In the 1980s, Leslie Miller and I lived in an old miner’s house on Woodside Avenue in Park City with two golden retrievers, Kona and Rose. Deer Valley had just opened but had yet to expand into Empire Canyon, aka Daly Canyon, at the top of Daly Avenue.

The dying mining town had placed all its bets on skiing. Main Street’s rugged authenticity would make Hollywood set designers blush, and central casting could have supplied the delightful characters who owned and operated the shops, restaurants and bars. Every season was a struggle, proprietors praying snow would come early for a Christmas season that would save their bacon, at least for another year.

We loved to take Kona and Rose skiing in the Daly Bowls after a good storm. On this day, we loaded the dogs into Leslie’s old Volvo station wagon along with our skinny cross-country skis and gazed out on our world covered in 16 inches of new, light powder.

The best way up the canyon was on the Guardsman Pass Road, which back then was closed to automobile traffic in winter — a long time before the canyon would become home to luxury condo projects, the upscale Montage Deer Valley and comfy, state-of-the-art chairlifts.

Big snowflakes glided down from the sky like little parachutes and cast a bride’s veil over the quiet, white universe. Kona and Rose surveyed big pines for squirrels they knew were hiding up there and without warning would shove their heads deep into the snow looking for little vols they sensed were lurking below.

Up we glided with a peaceful sense of adventure, Rose stealing rides on the back of my skis when she could. In the distance, I could hear Prokovio’s “Peter and the Wolf” coming from behind snow-covered mine dumps.

Once on top we could spy down on Bonanza Flat, over to the southwest stood the brilliant Mount 10-4-20, and farther on, we could just peek into Big Cottonwood Canyon.

From her backpack, Leslie pulled a thermos of hot chocolate, while I dug out some oatmeal cookies. Kona and Rose took a breather and chewed at the little snowballs between their toes.

Rested and refreshed, we were stoked for the sweet ride that lay below. Leslie was first off, linking telemark turns through the deep fluff with a likeness toward goose down that billowed up to her waist. A hundred yards down the steep slope she pulled over, waiting for us to follow. I swooped down after her like a hawk on the wing, flying my skis through the magical white ether.

At Leslie’s side I looked uphill to see two golden retrievers porpoising down the mountain, disappearing into the white stuff and then popping out like happy dolphins riding a wave. Up and down, up and down.

Sitting on my skis and panting, Kona and Rose caught their breath as Leslie flew off on her next 100-yard foray down the mountain. When I caught up to her, I turned again to watch the dolphin dogs, one red and one yellow, surfing the deep powder snow. Up and down, in and out, now you see ’em, now you don’t. Just amazing.

Eventually, we made it down to the Volvo and helped two tired hounds up into the car and made the short drive back to our little house ensconced in the stillness of deep winter.

At the back of our rustic kitchen sat an immense wood-fired oven, where residents in a different time had baked things, like chicken and potatoes and pies. There was a firebox attached to its side, and I loaded the thing up with split logs and kindling, twisted up some newspaper, lit a match and hoped for the best.

Nearby, at our somewhat newer old stove, Leslie turned on the gas and filled a kettle for tea. I kicked off my leather boots and pulled a couple of dining chairs up to the ancient furnace oven. After a while, it began radiating a wondrous warmth that spilled out into our drafty, little abode.

We plopped down, cupped hands around steamy cups and stretched legs toward the radiance. Two tuckered-out dogs lay on their sides between our frozen toes and the wood-fired contraption, clearly relishing the moment.

The town was quiet, muffled by the deep, white winter blanket. We were exactly where we wanted to be. Satisfied with the day, with our lives in a little mountain town, where things were, at least for a time, exactly as they were meant to be — exactly as a young man and woman and their best friends wanted it to be.

Christopher Smart was a reporter for The Park Record from June 1983 to January 1986. He then worked as a reporter for The Salt Lake Tribune, where he covered Park City off and on until 2012. Smart served as editor of Salt Lake City Weekly from August 1996 until October 2002. Currently, he is the author of “Smart Bomb,” a weekly news analysis for Salt Lake City Weekly.

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