Buried in snow, the appearance of Tioga Pass Resort in midwinter belies the creature comforts found within. Photo by Tioga Pass Resort

Before my first visit, I knew that Tioga Pass Resort was recognized by backcountry skiing cognoscenti as the premier, remote, ski-in high Sierra wilderness lodge. A friend and frequent flyer at TPR raved about the solitude, magical skiing, five-star food and the lodge's rustic comforts. Though I'd hiked extensively over the years in the scenic splendor of Tioga Pass hinterlands during summer and fall, I'd never been there to see it buried in snow.

Fixing that was an easy decision because I'd become disenchanted with well-known Sierra ski locations and their crowds, bustling atmosphere, commercialism, over-development and pricey services. I wanted big, empty backcountry, big snow atop miles of untracked terrain and big challenges. Subsequent to a reservation, TPR's owner/operator Ron Cohen e-mailed specific information on how things worked at the lodge. At 10 a.m., as promised, I was met at the snow closure gate on Highway 120 about 3.5 miles west of Lee Vining, Calif. The moment I stepped out of my car, I knew this would be the experience I'd been seeking.

Four others and I loaded our packs into a stout 4x4 truck equipped with tracks capable of taming any road conditions. We were dropped off at snowline some four miles below the lodge, where we slipped into our skis. The truck left with our gear, leaving us to ski unencumbered the remaining four miles to the resort at 9,600 feet. For a minute, the five of us just stood there, mouths agape, trying to wrap our minds around the vast mountainous scene. To be honest, for a nanosecond, I felt a tad fearful and abandoned.

Once I started the journey, however, those thoughts flew away. Before long I realized that no small part of the adventure was just getting there. The 2,300-foot elevation gain on steep, snow-choked Highway 120 (Tioga Pass Road) was a challenge, albeit a magnificent one. The avalanche-prone route threaded the upper reaches of Lee Vining Canyon, a glacier-cut gash. Eastern Sierra scenery hurled me into sensory overload, and I stopped often to shoot photos. Though I knew these mountains well in their summer mode, they seemed even more spectacular mantled with snow and ice.

Skiing uphill on an eight-percent grade in places proved less difficult than anticipated. High-elevation hiking taught me long ago that this journey, too, would be as much about attitude as it would be about altitude. Nonetheless, guests must be prepared to deal with the full repertoire of Sierra winter weather, from blizzards to calm, halcyon days. On that late January morning, I moved beneath a cloudless peacock-blue sky surrounded by a towering fraternity of peaks. The only sounds were my breathing and the susurration of skis on packed powder.

During a rest stop by frozen Ellery Lake, two cheerful octogenarians on their way down joined me for a chat. I learned later TPR is a regular winter playground for several fit elderly skiers, some with their kids and grandkids in tow. Hoping to spot a bighorn sheep, I scanned the massive expanse of Ellery Bowl above the lake. Instead, I watched the expert moves of a lone skier roaring down the 2,000-foot slope. As we pressed on, the diamond air, though thin at this height, was an elixir for the soul. A moderate, steady pace brought me to the lodge at 9,600 feet -- a snowbound Shangri-la just two miles east of Yosemite.

Greeted warmly by the staff and handed a cup of hot chocolate laced with Schnapps, I was given a tour of the lodge's amenities. After the 20-degree trek, the climate generated by an ancient woodstove felt downright tropical. I was escorted to a quaint, rustic cabin, my home for the next four days, which I would share later with a friend.

Dinner that night -- and every night -- was more than a hot meal. It was an event. Waddling away from the table after putting away spicy vegetable soup, Waldorf salad, warm herb bread, grilled salmon, potatoes au gratin, wine and butterscotch (real scotch) pudding, I sank into a plump couch in a daze. Recovered from the feast, the 12 guests chatted, read, played cards or board games. The combination of high-altitude exercise, full bellies and woodstove warmth propelled most of us into our sleeping bags by 10 p.m.

