Quebec City: Le Grand Defi des Glaces
I can’t resist the place. I’ve been to Quebec almost every month of the year, wandering up and down the hilly streets and narrow alleyways, lingering over meals in stone-walled restaurants, riding the ferry to Levis at dusk to watch the lights of this enchanted city.
But I’d never visited in March. Carnaval is over and Spring seems a long way off. Then, en route to see the baby seals on the ice floes off Les Iles de la Madeleine, came my chance to fill the gap. During a day’s stopover I was lucky enough to be there for le Grand Defi des Glaces, the ice canoe race from Quebec to Levis. The tradition dates back to the 18th and 19th century when wooden canoes were the only means of winter transport between the islands of the St. Lawrence and the city. It was a risky ride. Between 1750 and 1856 there were 28 recorded drownings.
These days, five Ice Canoe races -“the heritage of harsh winters and heroic ancestors” – are a unique international sport, with male and female teams from banks, hotels, stores and industries. La Grande Traversee is held in January in the Charlevoix region, Quebec City hosts a race during Carnaval and new events have popped up in Trois-Rivieres and Portneuf. The last, le Grand Defi, where the teams race between Quebec City and Levis five times, is particularly difficult because of tides and broken ice.
I‘d been told to arrive early to watch the excitement. “La Maison des Marins, please,” I said to the taxi driver He was puzzled, had never heard of it, but obligingly drove about the deserted harbour, framed by giant ships at rest. We finally found an open building where I was told the teams gathered to prepare. I paid off the taxi and went inside. But no action there.
I explored again, found a friendly official and discovered I was in the wrong place for watching the race. “It begins around noon in the Louise Basin,” he told me. Despair. It was only 10.30 and the harbour was a confusing, chilly and empty place. Should I give up, retreat to the hotel and regroup? No. I decided to walk along to Le Marche du Vieux Porte, which is only a few blocks away.
I didn’t expect to find the cornucopia of fruit, vegetables and flowers from Ile d’Orleans, and Ile aux Coudres that inspire Quebeckers in gentler seasons. Instead there were significant fur hats, serious ski mitts, Carnaval souvenirs at half price. There was cider of all sorts, honey, jam, cheeses, fish stalls, an Aladdin’s cupboard of spices in little drawers. There were strings of dried red chilis, tubs of calendula, ginkgo and Echinacea, maple syrup beer. Best of all, it was warm!
As race time approached, I slipped and slithered along the street, back to the Louise Basin, where a large white beer tent had been erected. Workmen were spreading sand on treacherous paths. Small children frisked, making snow voyageurs. The wind blew, rock music blared from the tent. As my toes froze, I envied the occasional competitor clomping by in significant boots, heading for the starting line.
The teams were assembling in the distance, swarming like red, blue and yellow bees in tuques and drysuits. At noon they were off in a mad scramble, with one foot on the ice or slush, one in le canot de glace. The crew members shoved their boats forward, running, sliding through ice and snow, then paddling furiously once they plunged into the river, leaping out again when the floes closed around them. As a fiendish combination of sledding, canoeing and polar-bear swimming, it’s like a wintry iron Man. Ice Man perhaps? No wonder the race has been described as “like playing leapfrog on the ice.”
There were shrieks of encouragement from observers, shouts of “Go, go, go!” as the crews were splashed with the frigid water of the St. Lawrence. This extreme sport is not for the faint of foot: racers compete with strong currents and risk colliding with a ferry, a mini-iceberg – or another canoe.
The race lasts for several hours, but it was noon and I was hungry. I trudged through snow-quieted streets to rue Petit Champlain. Lunch was at an old favourite, le Lapin-Saute, with its fete champetre atmosphere of purple-checked tablecloths, wicker baskets, dried bouquets dangling from the rafters among weathered kitchen utensils. There are rabbits everywhere – stuffed, pottery – and on the menu. Well-fed and content, I took L’Ascenseur to Upper Town. As it inched up the cliff with the grand sweep of the St. Lawrence below, I saw that the canoers were still at it – industrious black dots on the river.
Once again, the old city on the rock had cast its spell.