Alaska in winter is an intimidating prospect: one characterized by frigid temperatures, long nights and forbidding landscapes blanketed in snow and ice. At 7 a.m. on a dark winter day last February, when I found myself awake and aboard the Alaska Railroad's annual ski train to Grandview, the sun had yet to rise, and the train was filled with slumbering bodies.

But if, like most people, you avoid this state during the winter months—perhaps opting to spend a February vacation in, say, St. Thomas—you'll be missing out on what may be Alaska's biggest backcountry secret. With two departures from Anchorage each winter—the first southbound to Grandview, in the snowy backcountry terrain of the Kenai Peninsula, and the second northbound to the now-abandoned town of Curry, in the mountains near Denali National Park—the seasonal ski train has been operating in one form or another since 1937.

Despite Alaska's frosty reputation, the winter weather around Anchorage can be milder than Chicago's, tempered as it is by the waters of Cook Inlet. Accompanied by my boyfriend, I had a full day to look forward to; because we were nearing the March equinox, the brief spells of sunlight that had punctuated much of the season had already given way to more tolerable, 10-and-a-half-hour-long days.

The earliest ski trains were run exclusively by the Alaska Railroad to Curry, home to Alaska's first ski resort and the grand Curry Hotel, popular for weekend excursions. "Back then, a room cost $1.50 and a meal was 33 cents," said Donald Smith, the director of the ski train for Alaska Railroad. According to Mr. Smith, the ski trains stopped running during World War II, resumed in 1947, then stopped again in 1957 when the resort hotel burned to the ground, effectively shutting down the town for good.

Revived in its modern incarnation in 1971 as a chartered train by the Nordic Ski Association of Anchorage, the ski train now travels twice a year, taking skiers on day trips to areas where there aren't any roads. From Anchorage, the Grandview train goes three hours south into rugged backcountry, with steep, challenging slopes and glaciers ideal for telemark skiing and backcountry touring. Two weeks later, the Curry train heads four hours north to the historic ghost town, where a rolling landscape is family-friendly and inviting to Nordic skiing and snowshoeing.

At each destination, the train stops for four to six hours of skiing time before heading back to Anchorage.

In either case, the train journey itself is spectacular, and there are plenty of nonskiing passengers along just for the ride. I watched ice floes and stunning panoramas of the Alaska Range and the Chugach Mountains unfold as the train traced the rocky coastline along crystalline Cook Inlet and Turnagain Arm. Their glassy waters mirrored the surrounding peaks. The Grandview train climbs a 3 percent grade to peak at 1,063 feet, one of the highest points on the Alaska Railroad.

Every year, former residents come back from out of state for the trip, and most of the 636 skiers, snowboarders and snowshoers aboard this train were Alaskans. In addition, there were 120 volunteers, many who went to work unloading equipment, preparing food and selling T-shirts in exchange for the opportunity to ski free. Because of its access to both intermediate and advanced skiing, Grandview tends to be the more popular destination.

"Today's my first time going to Grandview," said Beth Sharp, 35, a geologist who moved to Anchorage from Minnesota 12 years ago. It was about 9 a.m., and she stood with a beer in hand, taking in the spectacular view from an open area between two cars. "The glacier skiing at Grandview is what I'm really excited about today. I'm pretty well hooked on this train—where else can you start drinking at 7 a.m. and ski in an amazing, untouched place all day long?"

In the 19 cars of the Grandview train, there is definitely a party atmosphere to go along with the hard-core skier attitude. Modern additions to the ski train include a lederhosen-clad polka band—the spirited 10-piece Anchorage Krausenspieler Blaskapelle Band, which honks its way through the train on the way to Grandview—as well as a beer car and a tiki bar, complete with plastic palm trees.

But the festivities don't get into full swing until after the ski day is over, at 4:30 p.m., when the last horn blast sounds and the train starts on its return to Anchorage. The band then sets up a fixed stage in the polka car and skiers crowd their way in to dance—owing to limited space, the floor quickly descends into a polka mosh pit, making for a giddily surreal scene as the mountain scenery zooms past the picture windows.

Gary Schneider, a 33-year-old high school teacher and former cross-country ski coach, has been riding the train to Grandview since he was 7. On this trip, he was traveling with his wife, Heather, and their 2-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Tazlina, who was named after a glacier near Valdez.

