Getting there was half the adventure. They’d been forecasting snow in Salt Lake for a few days, but only a flake or two had fallen. Snow obviously wasn’t a big factor in our thinking when my husband, David, and I rented a small white Daewoo. As we headed up Big Cottonwood Canyon, snow-covered cliffs bracketed one side of the winding, two-lane road. The other side dropped off precipitously into a creek. The snow didn’t actually start falling until we had driven about 10 miles up the canyon, closer to our destination than to the wide, dry highway we’d left behind. Apparently surrounded by stunning views of the Wasatch mountains, all we could see were swirling clouds of white. Though I live in Washington, D.C., it’s not like I’ve never seen snow before. It’s just that I’ve never seen snow like this. The flakes were the size of dinner plates. Okay, dessert plates.
By then David, a Wisconsin native familiar with all things frozen, had begun to obsess about the Daewoo. As it turned out, the thing didn’t even have an ice scraper, though we did have front-wheel drive and “all weather tires.” We debated whether to press on, but I didn’t think any self-respecting Utahan would cancel at the Yurt because of a little snow. We decided to brave it and hope that Solitude had an empty room if we got snowed in–either that, or we were going to get a lot more intimate with the Daewoo.
When we finally made it to Solitude, just 30 miles or so from the Olympic chaos of Salt Lake, we were blissfully alone on the spruce-and-fir-lined cross-country ski tracks. Just before sunset, we chucked our skis and met our fellow Yurtgoers at Solitude’s bar, the Thirsty Squirrel. We were a varied group: fairly fit couples in their 20s to 40s (though there was one sullen teenager) and mostly out-of-towners with Olympic ties (including a couple from Amsterdam who’d tried to arrange the dinner for the Dutch fans).
Sam, our guide for the evening–and the same guy who’d taken our reservation the day before–offered a quick snowshoe demonstration. The red plastic snowshoes with stretchy rubber buckles were hardly state of the art, but only Sam and one other couple opted for cross-country skis. We tromped outside and headed up the snowy, lantern-lit path to the Yurt. “As soon as they make wine-drinking and snowshoeing Olympic events, we’ll have our own biathlon,” Sam joked.
A few minutes into the half-mile uphill walk, the trek began to feel like an Olympic event anyway. We’d added extra layers of clothing for evening, but snowshoeing works up a sweat. It was dark by the time we reached the Yurt. The front door hung open invitingly. Heated only by the chef’s big stove and another small one–plus our considerable body heat–the Yurt was warm and glowing inside. The round tent, about 25-feet in diameter, was decorated with Tibetan prayer flags and framed photos from Mongolia. There were four sets of tables, so groups of couples were thrown together. We ended up with Kristen and Scott, Olympic fans from Philadelphia.
Our chef, Jay, invited us to dig into the first course: a simple but delicious platter of brie, smoked almonds and dried fruit. You can bring your own wine to the Yurt–the $80 dinner fee includes snowshoe rental and wine corkage. But since we’d made our reservation on Sunday and this was President’s Day (apparently that counts as a religious holiday in Utah), we hadn’t been able to buy a bottle of our own. Sam, now our sommelier, came to the rescue. He offered up detailed descriptions of a half-dozen wines and we decided to split a bottle of Australian Shiraz with our tablemates. It was spicy, full-bodied and delicious–and a perfect match for the courses to come.
The Yurt had no running water; dinner’s ingredients were transported from the lodge by snowmobile. But Jay, the sous-chef at Solitude’s main restaurant, still had plenty of prep work to do on the old-fashioned black gas stove. Sam entertained us with the 10-year history of Solitude’s yurt–they just moved it into its present spot for “better feng shui,” he said–as well as the history of yurts in Asia. In between bouts of storytelling (and one really bad joke), Sam served each course, cleared dishes, poured water and adjusted the Billie Holiday softly on the stereo–all without losing the sunglasses balanced on top of his baseball cap. Occasionally we’d hear a soft whoosing sound, which we finally realized was melting snow sliding off the roof of the tent.
Dinner was simply the best I’ve had in Salt Lake–though I have to admit the enchanted surroundings and friendly service might have influenced the judging. The menu varies each day, but Monday night Jay served up a carrot-ginger soup with tiny threads of fried yam resting on top. Warm home-baked bread, still steaming from the oven, came next. Then there was the mixed green salad with gorgonzola, smoked almonds and a pineapple citrus dressing. The main course was a pan-seared filet mignon–perfectly pink and easy to cut with a dinner knife–over a creamy lobster risotto and sauteed snow peas. Then, though we could barely move, came dessert: a luscious New York-style cheesecake with strawberries and a Grand Marnier sauce. There was coffee and herbal tea, but by this time we were getting wary of drinking too much more. We weren’t anxious to make the chilly, lantern-lit trip to the nearby outhouse.
By 9:30, we were ready to head back to the lodge. We suited up again and staggered into the darkness, where it was still snowing. We dusted off our snowshoes and began wrestling with the buckles. Between the extra layers of clothing, the glasses of wine and the five courses of dinner, this was nearly impossible. “This would be easier if I weren’t so bloated,” laughed one of our Yurtmates. This time, at least, the trek was all downhill. When we finally made it back to the Daewoo, it was coated with another few inches of snow. We eased back down the canyon, very slowly. No doubt about it: the Yurt was worth the trip.
