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Auberge Saint-Antoine

Canada,Quebec City

"Exquisite attention to detail at this regal little boutique hotel in the heart of Quebec City."

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Le Saint Sulpice Hotel

Canada,Montreal

"Expect a pretty courtyard restaurant and good facilities at this luxury hotel in Montreal's historic district."

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La Pinsonniere

Canada,Charlevoix

"This luxury hotel boasts wilderness appeal and lovely views; it's a gorgeous rural retreat in Charlevoix."

From EUR 285 Read review

Outside it’s struggling to make -15ºC and there’s an added wind-chill factor we don’t even want to think about as our rented 4x4 rolls reassuringly through the whiter-than-white landscapes of a Quèbec winter. We’ve come to see a man about a dog. More than one, in fact; we’ve decided to go dog-sledding. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but as another flurry of snowflakes crackles against the windscreen, I’m starting to have second thoughts.

Minutes later I know it’s too late to back out, as we pass a sign marking the turn-off to our destination: ‘Aventures Nord-Bec – Traîneau à Chiens…’. After rolling in near-silence along a track we arrive at a cluster of cheerful, match-boarded cabins, some sporting long racks of snowshoes, while beyond is a curious collection of miniature shacks spread around a large clearing. No sooner have we parked than a succession of furry outlines begins to rise from the deep snow surrounding each little refuge. The unmistakable signal of maybe a hundred wagging tails tells us that we’ve found the dogs, and they’re also well aware of our arrival. After cutting the engine there’s a momentary silence before an extraordinary chorus of howling stirs something deep inside which we never knew was there. The effect is startling and deeply moving, telling us that this is going to be an experience like no other.

After tramping into the cosy fug of the nearest lodge, we are received warmly with the not-quite-French, not-quite-Canadian tones of the reception staff, who cast a dismissive glance at our UK-bought Gore-Tex footwear. ‘You’ll need some better boots – what size do you take?’ is followed by the appearance of a couple of pairs of ‘more suitable’ footwear, calf-length and generously rubberised. Noting that unfamiliar clothing has the curious ability to reduce self-respect to that of a rank amateur, I lace up my boots, feeling prepared for anything and grateful that my trusty ski jacket, at least, has passed muster. After donning our own thermal hats, scarves and gloves, we head outside to meet the dogs.

‘Go and say Hi!’ says our host. ‘They’re all totally friendly, I promise you…’. ‘Friendly’ turns out to be an understatement; the dogs are desperate to make contact, and are straining at their chains, thick tails wagging like unsynchronised windscreen wipers. We return the compliment by moving among them one by one, noting the names daubed on kennels which they apparently seldom use, preferring instead to curl up outside in a furry ball whatever the weather. Driven by the bitter winds of winter, the snow soon builds up around them, giving them all the shelter they require.

Playtime finally ends when we’re directed towards a line of large ethnic craft sculptures which turn out to be our sleds. After admiring the construction based on a time-honoured lightweight ash framework held together with thick twine bindings, my next thought is ‘Are we really going to drive this thing?’ Absolutely, although before climbing aboard we’re given a crash course in the rudiments of dog-sled driving technique. I hang on the instructor’s every word, particularly the bit about braking, achieved by pressing a large pedal to drive a mean-looking pair of spikes downwards into the snow.

Suitably briefed, we join our respective sleds. ‘You’ll be driving’, says the instructor, pointing at me. My companion gets off lightly. Hearing ‘You can make yourself comfortable here’ she loses no time in doing just that, in the relative security of the low-slung passenger seat. The dogs, of course, are old hands at this kind of thing and know exactly what comes next, howling and barking continuously as the staff spread out to release the ecstatic animals from their chains and re-secure them in their allotted positions in the long harnesses of the sleds. Each sled gets five dogs — two at the front, one in the middle and two more behind — chosen for their strength and ability to coexist as a working team. By the time we’re ready to get moving their impatience is communicated in a series of powerful yanks on the sled, straining the thick rope by which we’re lashed to a nearby tree. This security is short-lived, however, as a member of staff yells at me to stand on the brake pedal then releases the rope. It takes all my strength to hold the whole show on the spot while the guy who slipped the tethering rope shows me another line, this time with a sturdy ground-spike attached to the end ‘in case you ever need it…’.

