Whistler, British Columbia
"I wasn't in bed long enough to sleep off the hangover," my buddy Rob grumbled. "And it's all Whistler's fault." Interesting. Never in 15 years of sliding here had I heard a skier slag the beloved base village at Whistler and Blackcomb mountains, where winding red-brick lanes link gondolas with open plazas filled with bars, restaurants, and shops -- all built to resemble European châteaus. This, apparently, was Rob's problem. "It took me two hours to weave back to the hotel after Garfinkel's," he moaned, "I got lost because everything looks alike, and I kept going in circles."

I laughed, since misfortune is always funnier when it happens to someone else. But my trip back to the hotel hadn't exactly been linear, either. In the 16 hours preceding last call at Garfinkel's, we'd bitten many of Whistler's countless hooks. First on the mountain, where lift-served terrain evokes both the open snowfields of the Alps and the mystic glades of the Rockies. Then in the village, where all the skier essentials -- lifts, good grub, free-flowing drinks, and hangover cures (strong coffee and legal-in-Canada aspirin with codeine) -- lie within easy walking distance. You won't find Whistler-level skiing mated with a Whistler-level village anywhere else in the world. Trust me, I've searched.

If memory serves, we began the morning in the Sundial, a boutique hotel where the spacious rooms are equipped with kitchens and, in my case, a hot tub on the balcony. Looking out onto the village, it's tough to believe that 28 years ago, it was a dump -- literally. Whistler became skiing's signature village in 1980 because it employed competent planners to develop a huge chunk of buildable land at the base of the peaks. And despite the whopping 5,400 rooms today, Whistler doesn't look like a megaresort. The layout was designed to maximize sunlight and mountain views, and it incorporates gazebos, ivy, balconies, and other homey touches.

From the lodge, we shouldered our skis and trudged -- for all of four minutes -- to the Whistler Village Gondola, which launched us above the timberline to 6,069 feet. We skied a brief intermediate run to the high-speed Peak chair and three minutes later found ourselves atop Whistler's summit. Below us yawned a 5,000-vertical-foot descent, which easily would be the biggest in North America were it not for Blackcomb, the resort's other giant massif, and its 5,280 feet -- an even mile of vert. That's like an Alta stacked on top of a Breckenridge.

Whistler's summit affords gobsmacking views of the Coast Mountains: row after row of sparkling peaks stacked against the horizon like sharks' teeth. We buckled down our boots and dropped into Whistler Bowl, blasting down the raw, treeless glacier where few moguls litter the descents and a whopping 30 feet of snow fall per year. When our thighs started whimpering for mercy around four o'clock, Rob and I skied down, down, and then down some more to the base. We sprayed curtains of slush with a triumphant hockey stop, clicked out of our bindings, and walked maybe 20 yards to the sun-splashed patio of the Garibaldi Lift Co. Bar & Grill, an iconic Whistler watering hole. Rob guzzled a Kootenay beer, while I slurped down a Caesar, the vodka-and-Clamato-juice mix that's considered Canada's national cocktail.

The key to enjoying the village is to make a decision and run with it. We knew that mulling every possibility from tandoori to Big Macs would get us nowhere, not with 93 different bars and restaurants. If we chose decisively tonight, we could address any missing wants the next night.

That night we tried Trattoria Di Umberto, because it came highly recommended and was, inevitably, only steps away from the hotel. Two hours later, we waddled out, gorged on red meat and red wine. Then came martinis at Tommy Africa's -- famous for its go-go dancers and tiki torches -- and beers at Amsterdam Cafe Pub, a cozy joint that would feel like a neighborhood bar if the neighborhood in question lacked cars. We finally wound up at Garfinkel's.

I don't know exactly how we misplaced each other. When the bouncers finally coaxed me outside after last call, I lingered a while. About 20 other people did, too. They were chatting, skateboarding, spinning about on townie bikes, and generally basking in the base village that's known the world over as the ultimate skier's idyll. --Rob Story

Whistler Blackcomb (lift tickets from $59 per day; 866-218-9690, whistlerblackcomb.com). Sundial Boutique Hotel (from $449; 800-661-2321, sundialhotel.com).