"This is the first time we've brought our daughter with us," Mr. Schneider said as he watched Tazlina march up and down the stairs to the train car's upper viewing deck. He remembers hiding in the luggage compartment and racing through the crowded polka car as a child. "And when we were teenagers," he said, "we spent the whole time trying to sneak beers. Now it's become very much a family thing, and I also see a lot of my students on the train."

One thing that hasn't changed about the ski train over the years? Its unparalleled access to backcountry snow. "I love being in the woods here, where there are no roads," he said. "You just can't do that anywhere else."

As the train pulled into Grandview at 10:15, the vibration of several hundred people eager to get off and hit the snow was palpable. Fresh snowfall had arrived the previous night, and expanses of glistening, unspoiled powder unfolded before me as I hopped off the train. Each year, before and during the six-hour ski window, avalanche control and safety assessment is conducted by Alaska Mountain Rescue, the Forest Service and Alaska Railroad engineers.

THOUGH our snowboarding skills are solid, my boyfriend and I don't have much backcountry experience, so we took along snowshoes designed for deep-snow stomping and climbing. But we weren't alone—there were numerous pairs of snowshoes among the skis, snowboards and other equipment handed off the train and arranged alongside the tracks in loose alphabetical order by owners' names.

As the crowd dispersed—with Nordic skiers snaking along the valley floor and backcountry skiers strapping on skins and energetically hiking up to the glaciers—we broke trail into the wooded area east of the train. Eventually, we hit the skin trail left by alpine tourers and followed it as it climbed up high to the ridgeline, out of sight of the train waiting in the valley below.

By early afternoon, we'd caught up with the telemarkers and splitboarders swishing down fresh powder on the glacier. We watched them with envy. A mix of rain and snow began to fall, and because of the warm weather—temperatures had climbed into the 40's—there was evidence of minor slides. Because avalanche transceivers aren't required on the trip, we'd left ours at home, but after getting some advice from a group of ski patrollers stationed on the glacier, we decided to hike back down to the train and start the après-ski portion of the trip.

It seemed that everything about the ski train, including its morning mimosas and independent backcountry access—even the polka dancing—had an air of rugged Alaskan self-reliance.

"A lot has changed, but there's still an edge to this thing," said Mr. Schneider, the high school teacher. "The dancing and the polka band used to take place in a boxcar, with the door open for ventilation. You'd have all these people dancing near the open section, with just this little rope across the doorway to keep you from falling out of the train. It's a little different now, but it's still very Alaska. People put the emphasis on being responsible for yourself."

Indeed, skiers are responsible for getting themselves back on the train. (The whistle blows at 4, 4:15, and just before departure at 4:30 p.m.) Ski train literature explicitly warns that there is a "substantial fee for retrieving anyone who misses the return train." Over the years, there have been few incidents with skiers getting lost or being late; the railroad does a sweep with a high-rail vehicle (basically a big truck that is equipped to ride on the rails) an hour after the train has left, and the Alaska Mountain Rescue Group leaves an emergency duffel bag behind with sleeping bags, water, a tent and sealed food, just in case.

The ski train director, Donald Smith, who moved from New Jersey 10 years ago, agrees that the whole enterprise is passionately characteristic of his adopted state.

"It's such a unique Alaskan experience—to take people out on a train to the wilderness, let them play, and then take them back home," Mr. Smith said. "We've never had anyone hurt on or off the train, and I think that's a testament to the type of people who come on the train.

"Even though it's really neat fun, the party is a perk," he added, gesturing to the polka band charging full steam in the car behind him. "It's ancillary to the outdoor aspect."

But there are at least a few who might disagree. As she surveyed the enthusiastic crowd jumping up and down in the polka car, Tami Fordham, a 27-year-old recent transplant from Washington State, was thinking of ways to improve on her first ski train party.

"I'll definitely come back next year—as a volunteer," she said. "Somebody has to put some strawberries in those mimosas."

If You Go
The Nordic Skiing Association of Anchorage's ski trains (907-276-7609, www.anchoragenordicski.com) depart this year on Feb. 25 and March 11. Tickets (about $60 a person) went on sale around mid-October. The train to Grandview was sold out by Oct. 19; the train to Curry typically sells out closer to its departure. Be sure to arrive early at the Anchorage Train Depot for boarding if you want your choice of seats.