As the cacophony of howling rises to a manic, wailing shriek, it’s obvious that ‘walkies’ must now be happening any second – or all hell is going to break loose. Ahead of me I see the lead sled streaking away, and know that this is it. ‘Hang on!’ I yell to my not-entirely willing victim in the cold seat, as I release the brake. Suddenly we’re off and accelerating hard. Then something strange and unexpected happens: almost total silence, broken only by the basket-like creak of the sled as it skids along in the snow-tracks of the sled in front, and by the distant, rhythmic panting of the dogs. Sensing that we’re in imminent danger of catching up with the team in front, I touch the brakes, and stare down at a large plume of snow billowing rapidly around my legs. I later learn that our sled has an ‘experimental’ braking variation, using wide plates instead of the more usual spikes. The surprise appearance of a panting dog’s head between my knees suggests that the sled behind is indeed less well-braked than we are.

When we eventually regain control we’re gliding smoothly over the fresh white powder on specially cleared tracks through an otherwise densely-wooded landscape, and I begin getting to grips with handling the sled. Steering-wise, travelling in a convoy like this mostly requires little more than swinging your weight across to load the sled in the direction in which you want to turn while the dogs simply follow the sled in front. Undulations, on the other hand, require a special approach, namely scooting with one foot (or, if necessary, running) to assist the dogs in their uphill efforts, then braking on the descent, so as not to slide down into them.

Hitting level ground and returning to a steady rhythm gives us a chance to take in our surroundings in a way which is simply not possible on, say, a snowmobile. If our progress is now serene rather than frenetic, we’re still covering ground and the bond between us and ‘our’ dogs is reassuring. Forget all the stuff you hear about wild creatures, one step removed from wolves; we may think these guys are working for us, but as far as they’re concerned, they’re simply having a great time and need little encouragement on our part to keep things moving along nicely. The only disruption occurs when a dog shows signs of needing to stop to, well, answer its own call of nature — a wish which must be respected, in accordance with the sound logic of established sledding etiquette.

We live the dream for a little longer, mesmerised by the mystical process of travelling like 19th century fur trappers, until finally we hear the unmistakable howls which announce our imminent return to the clearing which we had left a couple of hours before. The warmest of welcomes is impossible to ignore, and as our team members are unshackled and led away back to their respective kennels, we abandon the rugged pioneer role-playing and within minutes are reduced to cuddling and stroking the appreciative bundles of fur competing for our attention. The final degeneration into shameless cuddly-toy mode comes right on cue, when my companion is handed an eight week-old Malamute puppy.

Later, over welcome a welcome cup of coffee in the cocooning warmth of the reception cabin, I meet founder Denis Montminy, who has run his activity centre since 1990. I now understand how these remarkable animals (he currently has 130 working Alaskan Malamutes and Siberian Huskies) have taken over his life. As a small child Denis didn’t have a family dog. Then, when he was nine years old he did some work for a neighbour, who rewarded his efforts by giving him a pair of puppies to rear. That moment changed his life forever and he’s now been breeding sled dogs for over thirty years. His dedication to improving the qualities of the breeds has earned him a growing reputation throughout Canada and Europe for his dogs’ exceptional size, endurance and loyal, playful nature. The Centre (which has 110 km of dedicated trails) has enabled him to share his love for these wonderful animals with visitors from all over the world. As we say our reluctant farewells and leave Denis to attend to another group of eager first-time visitors, we can’t resist casting a final glance back to the dogs. Once again heads shake the snow from their thick fur and tails begin to wag, inviting to us to stay just a little longer and start all over again. These friendly giants made the sledding part of our unforgettable visit really easy – and the final parting so hard…
www.aventures-nord-bec.com/