Sandpoint, Idaho
Art galleries might outnumber ski shops two to one in this tiny town in Idaho's panhandle, but that doesn't mean Sandpoint's 7,500 inhabitants -- hippies, jocks, artists, and powderhounds alike -- have traded snow sports for high culture. In the six-block historic district, boutiques run by former back-to-the-landers sell everything from impressive landscape photography to chainsaw-carved bear statues (you've been warned). But the locals spend their downtime enjoying what drew them here in the first place: the majestic Selkirk Mountains. The two bowls of 2,400-vertical-foot Schweitzer ski resort boast the lightest powder west of Utah, and the resort hosts two ripping telemark races this winter, the Selkirk Classic, from January 21 to 22, and the World Cup Telemark Finals, from March 10 to 12 (800-831-8810, schweitzer.com).

WHERE TO STAY: The Inn at Sand Creek is a good example of creative re-use typical of Sandpoint: It's housed in a 100-year-old building that used to be the town bank ($125; 208-255-2821, innatsandcreek.com). --eric hansen

Valdez, Alaska
It's the hallmark of every ski film: a shot of a lone figure dropping down an impossibly steep mountain. If the camera pulled back, the odds are good that you'd see the downtown grid of Valdez, a favorite location for adventure filmmakers. Home to 4,500 Alaskans and a population of extreme winter athletes that rivals Chamonix, Valdez is buried each winter in 27 feet of snow and is the birthplace of the World Extreme Skiing Championships. Alpinists flock to this town on the northern lip of Prince William Sound less for its charm than for its access to the 8,000-foot Chugach peaks. There are no ski resorts here; instead, heli-ski operators such as H2O Heli Guides (800-578-4354, h2oguides.com) deliver more than 20,000 vertical feet a day in the double-black-diamond backcountry. And on no-fly days, there's still ice climbing in the massive frozen waterfalls in Keystone Canyon.

WHERE TO STAY: Blueberry Mary's B&B has an unobstructed view of the sound and plush featherbeds ($100; 907-835-5015, home.gci.net/~blueberrymary). --Lolly Merrell

Livingston, Montana
Between 1889, when it was founded as a railroad depot at a bend in the Yellowstone River, and five years ago, when it was known mostly as Bozeman's sidekick, Livingston seemed much the same: Saloons and red-brick historic hotels lined its streets, and brooding writers and artists holed up to soak in the seclusion, but today there's new blood. As real estate prices skyrocket in Bozeman (23 miles to the west), a steady drift of hardcore outdoor athletes have joined the ranks of the 7,000 residents. To these newcomers Livingston is more than peace, quiet, and cheap digs: It's an adventure hub with proximity to five mountain ranges and four ski resorts. Cross-country skiers and snowmobilers can tour Yellowstone National Park, an hour's drive south, while alpine skiers take runs at the local hill, Bridger Bowl. Despite the new art galleries and organic-food eateries, many of the original solitude-seekers -- including writer Tim Cahill and painter Russell Chatham -- are still keeping Livingston real.

WHERE TO STAY: Time stands still at the century-old Murray Hotel, a former haunt of Will Rogers (from $72; 406-222-1350, murrayhotel.com). --John Byorth

South Lake Tahoe, California
The very scenery in South Lake Tahoe inspires risk-taking -- both indoors and out. Where else does a 19-story casino vie with 10,000-foot mountains for supremacy over the skyline? Here, you can press your luck skiing 40-degree, experts-only chutes at Heavenly Mountain, one of the largest resorts in the country, or skinning up 9,735-foot Mount Tallac, then head across the street into Nevada and slap your money down at a blackjack table. The six casinos across the state line provide a 24-hour party scene, stuff-yourself buffets, and a range of rooms from cheap to ritzy. But unlike Vegas, a stay here doesn't have to be a coin-clanging, air-pumped-into-the-rooms bender. Once you get out into the boundless national forestland and the Sierra Nevada rising above these busy streets, it becomes obvious that Mother Nature trumps Lady Luck.

