In June 2023, we bicycled the P’Tit Train du Nord Rail Trail, North of Montreal Canada: 120 miles from Mont Laurier to St Jerome, through the heart of the Laurentians. Considered by many as one of the top 5 or 10 bicycle rides in Canada.
We drove to St Jerome, parked in the lot next to the caboose, caught the bicycle shuttle to Mont Laurier and bicycled back. We lucked out on the rain and the wildfire smoke.
Beautiful country, nice folks, good trail, great food, lots of history. No complaints. Highly recommended.
The Rail Trail is a work in progress. In 1994 the rail corridor was purchased from Canadian Pacific Railway. The rails were torn up, and the old stations turned into museums and cafes, and gradually the trail has been paved.
As a rough guess, I’d say 75% is asphalt, with the remainder gravel/crushed stone. We swapped out our narrow road tires for wider mountain bike tires before the trip. A good call.
As a rail trail, this is easy riding. Nothing more than 4%. The longest climb was from the Red River watershed to the North River watershed. Close to 900 ft vertical, but over many miles.
Today the P’Tit Train du Nord Rail Trail is referred to as a Linear Park. Rightly so.
As this is Quebec, French is spoken here.
My solution, my swiss-army-knife-of-languages wife, who didn’t disappoint.
Inspiration
This trip was precipitated by a brilliant New York Times story from 2019:
“Bad Health and Worse Luck?
Time for a Family Bike Trip
Three generations tempt fate on a four-day cycling trip through the Laurentian Mountains in Quebec.
By Jake Halpern
One-armed and and one-eyed grandmother Barbara crashes and one-legged Grandfather Mirek perseveres.”
Although we are 16 tandem years older than Barbara and Mirek, we are in better health, more-or-less.
The less being Sharon’s 2 artificial hips and twisted ankle, and my sore ribs courtesy of an ill-advised new-mountain-bike-tire test run on our tandem down a dirt trail under the power lines in Conway NH.
“Mark, Mark, get off the bike”, our friend Greg shouted from below.
Mark to self, “We can do this.”
Which would have been true had it not rained the night before, which softened up the sandy stuff where I tried to make the turn.
As we were lying on our side,
Greg, “Don’t move!”
Sharon, “Good Fall”
Self, “My Ribs hurt.”
And then there were the Wildfires.
Quebec was burning. Quebec smoke blocked out the sun in New York City. I contacted our Inn-who-answered,
“No problem, up here, prevailing winds are blowing our smoke down south to you.”
Which was good enough for me. Sharon was not convinced.
As it turned out smoke was not a problem, but that didn’t stop Sharon from worrying. Each day, she had her mask at the ready.
The key was rain, which scrubbed the air clean.
And the fates were kind, it only rained at night and on our day off.
Crossing the Border
It was a very very, very, very close call at the border.
I was convinced our MA real ID chip driver’s licenses would suffice. After all with enhanced drivers licenses, no passports are required. I even called AAA. Yep, with an enhanced driver’s license, no passports required.
In my mind real ID chip driver’s licenses = enhanced driver’s licenses.
Wrong.
The Canadian border guard, politely explained the distinction. One had a hologram on the backside and one does not. So he asked for our passports.
Which we didn’t have, because I was so sure we didn’t need them. Border guard: Dead eyes. He asked for our passports again.
We thought we were toast. He treated us as toast, and had us pull over next to the u-turn back to the USA.
Ultimately we were let through. Sharon asks, “What if someone asks for our passports”
New Border Guard at the pull over, “No one will, after all you are paying customers.” Big smile.
So I ask, “Will the USA let us back in?”
Big smile. “Of course they will. You are are US citizens.”
Have you ever had a border guard smile?
Who knows the why they let us into Canada. They didn’t tell. We didn’t ask. The fates smiled.
The Laurentians
The Laurentian Mountains are fondly referred to as “Up Country” or “Up North” in Montreal. We’re not talking ragged peaks like the Sierras or Rocky Mountains. More really big rolling green hills.
The Laurentians feel well worn, which makes eminent sense as they are really, really old. Like a billion years old. One of the oldest mountain ranges in the world. When they were formed, the Laurentian Mountains were estimated to have had an average height of 39,000 feet – 10,000 feet taller than Mount Everest today.
