KELWOOD

 

50° 37' 28'' N 99° 27' 54'' W

Funny, I always thought cold was more bearable than hot. I mean, when I try to lounge around on a sofa in summer, no matter how much I sip a cold drink and move as little as possible, I just can't take it. Before Canada, I used to say to myself, "Cover up well, that's the key. I know what it's like to ski in winter". And then the 3 layers thing, you know, the famous trick that all sportsmen and women remind us of with your sanctimonious tone... I've even heard of the onion technique. Oh, well. Well, I guess I was brainwashed when I was a student in Winnipeg. Especially that weekend in a Canadian friend's cabin, because I don't think I've ever been so cold in my life.

 

 

The day before departure, I should have been wary. The north-westerly wind was blowing hard and the rising snow gave the impression of cottony fog. The city streets had been abandoned for the warmth of home. And it was a deserted road that we took on Saturday morning. Between ageless larches covered in white, the only human footprint still visible was the black ribbon we were driving along. The hundreds of thousands of lakes in this province had also been erased from the landscape. As if by magic, the green tundra and the bodies of water became one immaculate whole. A group of caribou could be easily spotted in the distance against this minimalist backdrop.

 

As we approached Kelwood, the ground merged with the sky, the ice became king, and in the car I tensed on the armrest hoping not to end up on foot in the middle of nothing. It's just that, at any moment, you could find yourself on the water here, how do you know? But the advantage of this icy cold was the marble-hard thickness of the ice, and before you got through it, you had to go for it! 

 

 

In fact, once we'd set down our luggage at Mathieu's vacation home, the group of giddy students that we were rushed to the vast lake near our refuge. The rays were streaming through the trees, soothing the prickly air.

 

 

Mat had come here as a kid, and for weeks he'd been telling us about a game of ice hockey with his buddies. We'd gotten carried away with the idea, and I think I'd even held my nerve through university exams thanks to that vision of myself shooting the puck in the middle of nowhere.

 

The reality was quite different. The ground had had to be cleared vigorously to get the skates out. And when you took off, you could appreciate all the wicked irregularities of the icy surface. For once, you could really use the expression "real skating rink". Both slippery and as dangerous as you could wish.

 

 

 

Two old men watched us mockingly. They were watching our rocky attempts to stay upright from a tiny hut on the ice. I approached, intrigued. I was surprised to see a hole in the ground at the heart of this makeshift shelter. The guys were fishing. An activity that left me dubious with such temperatures. The planks didn't prevent you from freezing to death, but they did break the penetrating wind a little.

So I'd just stand there, and rip off a few anecdotes and broad smiles. It's just that I didn't really fit in with the local landscape in my sneakers on the lake. And I wasn't the only one in the group. Charlène was wearing these trendy jeans short enough to show her ankles, and little sequined socks. You could tell from her red nose and bluish lips that she regretted this choice. Following my gaze fixed on her feet, we all burst out laughing.

 

All this had whetted our appetites. And it was with great enthusiasm that we experimented with a barbecue at -40°. Finding kindling in the mounds of powder was a real impossibility. As well as getting the slightest flame, the intense cold suffocated the smallest start. Even the ski mask I wore to keep part of my face still moving had frozen, leaving me with only a glimpse of our useless efforts to start the fire. We were up against a hostile nature for which we were totally unprepared.

 

Fortunately, far from any worst-case scenario, the town center was just a stone's throw away, offering a café typical of all America's clueless downtowns. We were going to enjoy a hot meal, more appetizing than microwaved sausages.

 

 

It was a shanty that was as vintage as it was cheesy, but in no way clashed with its occupants. The wainscoting on the ceiling and the yellowing countertop matched perfectly with the grease-stained jacket worn by the oddball at the door. We were out of our comfort zone, overwhelmed by all these inconsequential but exhilarating adventures. So I can't tell you how delighted we were when we discovered the curling club adjoining the restaurant. Another opportunity to lose our already chilled fingers, but always with the same good humor. At nightfall, as if in celebration, the sky began to dance in an extravagant green.

 

 

The memories of that weekend are so vivid, as if imprinted in me with nitrogen. That bitter cold was something... Still, we waited until spring to come back and fish here.

KELWOOD - 50° 37' 28'' N 99° 27' 54'' W