over fine food and wine, to share stories, and to plan out the next morning’s mountain adventure.

As I studied the wine list, really just searching for a beer, sommelier Jaime came to my rescue and may have permanently altered my relationship with beer. With gentle persuasion, he guided me away from my predictable Utah craft selection and introduced me to a new discovery in the aged beer section of the wine list: Mad Fritz, a tiny brewery in Napa Valley that approaches brewing with the same reverence for terroir as winemaking. Soon, an elegant 26-ounce bottle of The Peacock and the Crane, a Kölsch-style ale, was cooling at our table.

While we enjoyed our beef tenderloin, beets and ahi tuna, I caught a glimpse outside as a burst of snow started falling on the deck. A few skiers responded with whoops of joy.

At dawn, blue sky broke through the clouds, shining rays of light onto freshly groomed runs. In the locker room, I booted up, clicked into my skis, and slid down to Sterling. A couple inches of new snow rested quietly on immaculate corduroy. After a warm-up run on Legal Tender, it just seemed right to let my skis run on Stein’s Way. Fog lingered above Big Dutch, but the lower mountain opened into clear air all the way down Lady of the Lake.

Later that morning, I sat in front of Stein’s trophy case in the lodge lobby, a ritual for me whenever I visit. The medals matter, of course. But they are not the whole story. Skiing is one of the few sports where strangers spend as much time together as athletes do competing. A lift ride, a shared table, a fire at day’s end. These are not accessories to skiing. They are part of the sport itself.

The Scandinavians gave skiing its movement. The Alps gave it gathering. Stein Eriksen brought both to the Wasatch.

And each day, as darkness settles over the mountain and the groomers head upwards to the ridgeline, the heart of skiing is alive at Stein Eriksen Lodge.