Midwest Traveler: Northern Michigan slopes are prime skiing, for the Midwest

Perhaps Midwesterners were not meant to downhill ski. Consider what they've been given: flat terrain, subzero windchills and fickle helpings of a ski weekend's most crucial ingredient. During my first morning at Boyne Mountain Resort in northern Michigan, the server at the ski lodge restaurant pointed to the broad windows that led to the slopes I'd soon be whooshing down. "See those tables out there?" she said, pointing to some metal lawn furniture. "They had three feet of snow on them a couple weeks ago."

Alas, that was before the resort had opened for the winter. Now that the season had officially begun, there wasn't a flake on those tables. A most Midwestern thing had happened: Temperatures rose, the skies dropped rain and the snow vanished. The elements had conspired against Midwest downhill skiing. Again.

But skiing is fun, so we try here in the Midwest. Among the places that try hardest are the Boyne resorts. There are two Boynes: Boyne Mountain and Boyne Highlands, about 30 miles apart, just below Michigan's Upper Peninsula. They provide one of the Midwest's most comprehensive ski experiences, including the sorts of things you'd find at resorts out West: outdoor hot tubs and swimming pools rising with steam, ski-up bars and restaurants, facials and massage, plenty of rooms with wide views of the slopes and, no matter how much nature fights us, snow. Both Boynes spend ample time making it, spitting bright mists into the air from squat, hair dryer-looking machines as often as 24 hours a day.

And so it was that during a recent weekend, even as the terrain around both Boynes sat mostly brown and snow-free, the mountains (or, more accurately, hills) hosted a steady stream of skiers and snowboarders, me among them.

Boyne Mountain was opened in 1948 by Everett Kircher, a ski enthusiast who bought the resort's first 40 acres for $1. He opened with two runs, a small lodge and the region's first chairlift, which Kircher imported from Sun Valley, Idaho. In 1963, he turned what had been a private ski club into Boyne Highlands. The Kircher family still owns and operates both resorts, along with close to a dozen more both West and East, including Big Sky in Montana, Brighton in Utah and Sugarloaf in Maine.

The first thing to know about skiing at the Boynes, or most places in the Midwest, is that it is not skiing out West. It's not even skiing at the better resorts in the East. We just don't have the elevation. Out West, the runs can go on seemingly forever, or at least several miles. Here, they're lucky to reach a mile. But that's OK. It's still fun.

The Boynes don't offer a lot of ruggedness or adventure (unless of course you've never skied — in that case the adventure is ample). And the most daunting black-diamond runs here are about on par with challenging blue runs in the West. But ultimately there's no point in comparing. The greatest attraction of skiing in the Midwest is that it is skiing — in the Midwest. No airplane required.

Because I had only skied one day the previous winter, I started with a lesson to refresh my skills. My instructor was a Dutch woman named Sandy Reich who wore the standard Boyne uniform of black ski pants and a red jacket. She has taught skiing for 20 years, both in the U.S. and back home.

During our two hours together, Reich told me about the ski novices who show up at Boyne Highlands: the man who spent a week learning to ski the gentlest slope on the hill because he dreamed of skiing with his 8-year-old daughter; the man who took a lesson for the first time at age 80; the singles group that held an outing at Boyne and made for one of the most fun teaching experiences she's ever had. Among Boyne's greatest virtues, she said, and the virtue of Midwestern slopes in general, is they're an ideal place to learn.

After Reich helped shake off my rust, it was time to explore. I spent a couple of hours learning the trails and finding my favorite spots. Among them was a modest green run called Little John, which began with a short downhill that allowed me to pick up some speed before launching into the most exquisite tree-hugged curve that then curved again before rocketing into a wide-open and still-curving expanse that offered a broad view of the Michigan hills in the distance. I must have done it five times, taking the curves with a little more speed and joy in each pass.

Snow quality is not one of the merits of Midwestern skiing, and that day was a patchwork: mostly hard-packed and speedy, while veering between icy patches (ick) and soft, freshly made powder (hurrah). A sign near the equipment rental said that anyone unhappy with the conditions could "simply return your daily lift ticket within a half-hour after purchase to receive a voucher for future skiing."

For lunch I skied up to the cozy bar on the lodge's first floor. It had plenty of Michigan beer on tap and the requisite toasty fire in the requisite stone fireplace. The lodge — a cross between a Swiss village and "The Shining" — is a bit trapped in the 1970s with its maroons and reds all over the place, but frankly I appreciated it as an expression of Midwest authenticity. (Nevertheless, a renovation is on the agenda.) That night, I discovered one of the most remarkable joys of Boyne skiing: Boyne Highlands' bean-shaped swimming pool. It sits just outside the lodge, in plain view of the ski hills. The pool was heated to a nerve-tingling, soul-warming 98 degrees, and after a day of skiing, nothing could feel finer, especially paired with a swim to stretch lightly sore muscles.

The lodge itself was also starkly different. The next morning, by 7 a.m., little feet and bright squeals echoed through the hallway. It was at that moment, still horizontal and eyes closed, that I realized I hadn't seen anyone younger than about 12 at Boyne Highlands. Boyne Mountain, with its spa, water park, s'mores-making and the magician whose act I caught in the lobby, is very much geared to families.

The mountain itself was also different — Boyne Mountain is much more open than Boyne Highlands, with broad slopes that swoop toward the ski village in relatively straight lines.

This being a weekend, and the resort more popular, the slopes were well populated with a democracy of skiers, from 6-year-olds fearlessly winding down the most challenging runs, to red-cheeked snowboarding teens, to adults of all skill levels.

After a couple of hours of morning skiing, I slid up to Happy's taco truck, perched at the edge of the snow, and perused a menu of gourmet tacos (beer-braised chicken taco with cactus-serrano slaw — yes, please).

That afternoon I shared most of my lift rides with strangers, generally men between 35 and 65 who lived within a three-hour drive. We exchanged pleasantries, like whether we had kids and where we were from. One guy, who owned a condo at Boyne Mountain, said he was headed to Vail, Colo., in January.