Outside it’s struggling to make minus 15ºC, along with a wind-chill factor we don’t even want to think about. Despite which our rented 4x4 is pushing purposefully through the whiter-than-white landscape of a typical Quèbec winter, taking us to see a man about a dog. Actually it’s more than one, as we’ve decided to try some adventure activities while we’re here. We’re going dog-sledding.

As another flurry of snowflakes crackles against the windscreen, I’m suddenly having second thoughts. Seconds later we pass a sign marking the turn-off to our destination: ‘Aventure Nord-Bec – Traineau à Chiens…’. We turn sharp right and roll in near-silence along a snow-covered track and into a timeless picture of frontier life: a cluster of cheerful, match-boarded Québecois cabins (some sporting long racks of snowshoes) and a curious collection of miniature shacks spread across a large clearing.

Something More Suitable...

No sooner have we parked than a succession of furry outlines begins to rise from the snow shrouding each little refuge. The unmistakable signal of maybe a hundred wagging tails tells us that we’ve not only found the dogs, but they’re also well aware of our arrival. Killing the engine produces a momentary silence, before an extraordinary chorus of howling strikes at something deep inside which we never knew was there — until now. The effect is both startling and deeply moving, and I know immediately that this is going to be an experience like no other. I’m glad we came.

Stepping from deep, freshly-fallen snow into the cosy fug of the nearest lodge, we’re received warmly with the not-quite-French, not-quite-Canadian tones of the reception staff, who cast a knowing glance at our UK-style, Gore-Tex boots. ‘You’ll need some better boots – what size do you take?’ is the reaction, followed by the appearance of a couple of pairs of apparently ‘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 tie the laces with a sense of being equipped for anything and grateful that at least my trusty ski jacket has passed muster.

Meet the Dogs...

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’ is putting it mildly; the dogs are just desperate to make contact, and are straining at their chains, their thick tails wagging like demented windscreen wipers. We move among them one by one, returning the compliment and noting the names daubed on kennels which they apparently seldom use, preferring instead to curl up outside in a furry ball whatever the weather — as the snows build up around them, they soon gain all the shelter they require from the bitter winds of winter. Playtime finally stops when we’re directed towards a line of large ethnic-looking craft sculptures which turn out to be our dog-sleds. After admiring the authentic construction — a time-honoured combination of lightweight ash framework held together with thick twine bindings — my next thought is ‘Are we really going to drive this thing?’

It seems that this is indeed the general idea, although before anyone climbs aboard we receive a brief crash course in the basics of dog-sled driving technique. I hang on the instructor’s every word, particularly the bit about ‘braking’, achieved by pressing on a large pedal to drive a mean-looking pair of spikes downwards into the snow. Suitably briefed, we rejoin 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’s more than happy to do just that, in the relative security of the low-slung passenger seat.

Prepare For Launch

The dogs, meanwhile, are old hands at this kind of thing, and know exactly what comes next. The howling and barking begin all over again as the staff fan out to release the ecstatic animals from their chains, re-securing them in their allotted positions in the long harnesses of the sleds. Each sled gets five dogs — two up front, one in the middle and two more behind — chosen for their strength and ability to co-exist happily as a working team. By the time we’re ready to get moving their impatience to be off is conveyed in a series of powerful yanks on the sled, straining the thick rope anchoring us to a nearby tree. This security is short-lived, as a member of staff yells at me to stand on the brake pedal — then releases the rope. Now 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 ending in a sturdy ground-anchor (‘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 about to happen— or all Hell is going to break loose. Ahead of me I see the lead sled streaking away, and know that this is it. Gulp. ‘Hang on!’ I yell to my companion in the Cold-Seat. As I release the brake we’re suddenly off, and accelerating hard. Then something strange and unexpected happens: a sudden silence, broken only by the basket-like creak of the sled as it follows the snow-tracks of the sled in front, and the distant panting of the dogs. Sensing that we’re in imminent danger of catching up with the team in front, I touch the brakes once again, and glance down in disbelief as a plume of snow billows rapidly around my legs (I later learn that our sled has an ‘experimental’ braking variation, using wide plates instead of the more usual spikes). This provokes the brief surprise appearance of a panting dog’s head between my legs, suggesting that the team behind is perhaps less well-braked than we are.

Exploring The Limits

When we eventually restore a degree of control it occurs to me that the people back at the centre were right about the boots. Soon we’re gliding smoothly over the fresh white powder covering a wide, specially cleared track in the otherwise densely-wooded landscape, and I begin to get to grips with the handling of the sled. Steering-wise, travelling in a convoy like this normally requires little more than swinging your weight to load the sled in the direction in which you want to turn; the dogs simply follow the sled in front. Undulations are a different hazard and 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 into them before you hit level ground once again. As we settle into a steady rhythm, we get a chance to look around at our surroundings and appreciate the world in a way which is simply not possible on, say, a snowmobile. Our progress is now serene rather than frenetic, but we’re still covering some ground and the bond between us and ‘our’ dogs is tangible.

And growing. Forget all the stuff you hear about wild creatures, one step removed from wolves; these guys might be working for us, but as far as they’re concerned, they’re having a great time and need little encouragement on our part to keep things moving along nicely. The only disruption occurs, of course, 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 well-founded 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 led away back to their respective kennels, we abandon the Intrepid Pioneer role-playing and are reduced in minutes to a couple of softies, cuddling and stroking the appreciative bundles of fur competing for our attention. The final degeneration into shameless, cuddly-toy behaviour comes right on cue, when my companion is handed an eight week-old malamute puppy (‘aaahh….’).

Meet The Legend...

Later, over a welcome cup of coffee in the cocooning warmth of the reception cabin, I meet founder Denis Montminy, who has run his activity centre business since 1990. I can now understand how his beloved animals (he currently has 130 working Alaskan Malamutes and Siberian Huskies) have taken over his life. As a child, Denis never had a 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. From that moment his life changed 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 dependable, playful nature. Opening his Centre (which offers 110 km of dedicated trails) has also 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 before trudging to the waiting 4x4. Once again heads shake the snow from their thick fur and twenty or so tails begin to wag, an unmistakable invitation to us to stay a little longer and begin the exchange of affection all over again. These furry, friendly giants made the sledding part of our unforgettable visit really easy — and the final parting so hard.

© Roger Moss