Leaving at mid-day we stopped at the Pot au Feu in Wakefield before continuing along the road to Maniwaki through the villages that skirt the Gatineau River: Alcove, Farrelton, Brennan, Venosta, Kazabazua, Alwyn, Wright, Gracefield, Bouchette and Farley, these names indicating their inhabitants' linguistic confusion. Are they English or French speakers? They can't seem to decide. Near Alwyn a shack stood by the road called La Binerie, selling plates of hot baked beans. A pair of deer stood silhouetted on the frozen river. We drove through white fields dotted with black barns and rimmed with dark conifers as George practised his Italian phrases and Chris played us an ABC podcast about the Philosophy of Musical Performance from The Philosopher's Zone, with reference to Monteverdi's Orfeo. It seemed incongruous in rural Quebec, somehow. The interviewee was Paul Thom.
Our whim for New Year's Eve was to spend a night, with six of our friends, at the Château Logue in Maniwaki, a one-time trading post and now an interpretation centre and hotel, its walls decorated with enlarged, sepia photographs of scenes from the lives of the lumberjacks and draveurs who originally settled this area—doing their washing among the trees in an attempt to get rid of the "poux" (lice) in their clothes, for instance—and its lobby with ten or eleven curly haired Santa Clauses and a (very realistic) log fire.
In twos and threes, we explored the deserted streets of Maniwaki over the river bridges and along the multipurpose (i.e. ski-doo) trails that skirt the town, before undressing for an improvised game of volleyball in the the hotel pool. Hors d'oeuvres were served by and for our party in Room 305 to keep us going until we could take our seats for a leisurely, tasty supper in the bar overlooking the river: salads with cranberry flavoured dressing or cream of courgette soup followed by chicken breasts in a red pepper sauce with miniature courgettes and potatoes on the side, then gâteau. Some of us struggled rather to stay up till midnight after that, but games of table football and the results of Chris' predictions quiz from this time last year helped keep us all awake till we could toast the New Year with the ice wine generously supplied by Carol—thanks, Carol!
George chose 9a.m. as the time when we should gather for breakfast on January 1st, Chris and I arriving only half an hour late for this, before we set off for another brisk and bracing walk along the snowy trails. We passed an old river boat, its hull decorated with poetic lines of writing about the thaw that used to herald the first log-drive of the season:
... La voix de la grande rivière avait commencé de se faire entendre.
Elle annonçait le temps de la drave.
Our walk was good exercise in view of the car rides ahead, the others having to return to Ottawa through a blizzard, and Chris driving George, Jonathan and me a couple of hours further north and east into the Laurentian Mountains around Mont Tremblant.
The first part of this route took us along a snow covered, up and down road, winding through the forest, so Chris was probably relieved when we came to the junction with the Trans-Canada Highway (Rte 117). We lunched at a spot three of us have lunched at before, L'Ami du Passant, with its moose antlers on the wall by the serving hatch, a small family diner and bar laitier adjacent to the highway and to Mont Laurier airport at Lac St Jean, ski-planes landing and taking off as we watched.
Some might find the area monotonous, but I enjoy drifting along and noting what we pass on our way through towns like Mont Laurier and Lac-des-Écorces: the Salle de l'Age d'Or right next to the cemetery so that the old folk can gaze through the window at what's coming next, the places selling hardware or furs, the ten pin bowling alleys—the Quincailleries, the Fourrures, the Salons des Quilles—the Bronzage parlours. Log cabins that serve as eateries are labelled Queues de Castors or Au p'tit bouff tout and such and we passed an outdoor equipment place named Coureur du Bois after the old-time trappers.
As the scenery grew more mountainous and rocky, the snow began to fall, but by this time we had nearly reached Mont Tremblant where I had booked us into the Comfort Inn by cellphone ahead of our arrival. The scene there turned out to be quite bizarre, with some guests wandering through the lobby in all their winter wrappings, furry boots, balaclavas, and others barefoot, in swimming trunks or bikinis because of the steaming, outdoor hot tub situated close to the lobby. And yes, we felt compelled to take advantage of it, though not until the three men had also taken advantage of the opportunity to buy two-day passes for the snow-tubing run down the hill beside this hotel, a treat for children of all ages.
The other three didn't altogether trust my ability to find them somewhere for supper in Ste-Jovite, but after a short, chilly walk down the steep hill from the hotel, we did find the main drag a block or so further, very different from how it looks with the bright flowers and the churchyard fountain that I remember seeing a few summers ago, but prettily lit with Christmas lights at this time of year, and a choice of restaurants. George said that John le Grec's looked like the liveliest place, so in we went for a large plateful of Grecian style dinner (rice 'n chips on the side) which I ate in full view of the revolving display of green jellies none of the diners seemed inclined to request for dessert. And so back to the hot tub, the falling snowflakes and bed.
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