How to Celebrate and Survive a Canadian Winter

When I taught French there was a Canadian cultural reading segment in one of the advanced readers that was entitled: “Mon Pays C’est L’Hiver.” “Winter is my Country.”

I always liked that selection because I thought it was a true description of what it means to be a Canadian who must deal with a very long winter season.

I was born and raised in Maine and was used to cold winters. When winter comes around life doesn’t come to an end for Mainers. I’m sure people who live in other parts of New England or in other northern US states would agree. It’s not just about survival either. People in northern states learn how to have fun during the winter and still get out and be active.

But it wasn’t until I went to Canada in the dead of winter that I experienced the Canadian way of dealing with winter. Canadians like to joke that winter can sometimes last 8 months! That’s a very long time even for the most hardy of folks. But whether it’s a driving snowstorm or sub zero frigid weather, neither of those things interfere with life in Canada. As a matter of fact it’s quite customary for Canadians to celebrate winter. The best example of such a celebration is the Winter Carnival in Québec City. The 2 week Carnival is the largest winter carnival in the world with the purpose of getting people out and active in an effort to get rid of the winter blahs.
Other Canadian towns have winter festivities during the winter as well and people think nothing of putting babies in strollers and heading out for the fun and games. Some of my fondest memories as a teacher were the French immersion trips I organized to Québec for my students during the winter so they could experience that special aspect of Canadian life.

This past weekend I attended a winter festival in a small town in Québec Province called St. Pamphile and the event was called the Odyssée Appalachienne. The weekend festivities were centered around sled dog races and I was signed up in the two-day 13 mile category. The first evening there was a mandatory Musher’s Meeting in the local school. Outside some 400 spectators gathered to attend the Opening Ceremonies and watch a Fireworks Display while children played on inflatable bouncing monsters in single digit temperatures. That’s how you raise hardy folk. In the next 24 hours I would also learn what it means to live in a remote part of Québec province. Access to what we assume are essentials to life, may not be available. And I’m not talking about a Starbuck’s.

The next morning there would be a 100 mile sled dog race in which my friend Gino Roussel would be running with his team. Start time was 9:00AM in St. Pamphile. In another catagory there would be the first heat of a 2-day race of 13 miles also starting at 9:00AM and going from one village called St. Omer and ending at the Festival site in St. Pamphile. I was signed up for that race. My objective was to run a clean race with my dogs and see how their training had improved them. I’d never run in a race conducted in French and I looked forward to being in the starting chute as the man over the loudspeaker counted down: “cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un!! Allez-y!!” As a side benefit I would get to see the Canadian countryside through the Appalachian mountains on the back of a dogsled. I couldn’t think of a better way to visit Canada.

On Saturday morning I woke up at 5AM to begin getting ready for the race. While I was doing my dog chores I accidentally cut myself with my trusty trail knife. The cut was on my thumb and when I inspected it I knew I would need stitches. My mind raced with options: tight bandage? butterfly? stop the bleeding enough to get through the race and get the cut attended to later? Could I hold on to the sled? Could I harness the dogs or deal with an issue on the trail with only one hand? Or could I get to a clinic, get sutured and get to the race site in time for the vet check at 7AM? It’s amazing how all those thoughts rush through your mind as you are trying to deal with a deadline. And they all came at once. When I looked at the cut again, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to race that day. The cut had to be sutured so I could use my hand. Nothing else would allow me the use of my hand during the next few hours. So I went outside to give my husband the good news.

If you’d like to hear the “rest of the story” as Paul Harvey used to say you can read my husband’s Mushing Bulletin about the event. When I started mushing and we started traveling with the dogs to different events my husband started writing Mushing Bulletins to our kids to tell them of our/my escapades. They seemed to enjoy the reports and often forwarded the bulletins to friends who somehow wanted to be included on the distribution list. So as is his custom, my husband, referred to as the One Man Pit Crew, wrote up several bulletins of our weekend in St. Pamphile and I’m going to include them here. For anyone who doesn’t know my husband, keep in mind that he has a Dave Barry-esk sense of humor so if you are not a fan of such writing then you may want to skip it but if you like a good chuckle then I think you may be in for a treat.

Here are two Mushing Bulletins about my experience at the race at St. Pamphile.

A Stitch In Time Or You’re Down To Nine

Emergency Room

Next up, seeing what goes on at a checkpoint during a 100 mile sled dog race.

Happy Trails!