After breakfast next day, I realized that TPR meals were for active folks, not sissies. I carbo-loaded for a full day on the snow with fresh fruit, blueberry pancakes, sausage, and hot chocolate (sans Schnapps). From a buffet table groaning with choices, I prepared a sack lunch. My buddy teased that I might need a Sherpa to carry it. But experienced high-altitude skiers know their sport requires a lot of calories; they also know to stay well-hydrated.

Well-fed and geared up, we headed out for a cross-country tour around Saddlebag Lake. North Peak and Mount Conness ruled the heart-stopping scenery in Twenty Lakes Basin. I heard some joyful whoops and looked up to see three snowboarders shredding the vertiginous face of North Peak.

Exhilarated and rubber-legged, we returned to the lodge, sipped mochas and swapped stories with others. Many also had stayed at TPR or eaten at the cafe during summer. The resort has served hikers, anglers, climbers and motorists in summer and fall for decades, but the reality of a winter lodge didn't materialize until 1988. Highway closure after mid-November precluded TPR as a four-season destination until access logistics were solved. Prepping the resort and provisioning it for winter use is no small feat and begins in mid-October.

During breakfast on day two, owner Cohen suggested several excursions, from mellow meadow junkets to massive powder bowls to extreme, hair-raising chutes, some 3,000 vertical feet. After all, said he, there were thousands of acres of solitude and terrain for all abilities not far from the front door. My daredevil pal opted for Mount Dana's 13,053-foot verticality, a tough four-hour climb from the lodge. More of a kick-and-glider and snowshoer, I chose a four-mile jaunt to the long-abandoned silver mining site of Bennettville and nearby Fantail Lake. Eating lunch on a rock under the eaves of the historic barn, I was riveted by Mount Dana's imposing bulk and the cadre of other sky-kissing, sparkling peaks.

I managed to stay awake long enough -- after another bout with a gold-medal dinner topped with warm peach crisp -- to learn of the 92-year-old resort's background. Camp Tioga, as it was originally called, was established in 1914 by a reclusive, gruff, hardscrabble miner named Al Gardisky. The stone-deaf Russian immigrant, aided only by his old mule and block-and-tackle, felled trees and built a cabin.

When he failed to strike it rich, he first turned to trapping for a meager living, then built another cabin to provide simple meals, and rustic shelter, for the handful of rugged travelers who wandered by. As more people came to Tioga's high reaches, he built more cabins. By 1917, he completed the main lodge and named several lakes in the vicinity.

Gardisky lived in his beloved High Country for 30 years before dying alone during the winter of 1943. His lodge and six log cabins provide a visible touchstone to the past. Though upgraded, they continue to house descendants of his earliest guests. The 10-acre site in Inyo National Forest was nominated in 1997 for inclusion on the National Register of Historic Places.

On a cloudy and cold day three, I set out for a jaunt up to Tioga Pass on the border of Yosemite and a circumnavigation of sprawling Dana Meadows. My friend continued on to Tuolumne Meadows, a 20-mile round-trip. For a time in the meadow I followed a coyote's tracks, now and again punctuated by a pounce, signaling a dive for a meal. I sincerely hoped he found something choice beneath all that snow.

As I skied back, I finally understood why some prefer to ski a few miles uphill, possibly in whiteout conditions, to an isolated outpost for two or three thousand feet of skiing, even though they could more easily drive to a condo, hop on a chair lift, and get 10 times the vertical in a day. A stay at TPR confirmed that it's not just the quantity of runs that makes skiing joyful. More important to me are intimate connections with the mountains, the sky, the snow, the solitude.

Day four, my last there, came too soon. I said goodbye to new friends, ate a breakfast fit for Paul Bunyan and set out on six inches of new snow toward the car. The downhill run was a pulse-pounding rush, and I had to snowplow in a few spots to keep from going airborne. I paused often to etch the awesome vistas in my mind's eye and vowed to return next season.

Other California winter wilderness locales pale in comparison to TPR's combination of world-class terrain and hedonistic comforts. Of the latter it offers only the best, without lift lines or trails, crowds or noise, TV or phone. All of it poured over winter powder and spring corn, and the memories that make life sweet.