KELWOOD

50° 37' 28'' N 99° 27' 54'' W

It's funny, I always thought the cold was more bearable than the heat. It's true, when I try to lounge on a sofa in the summer, I can sip a cold drink and move as little as possible, but I can't hold out. Before Canada, I told myself "you wrap up well, that's the key. I ski in the winter, I know." And then the trick of the 3 layers, you know, the famous trick that all athletes remind us of with your moralizing... I even heard about the onion technique. Okay. Well, it's as if I had been brainwashed when I was a student in Winnipeg. Especially during that weekend in the "cabin" of a Canadian friend because I don't think I've ever been so cold in my entire life.

The day before our departure, I should have been wary. The northwest wind was blowing hard, and the raised snow gave the impression of a fluffy fog. The city streets had been abandoned for the warmth of home. And it was a deserted road we were driving on Saturday morning. Between the ageless larches covered in white, the only human footprint still visible was the black ribbon we were driving on. The hundreds of thousands of lakes in this province were also erased from the landscape. As if by a wave of a magic wand, the green tundra and the bodies of water formed a single immaculate whole. In the distance, we could easily see a group of caribou in this minimalist painting.

 

As we approached Kelwood, the ground merged with the sky, the ice reigned supreme, and in the car I clutched the armrest, hoping I wouldn't end up walking in the middle of nowhere. At any moment, you could be on the water around here, how could you tell? But the advantage of this icy cold was the thick, marble-hard frost; before you could get through it, you had to go!

Besides, after dropping off our bags at Mathieu's vacation home, the group of scatterbrained students that we were rushed to the vast lake near our refuge. The rays of the sun pierced the trees, calming the sharp air.

Mat used to come here when he was little and for weeks he'd been bragging about an ice hockey game with his friends. We were transported by the idea, and I even think I managed to cope with the tension of my university exams just by seeing me shooting the puck in the middle of nowhere.

 

The reality was quite different. It had been necessary to vigorously clear the ground of snow to get the skates out. And when we took off, we could see all the nasty irregularities of the icy surface. This time, we could truly use the expression "real ice rink." Both slippery and incredibly dangerous.

Two old men watched us mockingly. They were monitoring our incredible attempts to stay upright from a tiny hut perched on the ice. I approached, intrigued. Imagine my surprise when I saw a hole in the ground at the heart of this makeshift shelter. The guys were fishing. An activity that left me doubtful in such temperatures. The planks didn't prevent people from freezing to death, but they did somewhat break the penetrating wind.

So I stood there, extracting a few anecdotes and broad smiles from them. It was just that I looked awful in sneakers on the lake; I didn't really blend in with the local landscape. And I wasn't the only one in the group. Charlène had those trendy jeans, short enough to show her ankles, and little sequined socks. From her red nose and blue lips, we assumed 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 experienced a barbecue at -40°C. Finding kindling among the mounds of powder snow was impossible. Just as much as getting the slightest flame going, the intense cold stifled even the smallest fire. Even the ski mask I wore to keep part of my face moving had frozen, leaving me with only a glimpse of our futile efforts to get the fire going. We were confronting a hostile environment for which we were completely unprepared.

 

Fortunately, far from any disaster scenario, the nearby city center offered a café typical of all the lost downtowns of America. We were going to enjoy a hot meal, more appetizing than microwaved sausages.

It was a shack as vintage as it was old-fashioned, but it didn't clash with its occupants. The wood paneling on the ceiling and the yellowing counter perfectly matched the grease-stained jacket of the tough guy at the entrance. We were out of our comfort zone, overwhelmed by all these inconsequential but oh-so-exciting adventures. So, I can't tell you how delighted we were when we discovered the curling club adjacent to the restaurant. Another opportunity to lose our already frozen fingers, but still with the same good humor. As night fell, as if to celebrate, the sky began to dance in an extravagant green.

 

The memories of that weekend are so vivid, as if branded inside me with nitrogen. That biting cold was something... We still waited until spring to come back fishing here.

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