Tracing century-old ski trails through Quebec’s Laurentian Mountains, a newcomer to backcountry Nordic discovers bottomless snow, sweaty climbs and a thriving culture of hut-to-hut travel.
Words :: Dan Rubinstein // Photos :: JFG Video Production
Before heading to Quebec’s Laurentian Mountains for my baptism into backcountry Nordic skiing, I was uneasy about two things. The climbs and descents. As an experienced cross-country skier who has logged a lot of vertical on skinny classic planks, the prospect of weaving through the trees on hilly terrain wasn’t daunting.
But this trip was the north route of Les Routes Blanches, which summits one of the highest peaks in the Laurentians, part of a collective effort to showcase the region’s vast network of historic off-piste trails and a culture of skiing from village to village. In other words, I’d be at the epicentre of the sport, so I didn’t want to f*ck up.
Turns out, conditions are perfect when I arrive, in mid-January, at Parc national du Mont-Tremblant, just northeast of the eponymous ski resort. A string of storms has blanketed the mountains in marshmallow powder, which is now sparkling in the bright sun, and a narrow snowshoe path snakes up from the trailhead through waist-high snow, ascending a steep pitch into the thick forest.
That means the downhills will be soft and forgiving, especially on short, wide skis that are like a hybrid between XC and alpine touring. And because it’s below -20 C, I’m happy to warm up (literally) with a climb.
“Let’s go at a consistent pace, not too fast,” guide Camille Carle says as we affix climbing skins to our skis, “even though we’re following the Jackrabbit.”
That would be Herman Smith-Johannsen, aka “Jackrabbit” Johannsen, the ski-obsessed Norwegian who in the 1930s began blazing hundreds of kilometres of trails through the Laurentians, popularizing the sport here and ultimately across Canada.
“Let’s go at a consistent pace, not too fast, even though we’re following the Jackrabbit.”
With no highways into this part of Quebec, visitors came by train. Johannsen worked with farmers to secure access to private land and with innkeepers so people had somewhere to sleep. Although many have been lost to development, those routes— including the 128-kilometre Maple Leaf Trail—remain the heart of North America’s biggest backcountry network.
I’m sidestepping up the Toit des Laurentides trail this frigid morning with Carle, guide/photographer/videographer Jean-François Girard and Brian Lambert. A self-described “alpine guy” who fell in love with backcountry Nordic more than 40 years ago, Lambert wants to resuscitate the spirit of the Maple Leaf Trail, even though the entire original route is no longer feasible. That work inspired Girard to conceive of Les Routes Blanches. Ten years ago, he began embarking on multi-day backcountry expeditions in the area, exploring both modern and historic trails. Today, under the auspices the Société de plein-air des Pays-d’en-Haut, or SOPAIR, Les Routes Blanches offers guided and self-guided trips on three different routes, supporting tourism as well as environmental and heritage conservation.
“This is spectacular,” Girard says when we don puffy down jackets for a rest after an hour of climbing, ensconced in a forest of hemlock whose branches are covered by fluffy snow. “If we lose these trails, people won’t see how beautiful it is here in winter and how important it is to keep places like this public.”
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It’s also important, when the windchill is around -30 C, not to stop for long. We climb higher and then remove our skins for a series of pillowy descents to the base lodge on the north side of Mont-Tremblant. After another quick break (indoors, this time) we’re climbing again, back up into the land of panoramic lookouts and snow ghosts. And then more dreamy downhills. “Attaché ta tuque!” Lambert hollers—hold onto your hat! At one point, we briefly join an alpine ski run before cutting down a path between two chalets, onto the shoulder of a side street and into a gully, parkouring our way to a multi-use trail that leads to the resort village for our shuttle home.
Home on this trip is the Farouche Tremblant hotel, where Geneviève Côté and Jonathan Casaubon have created a sublime nature experience beside La Rivière du Diable: cozy A-frame cabins; a hot tub overlooking the mountains we skied amongst; and a restaurant, Farmbar, that serves gourmet local food, some of which is grown at their farm across the road.
“Attaché ta tuque!” Lambert hollers—hold onto your hat!
As comfortable as these digs are, the backcountry beckons. We start in the resort the next morning with a mammoth two-and-a-half-hour, sometimes-technical, 690-metre ascent to Pic Johannsen. Then: what goes up must come down. Skins off for steep, serpentine drops, I fall half a dozen times, laughing as I slowly extricate myself from the powder.
When we rejoin yesterday’s route for the final few kilometres of moderate downhills, I’m thinking about purchasing a pair of backcountry skis—a portal to human-powered adventure during which you barely see any other humans. The north route totals 34 km of distance and 1,450 metres of vertical, but in my mind there’s a map of endless trails, from town to town, up and down mountains, stretching out in every direction.
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