That is an insane distance to drive to ski, but Boyne -- one of the biggest Midwest resorts -- has a strange attraction. It's in Upper Michigan, near Traverse City, near JonBenet Ramsey's family's Charlevoix summer residence. It was started in 1947 by Detroit Studebaker salesman Everett Kircher. Olympic gold medalists Stein Eriksen and later Othmar Schneider taught at the Boyne ski school. There's a photo in the main lodge of Gerald Ford and family, "the Midwest version of the Kennedys," my wife says when she sees it, although Ford, a real football star in his day, probably knows better than to mix pigskin and mountains, though.

Boyne's also got America's first six-passenger chair lift. That's a big advance over the one-person lift Kircher brought back from his favorite resort, Sun Valley, Idaho, in 1948, converting it into a two-person transport. Now in his eighties and living in nearby Boyne Falls. Kircher is definitely an innovator in conveying people up snowy mountains.

I appreciate ski technology pioneers like Kircher, because I know first-hand what it's like trying to get up a snowy mountain without their help. While visiting my brother in Switzerland, I had the chance to ski in the Alps. We went to La Forclaz, the second-to-last village on an Alpine road, about 8,000 feet up. La Forclaz has its own ski runs, although it's not really a destination for the tourists who travel to Evolene, a bigger resort town a couple thousand feet below. When we arrived by bus, it was nighttime, but a full moon illuminated the slopes.

My brother, Dave, is an experienced skier who prefers backcountry skiing -- attaching synthetic sealskins to the bottom of your boards and hiking up the mountain. The sealskin texture prevents the skis from sliding backwards. Then, at the top of a mountain no lift can get to, you take off the sealskins, put on warm clothing (it's work going up), and ski down in powder -- strategically, so as not to cause an avalanche.

When we arrived in La Forclaz that night, the glowing slopes lit an idea in Dave's head. He would put on his sealskins and drag me up the hill far enough to give me, a novice, my first lesson. Looking back, I can see why my mom used to scold her sons: "Sometimes I wonder if you guys have two brain cells to rub together between you." Since we only had one set of sealskins, my brother -- also a bicycle racer -- would stretch a bike inner-tube around our waists, and pull me up. It was the kind of exercise only the producers of The World's Strongest Man competition could truly appreciate.

Up we went, Dave sweating profusely from exertion, me from fear. We made it to a flatter point and collapsed. Was it pitch black up there? Probably not. But it was nowhere near bright enough for me to register anything about the hill except that it was too steep to ski. I made it back down on foot, more than happy to fork out for a daytime lift ticket.

My mother would probably use her brain cell line if she heard I have driven 330 miles to ski for a day in Michigan, but rest assured, it is with pure joy that I first set eyes on Boyne's high-speed six-seater Mountain Express (ski technology is one step behind fertility drugs, apparently). Since we arrive at 2:30am, the lift lies dormant, but cranked up, it races up the 500-foot mountain at nearly twenty miles per hour, compared to regular lifts' single-digit pace.

Boyne Mountain is a mini-Bavarian village about twenty miles from Lake Michigan with a pair of duck ponds; the tree-covered hills of Upper Michigan spread out around the resort. A European influence has been passed down from Kircher's first two ski instructors, Norwegian Olympic champ Eriksen and his Austrian counterpart Schneider. The ski school is still described as "Austrian-American," and ski school instructors still travel to Boyne from the land of Kitzbuhel, where American Olympic downhill champion Tommy Moe sliced his hand on a beer bottle recently in a post-race party. Our hotel room, big enough to hold the U.S. ski team, is the slopeside Edelweiss Lodge, at the base of a black-diamond run ominously called "Hemlock."

The dumbest part of my one-day-only plan is that we won't be able to take advantage of Boyne's best feature -- a lift ticket is good not only at Boyne Mountain but also nearby Boyne Highlands, a more family-oriented terrain that effectively doubles the skiing opportunities. Unlike smaller Midwest areas, you can't possibly "do" Boyne in one day, I learn, especially when you arrive at 2:30am.

The next day, Friday, the slopes still have a mid-week feel: In other words, they're empty. Not all of the forty odd runs are open, but still there's no lift lines and few skiers and snowboarders breaking up the view of the snow, hills and trees. Echoes of condo construction occasionally blow into earshot, as Boyne is in the process of building ski-out-the-door residences amid the trees. Paul and I take a group lesson with Todd, an instructor from Charlevoix county; Kelly starts in a true beginner class, but she's skied before, so instructor Warren swoops down to give her a private lesson. I try to look intimidating as Warren passes above me with my wife on the lift -- I was scarred as a youth by the ski-and-skin flick "Hot Dog" -- but my duck-legged ski stance probably works against me.

After our lesson, Paul and I take a gut wrenching run down Hemlock, where one mogul almost does a Socrates number on Paul. When my wife finishes, Paul and I drag her onto Victor, a more difficult hill. She does OK until a too-steep stretch sends her racing into me, a human brake.

Arms and legs intact, we decide to walk down the boundary line; it's getting late, and we've got a drive ahead of us. I want my wife to be hooked by skiing, so I try to mollify her after the scary final run. "That was exciting, at least," I say. "Gets the adrenaline going."

"There's exhilaration," she responds, "and then there's loss of bowel control." Luckily, she didn't quite ski across that line.

The 50th anniversary midweek special is good at Boyne Mountain lodging only, Sunday through Thursday nights, with a 9am-4:30pm lift ticket for the following day, valid at Boyne and Boyne Highlands.

Boyne Mountain, U.S. 131 at Boyne Falls, 1.800.GO-BOYNE, has forty-one runs; night skiing on Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays and holidays; cross-country skiing; and kids under eight ski and stay for free. This year, all ten-year-olds get a free season pass in honor of the fiftieth anniversary.

To get there, take the Dan Ryan to I-94 and the Indiana Tollroad. Take 94 east to 196. At Grand Rapids, connect with 131 North to Cadillac. Boyne is about three hours north of Grand Rapids.