By the time we headed back to the Sunbowl and skied down to the halfpipe, we were exhausted. Or at least I was. My brother, who competes in thriathlons for pleasure and has a pain threshold about ten times that of the average mortal, was unphased. We made quick work of removing and storing the banners and headed back to the condo.

Cocktail in hand, we headed off to the outdoor hot tubs where we spent the next hour and change swapping war stories with other excited skiers. I met a couple who spend a week at Whistler every winter and who offered nothing but the highest recommendations. They’d never been out there for spring skiing, but assured me that the terrain was so vast and so challenging that whatever the conditions turned out to be, we’d have fun. They offered up suggestions for little known trails and magnificent views. I made mental notes to check out everything they’d recommended and caught myself reflecting on the undue luxury of a Stratton post-ski soak taxed with learning about my options the following week in Whistler. Things could be worse…

Chris collected us, a bit anxious that we’d let time get away from us. We had dinner reservations at The Perfect Wife which he’d promised to be an impressive meal, and being late was apparently not an acceptable option. So we raced back to our digs, threw on our clothes and headed off to Manchester for dinner. The drive was a bit longer than I expected, retracing part of the route by which we’d arrived the preceding day. It was surprising to pull into the parking lot after about half an hour on deserted country roads. We had to hunt for a vacant parking spot in the packed lot. There were easily several dozen cars, and we had a late seating. It looked promising.

This handsome New England home cum gourmet temple is no secret to foodies. In fact, the owner/chef Amy Chamberlain has attracted so much attention for her creative “freestyle cuisine” that our expectations were pretty high. And despite arriving with mountain-weary bodies and souls, our playful waitress immediately enlivened us with her dry sense of humor and proceeded to faun over us in a charming, attentive manner throughout the evening.

I started with a fresh baby spinach salad crowned with a goat cheese fritter. Sensational. Crisp baby greens sprinkled with lightly tasted pine nuts and complemented with a bacon flavored salad dressing. A rustic, hearty salad without being too heavy or filling. Then we shared several memorable appetizers including the addictive Peking duck with Mandarin pancakes and sautéd crabcakes. Our feisty waitress assured me that the crabcakes were just that and not breading cakes, and she couldn’t have been more accurate. A sparing serving, but divine with remoulade, greens and tart vinaigrette.

Opting for a lighter, healthier main course than the previous evening’s dinner, I ordered the sesame crusted yellowfin tuna. No surprises, but attractively presented and delicious. The sauce, a pleasantly robust Asian flavor, carried the rare to medium-rare seared tuna steak quite ably and even lent the dish more “weightiness” than I associate with seared tuna. My brother’s jumbo shrimp scampi was also memorable. As rich and bold as you could wish for with plenty of garlic and butter.

By the time we made it back to bed, we could scarcely think straight for exhaustion and indulgence. Alarms set, we all fell asleep instantly. The next three days followed a similar routine. Wake early, set up the banners, ski until lunch, rendezvous over lunch to determine what special projects, if any (mount advertising panels on the halfpipe start structure, slope side start structure, etc.) needed to be tackled, complete any assignments, ski all afternoon, soak and recount hyperbolic skiing stories in the hot tub, drink, eat and sleep.

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