Those days are long gone. The highest “peak” we passed was Mont Treblant Elevation 2871 feet.The highest in the range is only 3280 feet.
Ground down glory. Time will do that.
But they are very, very green, at least in June. After all, this is part of the Boreal forest of Quebec: A bit on the rainy side: springs, streams, rivers and lakes; pine, fir, hemlock, aspen, lots of ferns, moss, and lichen.
Felt like Indian country, which it was: the ancestral territory of the Weskarini Algonquin.
To Lac Nominingue
See video: https://youtu.be/ESNBA0MkSTY?si=bCA45XMBOjOLZw7x
The morning of our departure, it was pouring rain in St Jerome. We needed to be at the shuttle by 7:15, which wouldn’t have been a problem, if the hotel restaurant hadn’t been short staffed. We made it but not by much. And Sharon was definitely not happy. Someone dragged her out the door, before she could brush her teeth.
While Sharon dealt with the luggage transfer I paid for parking. A public lot with an old tech machine, in French, in the rain. What could go wrong?
On the second time around, with a little help from the slightly-impatient guy behind me, the machine spit out my dash printout. I headed back to the car, fingers crossed.
Lots of bikes were already on the trailer. Our tandem was just going on. I averted my eyes, as they zip-tied it to the frame.
The trailer was full. The shuttle bus was full, and we were off.
Our driver must have been a semi driver in a past life. He was fast and he was confident. We wove in and out of traffic. Trailer be damned. Gradually the rain let up.
And just like that we were in Mont Laurier. Skies were clearing. We packed our bike, waved to the shuttle driver, walked up the mini-hill, and rode south.
Once out of town, it got really quiet. Northern-Provinces-of-Quebec quiet. No road sounds, no people sounds. Just birds, wind, and rustling leaves.
Sharon called out, “Beaver Lodge,” as we rode along a meandering stream. A perfect photo op. Did I stop?
No.
Do I regret it? Yes. It was the one and only beaver lodge we saw.
A couple of hours of pretty great riding later we pulled into Auberge Chez Ignace, our lodgings for the night on the shores of Lake Nominingue. Our kind of place. Great food, nice folks, a bit of funk and a backstory.
Dinner was escargot gratinés, Salade d’été, Saumon fumé or Porc, creme, citron et romarin, with flan au sirop d’érable for desert.
Magnifique!
Best dinner of the trip or for that matter, the best dinner I’ve had in years. Which seemed a bit unusual for Quebecois in the middle of nowhere. Then I remembered the NYT article.
Tony and Cécile Canot, owners of Auberge Chez Ignace are French expats. They own vineyards in France. If I had been on my game I would have ordered one of their wines.
Next time.
To Mont Treblant
See video: https://youtu.be/s1d8ooZiUMo?si=OCkLIvbhGTNpUUAx
The next day’s ride to Mont Treblant was scenic, smooth and for the most part level.
In a quiet, lonely stretch a fox stepped onto the trail and gave us a long measured look.
We were riding through the Rouge River watershed. Once the homeland of the Weskarini Algonquins. A nation that is no more. In 1653, the barely armed Weskarini made a last stand on the shores of their sacred lake, Nominingue, where all were massacred except an old man and a child.
Their traditional enemies the Iroquois, had settled things once and for all. The Iroquois were well organized and had guns courtesy of their allies, the English. The French, the allies of the Weskarini, had been reluctant to arm their friends. So it goes. Good intentions led the extinction of a nation.
While the Weskarini Nation may be gone, their place names live on: Both Nominingue and Mont Treblant, or “Trembling Mountain”, come from the Weskarini.
We pulled into the town of Mont Treblant early afternoon. Our rooms weren’t ready, so we hung out on the front porch, recuperating, and watched the trail traffic roll by.
We were close to the historic Railway Station. Now a cultural center where local artists work and exhibit their works. Built in the late 1800s, the railway originally primarily hauled lumber, but transitioned in the early 1900s to tourists, as the forest reserves were exhausted.
Today Mont Treblant is a tourist magnet. Mostly from Montreal and Ottawa, but also from the USA and Europe. The real estate market is hot. High-end second homes are featured in the New York Times. Martin, the owner of our inn, had 12 condos, he was renting out.
