Snowpine Lodge

The 50-kilometre drive from Salt Lake City airport to the silver-mining town turned ski resort of Alta is as adrenalin-pumping as a bobsleigh run. It’s the dead of night, and the winding mountain road is flanked on one side by a steep slope cloaked in deep, powdery snow, and on the other by what appears to be a sheer drop into the void. Several times, the headlights catch signs warning we’re entering the 'Hellgate Snow Avalanche Area'. At one point, we slow to pass through a red-and-white barrier — thankfully, the gates are raised in salute. 'If those boys are down, no one’s getting in or out,' the driver says, with the tone of someone who’s made peace with the mountain gods.

Finally, we reach our destination — nestled in the comparatively storybook-sounding Cottonwood Canyon. After the 14-hour flight from London, I make a zombie-like beeline into the building, barely registering my surroundings; nothing was going to come between me and the crisp, snow-white cotton sheets of the king-size bed I’d seen on the Mr & Mrs Smith website.

But as I’m embraced by the scent of leather, tobacco and wood-scented candles — and step into a cosy lounge with brown leather sofas arranged in front of a roaring fire — it suddenly occurs to me that I could have wandered into the private residence of Robert Redford, Will Smith or the Biebers (all of whom, apparently, own homes in the area).

Then the convivial voice of the mustachioed John at reception, dressed in a red plaid shirt, reassures me: 'Welcome to Snowpine Lodge.' I am, in fact, in the right place.

In my slopeside-view room — with rustic wood accents, neutral hues and a sprinkling of festive decorations that don’t feel out of place despite it being nearly February — the silhouette of the Wasatch mountains is illuminated by the waxing moon. I wash away the day with L’Occitane bath products (OK, so there is one thing that could come between me and the king-size bed), though I don’t recall much beyond my head hitting the pillow.

I wake with that deeply satisfying feeling of having slept through the night despite crossing multiple time zones. That is, until I check my phone: 4am. For the next 30 minutes, I try in vain to return to slumberland, but it’s no good — the day must go on. I turn to the reading materials in the bedside drawer: The Bible and The Book of Mormon. Fitting, I think, given we’re in Utah — headquarters of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But in my jet-lagged state, I could barely manage Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series — another Utahn export.

I pull back the drapes and amuse myself by watching the snow ploughs waltz their way down the slopes, sculpting immaculate runs for the skiers who’ll soon come slaloming through. I know exactly what this moment needs: coffee. I attempt to operate the Keurig machine, but it sounds like I feel — it coughs, splutters and hisses, then refuses to play.

The night manager comes to my rescue. In the reception lounge, the nostalgic symphony of a drip coffee machine is already in full swing, and the smell of Arabica (not that I could tell it from Robusta or Liberica) hangs in the air. Maybe the two of us could become friends, I think to myself — but he has 60 other suites of guests to look after, and I should probably be self-sufficient.

In the gym, I find all the motivation I need — namely on the Peloton, where virtual coach Cody’s sentient slogans cut through the fog of fatigue: 'Be savage. Not average' and 'If Britney could get through 2007, you can get up this hill'.

Thanks to Cody, I can now enjoy breakfast guilt-free when it’s served at Swen’s, the hotel restaurant. I indulge in that oh-so-wrong-but-oh-so-right salty-sweet medley of maple-syrup pancakes colliding with a full cooked breakfast. Swen’s, with its sweeping views over the snow-covered canyon, as perfect as a prize-winning Christmas cake and as sweet as its name, showcases pine trees dusted in what could easily be icing sugar.

The name Swen's isn’t just charming — it has family history, too. The restaurant pays tribute to co-owner Brent’s great-grandfather, who emigrated from Denmark to the US in the 1860s and became the family’s breadwinner at just 15, after the sudden death of his father. He found work at the Emma Silver Mine, whose headquarters once occupied the historic part of the lodge. A painting by Utah artist Julie Rogers — depicting the intrepid Swen hiking through the snow with a team of mules — stretches across one entire wall.

My friend (my provisional Mrs Smith) arrives around midday, wielding a Rimowa nearly as tall as she is. This corner of Utah has a personal pull for us both: we met here, at the Sundance Film Festival, almost exactly two years ago to the day. We head for a simmer in the open-air hot tubs, which we share with a goggle-tanned gang of skiers. With an average snowfall of 536 inches a year, Alta is the snowiest resort in the Rockies — and one of the oldest in the US, founded in 1939. We nod along, enthusiastic but slightly clueless, as they swap tales of conquering Gunsight, Alf’s High Rustler and Westward Ho. Mrs Smith is from Texas, and I’m from the North-East of England — skiing isn’t yet in our DNA. Once again, Sundance is our calling: she’s produced a film premiering this year, and I’m here to cover the festival.

While Mrs Smith Vinyasa-flows her way through her jet lag in the yoga studio, I check out the spa. There’s a recovery room with oxygen therapy to help guests acclimate to the 2,600-metre altitude, plus pneumatic compression boots that are a dream after an epic journey (or a long day’s skiing). I find myself in the grotto plunge pool — which can be booked for private use ('There’s nothing worse than trying to relax while someone’s talking loudly in the corner or taking selfies,' the spa manager explains). Then it’s onto a chaise longue in the relaxation room, where magazines have been swapped for colouring books (where were you at 4am?) and a tray bearing electrolyte lemonade and lavender shortbread cookies.

Before I know it, we’re back at Swen’s for dinner. Our waiter recommends the Ibérico pork chop — the pigs, reared in Iowa, descend from Spanish stock and feast on an olive-and-acorn diet that would no doubt earn Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop seal of approval (she’s another Utah ski fan, famously — just ask the internet). We opt for something a little lighter but equally satisfying: perfectly seared halibut with tahini, dill and cucumber, and a field roast of seasonal mushrooms and seitan.

After a final night’s sleep that nudges us closer to Mountain Time, Mrs Smith and I agree that our Snowpine Lodge escape — two nights of restoration ahead of the energy and excitement of Sundance — has transformed us into marginally better, or at least better-rested, versions of our former selves. Whether you're here to hit the slopes or tackle a marathon of indie-film screenings, this is precisely the soft landing you didn’t know you needed.