Being English and only used to the odd big hill and tall building, the size of the Canadian Rockies can be a shock. Likewise, only being used to the odd snow flurry and -2Þ C, winter above the 49th parallel was almost lethal. One metre of snow and around -40Þ C. How cold? Bloody cold.

Fortunately Calgary and the Rockies are blessed with an irregular, but welcoming warm wind, so we made the 100 minute drive through Banff and on to Lake Louise in the unusual conditions of blazing sunshine and an almost bearable temperature of 3Þ C. I was told I’d brought the good weather from the UK — the Canadians really ought to get out a bit more.

As we made our way from the foothills into the jagged white, glistening knife slashes of the mountains, two things struck me. The first was awe. A curtain of blue sky fell to sugar-coated mountain tops. The white peaks tumbled down the ravines and gullies until they were exhausted, and left the purple rocked midriff bare. All that protected the mountains’ modesty was a thick, impenetrable skirt of conifers and firs, hopefully hiding all the wonderful wild creatures that you would wish to see in Canada.

The second was fear. Large, sweaty dollops of it. We were going to Lake Louise so I could lose my skiing cherry. Now we were here, and I could see how big the mountains were and the angles the ski runs were at, I was sure I was going to die.

The National Parks of Canada are responsible for protecting the environment, and do so vigorously. Thus building throughout the Rockies is severely limited and Lake Louise’s accommodation is based around a small group of hotels, as opposed to the chalet style free-for-all that is known in Europe.

Although it tempers the partying element of apres-ski, it leaves a relaxed, cool atmosphere when the sun goes down. The jewel in the crown is Chateau Lake Louise, where they have a variety of restaurants catering for different price ranges and tastes, offering anything from fondues to French fries.

If you want to party the “animal house” is main street Banff. It really rocks, with a couple of kicking clubs, and a whole variety of theme bars to get off your face in, including the British Pub “The Rose & Crown”, a German beer-keller “Henry VIII”, and a few Blues, Jazz, and other assorted places.

For those living on the cheap, there are plenty of YHA’s in the Rockies. They range from what could be the world’s best Youth Hostel at Lake Louise, to homely “Grizzly Adams” style shacks hidden in the forests. At Castle Rock Hostel, between Lake Louise and Banff, two people sitting next to an enormous bay window were so engrossed in their chess game they were oblivious to an enormous Grizzly bear waddling past them. I would have liked to point it out to them, but I was so shocked to see a bear — a real, furry, honey-munching, tree-climbing, shitting in the woods bear — that I couldn’t speak.

I’m not sure a huge hangover is a good ploy for getting over those first time skiing fears, but I found it helped. What it didn’t help with was trying to use a T-bar for the first time. Without doubts, this contraption should only be approached after at least one bottle of vodka, preferably two. I thought I knew it all by the time I disentangled myself from its clutches at the top of the slope and took in the view and the challenge before me.

One part of the view was great. The upper part. The bowl of Lake Louise, and the Chateau looked (and I don’t want to use this embarrassing cliché, but nothing else suits it more aptly) majestic in its surroundings. Below the eye line, things took a dramatic turn towards the terrifying. People in different shapes and sizes, whizzed about energetically, a blur of neon, lycra, and the coolest or silliest hats you’ll ever see. It would have looked fantastic, if they weren’t all doing it off the face of a sheer drop that I’m sure would have matched the top of K2 for the severity of angle.

The observant will have noticed that I haven’t made mention of the obligatory beginners skiing lesson. Here was when I regretted being bullied into not taking skiing lessons first. For the statement “always trust your mates” read “don’t be so bloody stupid as to trust your mates, as they are invariably setting you up for a fall”. I had a quick look to see if there was an easy way out of this, and there wasn’t, took a deep breath and pushed off.

Twenty-seven falls, one broken pair of sunnies, and three litres of fear and exertion induced sweat later, I reached the bottom. Magic. Everyone was wetting themselves laughing, and I looked a complete wreck, but I was in love with it. For the next two days I tried most of the green and blue runs, and although I was scared to death most of the time, I can’t remember finishing anything with a greater sense of achievement. To ski around the back bowls of the mountain, in the lee of the wind and the hushed reassurance of the forest, made me feel like a real man of nature.

The only problem now is that I must go skiing at least 10 days a year, which isn’t easy or cheap. What’s worse is that my first love will always be Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find another area as fine or as beautiful as the range I lost my virginity to.