Author: By David Dobbs, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, January 17, 1999

Page: M17

Section: Travel

TAOS, N.M. -- While much of the country fretted last winter about the possible effects of El Nino, the skiers of Taos were yipping and dipping in powder, for El Ninos tend to pump even greater bounties of snow than usual onto Taos, adding extra embarrassment to the mountain's famously rich snow.

I was happy to be one of those skiers, and am happy to report that it doesn't take El Nino to make Taos worth a winter visit, for the ski valley, situated 20 miles away and a couple thousand feet above the town, always has plenty to distinguish it -- an average of 300 days of sun and 300 inches of snow every year, a compact base village that allows you to ignore your car, a tremendous variety of trails, and, perhaps most pleasing in this day of growing mega-resorts, a small-hill atmosphere and proximity to a town that retains a genuine and vital mix of cultures.

It's skiing, of course, that serves as Taos's main winter draw, as it has since 1955, when ski fanatic Ernie Blake chose this steep valley at the foot of 12,481-foot Kachina Peak to build his dream ski resort. Blake heard more than once that the valley was too steep to work as a ski area.

But Blake, whose family still owns the place, found a way to create not only the many obvious expert trails the mountain offered, but three dozen interesting beginning and intermediate trails as well. The fine powder and strong sunshine of this high resort has attracted devoted skiers ever since.

Fortunately for me, one of those is my brother, who a few years ago bought an A-frame on a slope overlooking the ski area. (He thus became one of only about 100 year-round residents in the ski valley's little village.) Last February, I accepted his offer to share his house as a base of operations for a week that he promised would transform my skiing from intermediate to expert. The ``share the house'' part of that plan ran afoul when my brother's water lines froze the day I got there, forcing us to move into the village. But the second half -- the transformation of my skiing -- would work out.

From our new headquarters, the spacious, comfortable Rio Hondo condominiums, I made the short walk to the base lodge and checked in for the ski school's ``Ski Week'' package, which provides a full week of lessons (either half-day or all-day, depending on your preference) in which you ski with the same small group and same instructor for five days. They sent me promptly up Lift 1 to the school's meeting place, where after a nervous set of turns in front of the instructors, I was told I was an ``8'' (of a possible 10) and assigned to a small group of my peers -- three women all just a shade older than my own 38. Our instructor was Carl, a soft-spoken, funny, likeable fellow of about 50 who inspired us with a mix of firm encouragement and his own superbly graceful skiing.

``It's all in here,'' he would say, patting one hand on his belly and one on his lower back. ``This has got to stay right under you, and the skis right under it. Then the skis can just flow back and forth.'' Carl practiced what he preached, flowing with a smooth, unhurried rhythm whether he was carving 40-m.p.h. arcs on cruising trails or picking his way through boulder-sized moguls.

The rest of us displayed our grace less consistently -- though we showed more as the week went on. Carl, determined to get us centered quietly over our skis so our legs and feet could do their work efficiently, would start each day with some conceptual drill on one of the mountain's broad cruising trails. He had us skate downhill to get the feel of moving forward onto the next ski; we flew. He had us think of getting out of a chairlift as we moved into a turn, to get that feeling of moving forward into it; we flew again. He had us square our shoulders and refuse to turn away from the fall line as we executed quick turns on steeper terrain, which worked beautifully.

Then, just when we felt like ace racers, he'd drag us down some chute or through a grove of trees, and we'd struggle -- but just at the edge of our abilities. The method worked, as every day we raised both our abilities and our definitions of what we could do.

Thus I spent mornings. Afternoons I spent trying to keep up with my brother, who seemed determined to show me the full range of Taos's diverse and abundant expert terrain: black-diamond glade runs where I followed my brother's tracks between trees; frighteningly vertical double-black-diamond chutes; the ``Ridge,'' a long ridge you must hike a half-hour or so to reach, but which rewards you with lightly traveled chutes and, if you hike far enough, the big snowfields on Kachina's flanks; and the ``High T,'' a high, narrow traverse whose undulations and sudden turns over dire drops made it so freezingly scary that I was actually relieved to turn off of it and ski down Stauffenberg, an insanely pitched double-diamond.

All this took a heavy toll. I needed each night, along with ice and Ibuprofen, much food. For this we repaired most often to the Dolomite, a favorite among locals and regulars that's tucked a layer away from the base village's main drag. Owner Karen Lubliner, who bought the place around 1990, has transformed it from an undistinguished pizza joint to one of the village's most beloved eateries. It still serves pizza -- stunningly good -- as well as pasta and other northern Italian food, all at very reasonable prices in a convivial atmosphere made even more so by a well-chosen wine list. We'd sit there happily eating and chatting with each other, with those at other tables (it's that sort of place), and with Lubliner, who among other kindnesses one evening insisted, when she saw I was having much trouble reaching my bootlaces, on calling next door to Alpenglow Massage to arrange some much-needed therapy for my abused back.

