BEND – My brother and I did our level best to persuade our yuppie cousins from New York City to come to Bend this year for our annual family get-together on the ski slopes.

We extolled Mount Bachelor’s undiscovered slopes, free from the glitterati in furry boots who live for apres-ski at Vail.

We praised Bend’s numerous brewpubs, which consistently win awards from magazines with names like “Malt.”

We talked up Central Oregon’s natural beauty, the high-desert landscape framed by the peaks of the Cascades.

No soap.

“We’ve decided to go to Telluride instead,” my cousin trilled over the phone. “Maybe next year we’ll come to Bend.”

Or maybe not.

On a recent visit to Bend, it became clear that my cousins, whose Palm Pilots and cell phones tend to ping furiously as they schuss downhill, might not be suited to the easygoing Bend vibes.

The town, after all, has a ways to go before it turns into Sun Valley or Aspen.

When a friend and I pulled in on a recent Thursday night, cranky after a foggy 31/2-hour drive from Portland, all the stoplights downtown were blinking red at 9:30 p.m. When we tried to find somewhere to eat that wasn’t a strip mall joint on Highway 97, we were out of luck: The town’s kitchens close down about 9 p.m.

Things improved the next morning, though, when we woke up to waffles at the Lara House bed-and-breakfast, a historic home two blocks from the downtown core that sits on the edge of Drake Park, the city’s centerpiece. The accompanying maple syrup had been warmed; plus, the B-and-B had terry-cloth robes to wear out to its hot tub, little dishes of mints everywhere and hot apple cider on offer every night.

We’re not picky. The maple syrup alone was enough to make us forgive the Lara House’s dicey heating system, which made it something of a challenge to keep our spacious room from being either boiling hot or rather chilly.

If you’re not that adventurous, no matter. Bend’s got plenty of expensive condos and homes to rent in the developments that have sprung up around town in the last decade, while penny-pinchers can opt to fork out $13 a night for a bed at the Alpine Hostel.

After breakfast, we headed out to Mount Bachelor, which many Oregon ski aficionados consider to be the best skiing this side of Whistler, B.C., with snow that rivals Colorado’s dry, light powder.

The resort is surrounded by the Deschutes National Forest, so there’s none of the ski-in, ski-out condominiums that ring the bases of so many ski areas, and a day-pass costs $44, expensive for Oregon but cheap compared to other comparable ski areas in the West, where a day of skiing can top $60. It’s an easy 30-minute drive from downtown Bend.

We hit the mountain on opening day, when a recent warm spell had melted away some – but not all – of Bachelor’s 30-inch base. Conditions weren’t as good as they would be later in the season, but neither were we. Our first run of the season left us jelly legged, so we stuck to the groomed runs, enjoying the expansive views of surrounding peaks, the wide, easy-to-cruise-down intermediate runs and the uncrowded slopes.

Bachelor’s a favorite with snowboarders, and with experts who hike up to the crevices and ski down impossibly steep gulches. It didn’t seem to us like the best place for a beginner, but the resort recently installed a “Magic Carpet,” a sort of conveyor belt to transport the littlest skiers up the bunny hill, so that might help compensate for the tough terrain.

Food on the mountain is typical ski fare: By the time you’re ready to eat, they figure you’re so hungry that you’ll pony up $7 for a grilled cheese with a smile on your face. Brown bag it, if you’ve got that much time to plan ahead.

And don’t plan to hang out at the base of the mountain for too long after the ski day is over. Things clear out, and the action is back in Bend, which claims to have more restaurants per capita than any other town in Oregon, although at least half of them seem to be more pub than grub.

We tried the Pine Tavern, a Bend fixture known for its prime rib, where I made the mistake of ordering the meatloaf, one small step up from the sludge served up when you fly coach. A better choice was the grown-up version of macaroni and cheese at the Deschutes Brewery the next night, which came mixed with spinach, artichoke hearts and three kinds of cheese.