An adrenaline-fueled, unconventional tour of Quebec. Words :: Leslie Anthony.
In 1964, Québecois singer-songwriter Gilles Vigneault penned “Mon Pays,” in which his lyrical phrases on cold, snow and ice capture both the solitude of winter landscapes and the camaraderie of those who brave them. While most Canadians can relate to its theme of Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver (my country isn’t a country, it’s winter), the song is a de facto anthem for Quebec’s passionate snow aficionados, reflecting both an ardour for outdoor recreation and the joie de vivre that drives it.
Indeed, with its interwoven odes to sport, art, culture and gastronomy, the hibernal season in Quebec projects a magically different “more life, less hibernation” character. Although most of my winter trips to Quebec revolve around alpine skiing, this time our group sought a broader palette of winter experience—a choc-a-bloc, no-minute-wasted litany of activities, accommodations, foods and beverages in which the understood rule was “no ski turns allowed.”
Faithful pilgrims that we were, we’d kicked things off at the Val Notre-Dame monastery in the Lanaudière region northeast of Montreal. Inhabited by the monks known for Oka cheese, this architectural masterpiece of wood and slate was a perfect stop for provisioning the rest of our trip with handmade cheese, meats, preserves and other local products (pickled quail eggs!).
Many of these delicacies derived from the forest, as we learned on a stormy snowshoe tour with master bushman Jean, who soon zeroed in on the king of forest culinary savvy—Sapin baumier, or balsam fir. At a yurt deep in the forest Jean’s wife dished out sapin-flavoured sausages wrapped in bannock and dressed in a sapin mustard and foraged berry sauce, all washed down with tea made from chaga, a fungus found on birch.
A more traditional lunch ensued at the classic Auberge du Lac-à-l’Eau Claire in the neighbouring Mauricie region. The food was good, but all our attention was on the lake—some 25 km long and so extraordinarily clear you could see 10 metres to the bottom through ice-fishing holes augured into the ice. Scrunching bait onto a hook (sorry, worms) we manned a wooden tipper rig while balancing glasses of chardonnay. Lest we think the “white-with-fish” credo applied even while obtaining dinner, it all made sense when the speckled trout we hauled up were sizzling in a pan behind us.
Although most of my winter trips to Quebec revolve around alpine skiing, this time our group sought a broader palette of winter experience—a choc-a-bloc, no-minute-wasted litany of activities, accommodations, foods and beverages in which the understood rule was “no ski turns allowed.”
Late afternoon saw us driving hours through a snowstorm, an endless forest pelage punctuated only by the mute church steeples marking every village in Quebec, until the log palace (not a phrase used lightly) of Hôtel Sacacomie materialized from the pine. Conducted on an outdoor aerie with commanding views of Lake Sacacomie and its cradle of ancient mountains, check-in was an unheralded ode to winter fun that included ritual downing of ice-glass maple-whisky shots and the liberation by hammer of room keys from ice-block tree decorations. As the storm retreated behind a stellar sunset, we scattered to the hot and cold comforts of a labyrinthine spa.
With the morning dawning bluebird winter glory, Sacacomie’s extensive trail network resonated the winter hardwood forests of my Ontario youth but with a unique addition: a chance to pair up and take turns driving an eager dog-sled team. Unlike more passive dog-sledding experiences (you sit, they drive), here we piloted the sleds, ran uphill with the canines and ripped around the forest, tipping sleds onto one runner around corners while figuring out when to let ’em run and when to brake.
Related:
For the afternoon we’d scheduled a lesson in winter bush survival, and the pair who materialized to lead it could only be found in Quebec: 70-something Gaspar was truly a man of the previous century, bedecked in an antique coat of sea otter with a beaver hat, flanked by his son in a onesie snowmobile suit.
While our younger guide instructed us on fire craft and Labrador tea brewing, Gaspar explained the eclectic contents of a trapper’s cabin and how beaver skins were tanned with bear brains—an odd prelude to eating hot maple syrup rendered into taffy sticks on snow. Still, this was la vraie affaire (the real deal), and we were only scratching the surface. Mostly because Gaspar was just getting started on old-school speeches ranging from emotional tributes to the region and treatises on First Nations, to logging, trapping and existential gratitude. “Life,” he concluded, sweeping his arms wide as another molten sunset painted the snow fuchsia, “is beautiful.”
