At my hostel in New Orleans, as I sat huddled against the brisk evening winds clutching a cheap beer in my right hand and listening to the sweet sounds of jazz emerging from the impromptly put together stage to my left, I begun to question whether I had ever actually thought about the realities of a Canadian winter. I had grown more accustomed to the sweat inducing heat than I would ever care to admit, and as soon as temperatures dipped below 17 degrees (celcius), I could be found shivering under two sweatshirts and my windbreaker. My new friend, roommate and temporary partner in crime laughed at me as I stubbornly laid out my reasons for wanting to be in Canada for the winter (she was soon to head back to California to chase the sun, like a beautiful migratory bird that had unlocked the answer to a happy life; warmth), and beyond the practical reason of simply having to activate my work visa by the middle of December my reasons fell thin among the clatter of my teeth.

Sticking South

I want to experience a real winter, I told her, indirectly implying that I didn’t think I would get many more opportunities to do so in my life time. Back in my home country of the Netherlands, the winters have warmed up gradually and stories of ice-skating over cobbled streets to school, the infamous elfstedentocht where thousands of participants set off to ice-skate between eleven cities in our northern province, and high packs of snow tall enough to climb on are slowly turning into legends. I begun to pine for a winter, the way I assume Canadians pine for spring to begin towards the end of February.

During my previous stay in Montréal, I had silently weeped as snow thinly fell among me, covering my restless footsteps in the dark. It was mostly gone a day later, melted by the exhaust fumes drifting in the air and the thick grains of salt and gravel littering the sidewalk, but it had been there and I had gotten to experience it. I was ready for more. I guess I wanted to learn how to appreciate a winter too, embrace it even with the limitations it puts upon the way we can live our lives as social human beings. There seemed to be something about being cooped up inside with no other alternative than to fully give in to the moment. In our rushed society, it almost seemed like an art that needed to be remastered.

Travelling North

After extending my stay in New Orleans from one day to the next, refusing to think beyond just the upcoming night and getting too comfortable as strangers slowly grew into acquaintances, it dawned on me that it was time for me to spread my wings again – and travel the opposite way like a young goose stubbornly heading into the wrong direction. I slowly put together my bike, swapping out the uncomfortable saddle and adjusting its height (it was one of the few things I could comfortably do, so admittedly I fiddled with it often). I stocked up on oats and sardines for easy proteins the way a cyclist from New York state had shown me, and swapped out one of my jeans for canvas pants as tipped by a Minnesota native. On the day of my departure, my friend waved me off, her arm proudly swinging in the air as I set off towards the train station. I hadn’t felt ready to leave until I looked back and still saw her stand there, her good faith seeing me off.

As I travelled further up north, gradually layering all the clothes I owned one on top the other, my dread slowly began to be swapped out by a sense of acceptance. Although the bright sun in combination with the icy winds was hard to dress for when cycling (the amount of times I sat atop a hill huffing and puffing as I essentially threw my windbreaker off of me, to only put it back on while shivering once I had made my way down is staggering), it was a good and gentle way to prepare for what was to come. When I finally arrived to Montréal, about two weeks after leaving New Orleans, that same windbreaker in combination with my sweaters acted as a good protection against the Northern cold.

You get what you ask for – and more

I didn’t know it then, but the worst was still to come. Winters in Canada don’t seem to really start until January and even then, the real cold didn’t hit until February. Soon, a minus 20 day became regular, minus 10 more bearable and any tempratures close to 0 were akin to a summer day. On these days, you could go out comfortably without having to clad yourself in umpteen layers of thermals. But when it was cold, it was really cold. During my time in Montréal I experienced one of the heaviest snowstorms in 127 years, with over 70cm of white fluff pilling the streets, blocking pavements, locking people into their homes, and generally covering the whole city in a blanket of white. I noticed that within cities, winter seems to be more an obstacle to overcome than a yearly respite to give in to – as I had romantisized in my head. The whole city slowly lost its magic as large piles of pushed-away snow began to mix with dirt, gravel and exhaust. Trash that was once hidden out of sight now reappeared, and more of it had been dropped to accompany what was already there. In cities, winter became really ugly really quick.

I also found that winters, although still as cold as they had always been, were no longer cold for long. The weather fluctuated from day to day and it almost seemed as though snow could melt within the blink of an eye. As it slowly dissapeared throughout the day, its remnants would refreeze at night and the streets became slippery and almost dangerous. I set out to bike on one of these days, walking for the most part. I had underdressed and my Dollerama gloves didn’t even come close to offering any protection. You couldn’t walk far without slipping and roads steeply going down towards the river had to be salted properly before anyone would even think to drive there. And still, everyone had to brave through these conditions to go to work, complete their chores like grocery shopping and attend class (my friend and I stood for a good few minutes as we watched a girl wearing leather heels attempt to make her way down to McGill University, holding onto the rails for dear life as her feet slid out in front of her). For most, winter was no excuse and life plodded on.

Countryside winter

Still, some remnants of an old-school winter remained. Hiking a few hours outside of Montréal provided somewhat of an insight into the beauty of winter. Here, deers gently dug their noses among the snow to reach the grass below, and numurous birds like American tree sparrows and Chickadees sang songs of sweet sounds among barren branches and softly running creeks. Sighting a woodpecker, a red cardinal or a bluejay remained special and I admired the way they seemed to face the winter more bravely than I did. Even with my double layer of socks, insulated gloves, thermals and a spare set of dry socks in my backpack, I felt unprepared. Meanwhile, all these wonderful birds fluttered from one tree to the next with nothing but the feathers on their backs.

Deeper into the province of Quebec, near the city of Rivière-du-Loup, I learned how to fully embrace the three to four months of cold that takes over much of Canada. For two weeks, I was graciously hosted by a wonderful couple living in an old wooden house where a large fire burned in the basement as the smell, heat and sound of crackling fire travelled through the frosty rooms. My hosts were a wonderful woman who grew up regularly hunting in the country and was filled with the brim with knowledge about land stewardship. She had years of experience working in special education and her level of patience was a testament to it. You could tell she had a love for the land we walked on, and she felt passionate about sharing it. Her partner, a funny man with a special talent in speed-completing sudoku had the habit of starting more projects than he could finish, tackling each of them with a level of precision and thought-out-ness that I genuinely learned from (and at times chuckle at as we thought of ridiculous solutions to easy construction problems).  

Their living room was filled with plants wherever you bat your eye: on top of the piano, in the windowsills, next to the oven, on the kitchen cabinets, and on the floor. You couldn’t help but feel at peace as you walked from room to room, the wooden floor creaking under your footsteps. A beautiful painting of an old cabin besides a bright blue streaming river with autumn-leaved trees hung where a TV might otherwise be. Beside it, a large window looked out on the one street that led towards the house. It was blocked not much further as the street wasn’t a priority enough to fully clear out and so not many cars passed throughout the day. Throughout the other window, you could look out across a small pine forest where tall trees stood clustered together covered by white. Watching through these windows as thick speckles of snow fell towards the ground in thundering silence, I often found myself thinking about the winter I had so deperately wanted to experience. I had found it.