WHERE TO STAY: Nearly every room has a stunning view at Harveys, the tallest hotel in Tahoe (from $59; 800-427-7247, ). --Gwen Kilvert

North Conway, New Hampshire
When you get to North Conway, leave the covered bridges and outlet malls to the tourists. This all-around winter sports center is home to 3,580 dyed-in-the-wool wilderness lovers in the White Mountains. Seven ski resorts and over 150 miles of groomed cross-country trails lie within 25 miles. You can scale the frozen waterfalls of Frankenstein Cliffs with a guide from the renowned International Mountain Climbing School (from $200 per day; 603-356-7064, ime-usa.com). Snowmobilers can cruise the nearby 40-mile Bear Notch trail network, with views of 6,288-foot Mount Washington. But think twice about climbing it in winter: With winds up to 100 mph and temps as low as ­25š, the Northeast's highest peak can be deadly before May.

WHERE TO STAY: Surrounded by national forest and near ski lifts at Cranmore, White Mountain Hotel and Resort has the wildest location in town (from $89; 800-533-6301, whitemountainhotel.com). --E.H.

Park City, Utah
For powder addicts, Park City is a mind-blowing fix. The mining-town-cum-indie-film-center (Sundance Film Festival is held here) has three ski resorts, a backcountry that would take a lifetime to ski out, 350 inches of fluffy snow a year, and a population of 7,300 ski junkies, among them Picabo Street. Speed demons hit Deer Valley Resort's slalom course. Powderhounds tackle tight glades across eight peaks at The Canyons -- beloved for keeping feathery stashes long after a storm. Snowboarders ride the Park City Mountain Resort halfpipe. It's not unlikely to rack up as much as 15,000 vertical feet in the morning alone; then, at lunchtime, dozens of skis lean against the steamy windows of the ski-up pizza joint Davanza's. The après scene picks up with pool and pitchers of beer at the Pig Pen, whose proprietors are true enablers -- they let patrons keep their ski boots on.

WHERE TO STAY: The all-suite Hotel Park City, five minutes from all three resorts, has ski valet service (from $699 in season, $199 off season; 888-999-0098, hotelparkcity.com). --Sarah Tuff

Telluride, Colorado
"There's a ghost town over there," our guide Kristen says, pointing to a smudge in the snowy landscape a few miles to the northwest. My friends and I stand with our skis and snowboards, trying to make it out, but the scenery of the San Juan Mountains competes for our attention. A ridge rises forbiddingly to our right, leading to a backcountry chute with a 1,000-foot drop. Behind us snake Telluride's six "double-black-diamond-extreme" runs (the most difficult rating in existence). There's a football-field-size bowl at our feet where, Kristen divulges, a friend of hers was swept up in an avalanche a couple of weeks ago -- he's lucky to be alive. A ghost town? Whatever.

It's the first day of a weeklong spring ski trip, and we've just landed at Telluride's highest lift-served chunk of real estate, 12,255 feet above southern Colorado. Well over 200 inches of snow have already accumulated here -- more than any winter in nearly a decade.

Kristen prattles on about the area's historical beginnings, telling us that Telluride is still very much defined by its past: After the silver and gold rush began in the 1870s, it had more millionaires per capita than Manhattan. We perk up when we hear that Butch Cassidy pulled off his first-ever heist here, and that eventually miners took up skiing as a means of transportation to their favorite bordello. In 1972, a Beverly Hills businessman made the spot respectable by opening a small, bare-bones ski area with five chair lifts.

As far as mountain towns go today, it doesn't get more authentic than Telluride: The more things change here, the more they stay the same. Snow is the new gold, skiers are as badass as their bank-robbing forefathers, and the town looks like it did a century ago. Historic-preservation laws protect the Victorian homes and red-brick storefronts that line Telluride's dozen streets, all jammed into a pristine box canyon.