If this wasn’t joie de vivre, what was?
To this point, maple-syrup-infused food and drink had been ubiquitous, but we really tapped (ha ha) into this vibe in Québec City with brunch at sugar shack-themed La Bûche (The Log), and a maple-addled meal of beans, crêpes, sausage and the most delicious bacon I’ve ever eaten (trust me—I keep track). Even the poutine was heavenly—Belgian-style fries, squeaky (ergo fresh) cheese curds and gravy with a hint of maple. To work off this caloric gumbo, some opted for a postprandial walk through the 450-year-old fortifications of the old town, the rest, an afternoon of—bien sur—ice-canoe racing.
Practiced nowhere else on Earth, the pure, beautiful insanity of crewing a specially designed canoe across the frigid St. Lawrence River through moving ice isn’t for the risk—or cold—averse. Evolved from a utilitarian need to connect the river’s north and south shores during winter prior to bridges, competitors in this highly aerobic sport don runner’s wear as they cannot, under any circumstances, stop moving. On top of a huge set of gonads, key equipment includes a flotation vest, shin pads and crampons pulled over neoprene booties.
Dodging ice floes may not be on everyone’s bucket list, but you can still join the thousands who watch the races from shore with a cup of boozy hot chocolate during Carnaval de Québec—a pre-Lenten celebration third in size globally behind only the fêtes of Rio de Janeiro and New Orleans. Because it was Carnaval, we also found tobogganing, cross-country skiing and myriad other fun on the historic Plains of Abraham, a pleasant juxtaposition to its original use as a battleground for the colonial powers of France and England. There, we also found Bonhomme (Happy Man), Carnaval’s Michelin-Man-meets-Mr.-Stay-Puft ambassador, with whom protocol dictates you go in for a hug and a selfie.
To wind down from the past two days of adrenalized highs, we enjoyed an evening of Indigenous Huron-Wendat storytelling in the authentic longhouse at Wendake, followed by dinner rendered by a Michelin-Starred chef, again amazed by the myriad goings-on in Quebec’s winter hinterlands—whitefish caviar on bannock fingers, anyone?
Beyond the city, we made a day of it ski touring, snowshoeing and fat biking the trails of Parc National de la Jacques-Cartier—a glacial valley surrounded by rocky plateaus. On the way back to the city we couldn’t resist visiting the world-famous Hôtel de Glace. Since opening in 2001, Québec’s landmark ice hotel has morphed from gimmicky sleepover amidst stacked ice blocks to a technological marvel and work of art. It takes an army of workers more than a month to build its cavernous gathering areas, crystalline sculptures, indoor bar and dozens of rooms themed with incredible snow carvings and dazzling—albeit often bizarre—décor. Fittingly, we finished another long day in nature with dinner at Quebec City’s Restaurant Légende, featuring a fully boreal cuisine (including wine—thanks, climate change!) where each plate is a sensory journey through Quebec’s field, forest, river and ocean.
To finish this madcap journey, we drove 3.5 hours east to the Saguenay-Lac-Saint-Jean region. After a snowshoe climb to a summit above Vallée des Fantômes (Valley of the Ghosts—snow ghosts, to be exact) in Parc National des Monts-Valin, we could see all the way to cliff-lined Saguenay Fjord, a summertime stop for whale watchers and, in this season, home to the largest ice-fishing villages on earth, veritable towns on ice with de facto streets and supply shops to tackle the more than 20 species of fish. We overnighted at Imago Village—a unique cluster of personally appointed glamping domes that served up filet-mignon-adorned poutine with a spicy gravy.
The grand finale was a day at Mont Édouard, a respectable 450-vertical-metre ski hill that, unique in the East, also featured hut-to-hut touring and gladed descents; Édouard’s “Haute Route Sector” includes eight summits and four cabins spread over 200 backcountry acres and, in keeping with our “no ski turns allowed” rule, we would tour to one of them and return on the same trail.
As we climbed the final ridgeline of stunted trees to the cabin, however, heavy clouds lifted just enough to reveal cabins atop nearby mountains and powder stashes draping the mountain’s flanks. Below us were similar open alleys that led back to the base.
I’d be lying if I said we managed to stick to the rule.
You might also like:
Check the ML Podcast!