I also sampled several other of the town's dinners, and can recommend the St. Bernard, which serves a sort of French-Bavarian menu in an atmosphere to match, and Tim's Cantina, a boisterous, friendly place that serves New Mexican and Mexican food in generous portions supplemented by a nice offering of microbrews. While everything I tasted there was good, I found the chile relleno particularly appealing.

Meanwhile, I skied on. As the week went on, Carl and my brother redefined for me what steep was, and by Thursday I was skiing, confidently if not gracefully, inclines and bumps I'd have paid to avoid on Monday.

That black diamonds now looked manageable, the double-diamonds at least do-able.

Then Thursday afternoon brought good news: A ``snow bomb'' was expected to drop a foot or more of powder on the place, beginning that night. Figuring we'd be snowed-in the next day, we drove that evening the half-hour into Taos, which, as thousands of summertime tourists can attest, has enough attractions of its own to occupy one for several days. With its well-preserved plaza area, its galleries, and (relative) lack of development, Taos feels, particularly in the less-visited winter season, like a sleepier, less trammeled Santa Fe. The town's galleries hold an eclectic selection of Southwestern, contemporary, and Native American art, and the Taos Pueblo (or reservation) at the edge of town is also a significant attraction, for the Taos Indians have had better success than most tribes at carrying their culture productively into and through the 20th century. The pueblo, set in a lovely spot between the town and the mountains, has a number of shops where you can buy Indian art, artifacts, or crafts with complete assurance of their authenticity and the knowledge that the proceeds are going fully into their makers' hands.

Our evening in town, however, was limited to the Rancho's Trading Post, a fairly new restaurant that overcomes its somewhat unsettling name (I feared I'd find moccasins and curios for sale) with a warm atmosphere and a menu featuring not just the expected southwestern cuisine, but some creatively prepared seafood dishes as well. (The salmon in particular was outstanding.) On our drive back we were pleased to find it snowing heavily. The next morning we woke to the sound of the resort's pneumatic cannons firing artillery rounds onto Kachina's flanks to trigger avalanches -- a good sign. Two hours later, I met my class in a heavy snow that tested visibility and made the ground a soft cloud. Carl immediately led us on a powder hunt.

He found one untrodden field of powder after another through which we floated and turned (with some tutoring from Carl to get the hang of the powder) whooping and laughing.

As the morning went on, though, our legs tired, the snow became cut up into lumps, and we began to struggle. The bottom came out when Carl took us down Walkyrie's Chute, a short but extremely steep run riddled with moguls. The pitch and the new conditions proved too much for our tired legs. At the bottom, we four students stood puffing and discouraged, wondering just how much we'd learned after all.

Carl, however, already had a cure planned. He led us to the top of another mogul field, one we'd stopped and looked at earlier in the week but had passed by as being too much over our heads. ``Remember this,'' Carl had said then, ``because later you're going to ski this easily.'' Now, after Walkyrie's, it did look easier. But we were so tired and demoralized we weren't sure.

``OK,'' said Carl, ``you all have the skills to ski this one. But you're not going to ski it. You're going to sing it.'' Say what? we all thought.

Then he asked us each to think of a song -- a good one, he said, one that's fun to sing, got a nice rhythm to it. We all thought a minute.

``You got that song?'' said Carl. We all nodded. ``Good. I want you singing before you start the first turn, and I want you singing all the way down. Don't stop singing, and don't stop turning.'' He pointed at me. ``You. Go.'' Singing Neil Young's ``Transformer Man,'' I turned my skis downhill.

It worked. With my head singing, my body was released to do its work, and while my hands rhythmically picked out one pole plant after another, my hips stayed under me, my shoulders stayed square, and my skis stayed on the snow, rolling and swinging back and forth beneath me almost effortlessly.

At the bottom, I stopped and looked back to see my three companions, all of them skiing brightly down, and singing, singing, singing.

Lodging in the town of Taos, a half-hour away, is an option for parties that include people who'd rather shop (at least some of the time) than ski, and who don't mind a drive to the mountain. Options here too run the gamut from luxurious B & Bs like the Adobe Pines (PO Box 837, Ranchos de Taos, NM 87557; 800-723-8267 or send e-mail to adobepines(at sign)taos.newmex.com), to larger but still commodious inns such as the top-ranked Historic Taos Inn (125 Paseo Norte, Taos, NM, 87571; 800-TAOSINN, send e-mail to taosinn(at sign)taos.newmex.com), or more budget-friendly places such as the Indian Hills Inn de Taos (233 Paseo del Pueblo Sur, PO Box 1229, Taos, NM 87571; 800-444-2346; send e-mail to IndianHills(at sign)newmex.com).

Some of these places are close enough to everything that you can forgo a car if you don't mind taking the daily shuttle to the ski valley.

Taos Ski Valley's general information number is 505-776-2291.

To get to Taos, fly into Albuquerque, which is served by United, American, and other major airlines, and either take one of the shuttles (Pride of Taos, 800-273-8340, or Faust, 505-758-3410) or rent a car for the three-hour-plus drive to Taos and the ski valley.