High above it, we traverse to a spot known as Joint Point, on the side of the mountain where trails for experts without a death wish plunge toward town. Kristen, who traded college for skiing 14 years ago and now sports a permanent mountain tan, fills us in on Telluride's modern era. The resort now has two gondolas, 16 lifts, and a mountain village with three hotels on the other side of the hill from town. The aptly named Joint Point is where local skiers used to engage in their favorite illicit pastime, Kristen says -- further evidence that the wild west lives on. From the Joint Point, we can take See Forever, whose signature feature is its eye-level shot of the San Juans and aerial peek at town. But we opt for Plunge, a wide slope with fat moguls along the sides that leads to Lift 9. The resort's oldest chairlift, it was installed in 1982, and now, in the era of high-speed quads, its 12.5-minute ride to the ridge is sure to feel interminable. "Trust me, your legs will need the rest," Kristen predicts.

As we duck in and out of bumps, I'm struck first by how quiet it is. There are barely any other skiers on the mountain -- and this is spring break, the busiest week of the year. (Telluride's remote location, 65 miles from the Montrose Regional Airport, deters the skiing masses.) And then, halfway down, the pain strikes, searing my calves -- the effects of charging down nearly 1,000 feet of moguls. True to Telluride form, this is a hardcore mountain -- not one that caters to leisurely types with hot-chocolate habits. We have no choice but to be stoic about the unseasonably cold, dry weather that swoops in that afternoon and sticks around for the next few days. Our solution is to split time between the mountain and town. But even on Telluride's main drags, life revolves around the outdoors: The sushi chef at Honga's Lotus Petal, an Asian-fusion restaurant, is planning a kiteboarding expedition to New Zealand; the drugstore clerk talks passionately about her ski bike; a half-dozen stores cater to mountain bikers, skiers, fly-fishermen, and kayakers. At night, we stroll over to West End Tavern's margarita-soaked après scene or the hand-carved bar at the 114-year-old New Sheridan Hotel.

Then on Friday, a big storm hits. We wake up early and wait for the lifts to open -- it'll be a race to the top for fresh tracks. First we take Bushwacker, sliding knee-deep in powder down its wide, curving path, dipping into the enormous moguls along the trees, and floating to the bottom. Covered in half a foot of snow, the terrain is transformed. We've hit a meteorological jackpot, skiing Telluride during a bountiful snow year, just after a storm, in conditions that must resemble the early days -- before drought hit the Southwest and when skiing was only for lusty miners.

We drop onto Milk Run, which descends literally into town. Near the bottom, a group of brazen kids are getting serious air off a jump. I gaze down on Telluride's red-brick buildings, knowing that the feisty locals, those double-black-diamond-extreme runs, and that ghost town over yonder will remain exactly as they are, forever. --Claire Martin

Telluride Ski Resort (from $74 per day; 800-778-8581, tellurideskiresort.com). Inn at Lost Creek (from $275; 888-601-5678, innatlostcreek.com).

Davis, West Virginia
Like redneck in-laws, serious snow is a secret many Southerners would prefer to keep. But with 150-plus annual inches, Davis is the Dixie darling for skiers who'd rather drive to the Appalachians than fly to the Rockies. The town supports a bike shop, three B&Bs in turn-of-the-20th-century buildings, and a microbrewery. And what this former timber town lacks in population (only 700 souls) it makes up for in winter sports. Nearby, "the Mon," what locals call 919,000-acre Monongahela National Forest, is a playland for snowshoeing and Nordic skiing. Downhill skiers, meanwhile, have their pick of Timberline Four Seasons and Canaan Valley resorts.

WHERE TO STAY: The Bright Morning Inn used to host lumberjacks (from $75; 866-537-5731, brightmorninginn.com). --T. Edward Nickens

Lake Placid, New York
Lake Placid hosted its first Olympics in 1932, but the hamlet, ringed by the High Peaks of the Adirondacks, was already a winter sports destination by the late 1800s. A visit today is still a time warp: Skaters glide on the same outdoor speed-skating oval where Eric Heiden won five gold medals at the 1980 Games; a 30-foot toboggan chute launches sledders onto frozen Mirror Lake, just as it did nearly 40 years ago; and hockey fans can unleash their inner Eruzione at the "Miracle on Ice" rink. Whiteface Mountain, a 10-minute drive away, is where Olympic racers sped down what's still the largest vertical drop in the east.