The Weskarini had a tale about how the great spirit Manitou was particularly present on Mont Treblant. The warning was that if people upset the natural order, Manitou would cause the mountain to tremble and shake.
In the 1990s a category 5 earthquake hit the area. The cause of the earthquake is not well understood scientifically. Seismic activity in the area seems to be related to the regional stress fields as opposed to traditional fault lines.
These are really really old mountains.
To Sainte Adèle
See video: https://youtu.be/KxfKDbi9GQc?si=I_vJptF5y4UNvmZk
On the way up and out of the Rouge River Watershed we passed by the most brilliant bird house installation I have ever seen. The highest of Art.
On the side of the trail, in the middle of nowhere, was a collection of antique farm equipment on display. To one side were two poles. On top of one was a quaint church birdhouse.
On top of the other was the the Pièce de Résistance, a carousal of birdhouses. The birdhouses were hung from a good-sized antique wooden spoked wheel. The airplane birdhouse was especially special. Kudos.
We almost missed our Inn for the night. A faded sign and an overgrown single file footpath to led off to the left. On recounting this story to a friend, she started making haunted house sound effects.
We parked our bike and opened the squeaky door. No one was around. We rang the bell, no one answered. We settled in on the porch. Paint was peeling and the grass could have used a mow.
After a bit, a tattooed woman appeared. She didn’t know we were coming.
She showed us up to our room. Which as it turned out wasn’t our room. A gravelly voiced guy helped us move to the room we had reserved.
Turns out, he was waiting to die. Metastasized cancer. He had three brothers. One shot himself and two hung themselves. His mother did herself in with prescription pills.
Truth-be-told, no haunting here, or at least no more than usual. The new management were simply finding their legs.
The tattooed lady was most sweet. It was clear to me that she had a story, but don’t we all?
I am guessing it was her children who served us dinner, all on their own, and in English-ish. They marched in. Plates held high. Most charming. We were the only guests.
The guy waiting to die was also great. Friendly, helpful, Seemingly at peace with his fate. Sharon’s bud. He didn’t share with me. 35 cents in his bank account. Literally.
To Sainte Jérôme
See video: https://youtu.be/Dc-NV0w8H6U?si=9eLE1blDt2k9lhkh
The ride to Sainte Jérôme was easy peasy. It felt like cheating. We coasted and coasted. Pedaled a little, and coasted some more.
We were riding along the North River now. Closing in rapidly on the end of our adventure.
We passed through a long, high and wide tunnel covered in high-end graffiti. Beaver lodges, a distant past.
Around about noon, we pulled up to our car in the parking lot in Sainte Jérôme, unpacked and headed over to the caboose to check in. Sharon announced our return in her special way. Yuks all around. This trip was a wrap.
Theme Music
This rail trail has its own theme song. Kind of. At least the train did. Memorialized in 1951 by Félix Leclerc.
A cheerful, haunting, surreal song.
I had hoped to use various renditions of the song as sound tracks for the videos. But decided to let the Ronnie Earl stand. There’s always next time.
Leclerc was an iconic figure in Québec music. Kind of like a Canadian Woody Guthrie with a dash of Stephen Sondheim. A French-Canadian singer-songwriter, poet, writer, actor and Québécois political activist.
He foresaw that there would come a day when the train line would be no more, 30 years before the fact, and used it as a metaphor for endings.
“The conductor and then the driver
Have decided to disembark
And the train alone continued.
The train to St-Adèle
Reached the end at Mont-Laurier.
No one could stop it.
Looks like we saw it spinning
In the sky last night.
Oh ! the North train”
What happens to the soul of a train, or a person, or a world for that matter, when it’s day is done? It spins (lives on) in the sky with no one aboard.
I am particularly fond of this cover by Veranda, a Québécois duo.
Back to the USA, Crossing the Border (Part II)
So we pull up to USA customs. Hand our drivers licenses to the tough cookie in the booth, .
“No passports.” Scowl.
“They let you in without passports?” Scowl.
“Well, I didn’t understand the difference between enhanced driver’s licenses and real ID driver’s licenses. It really isn’t clear… blah, blah, blah…”
“You and a lot of other people.” Hint of a smile.
“You’re not the first and won’t be the last.” Rolls eyes
“That’s the government for you.” Stares off into the distance as she waves us through.
Advencha before Dementia 