The Ski Journal - Volume 15, Issue 2
GNARLED TIMBER: Quebec’s Urban Royalty Heads for the Hills
Words and Photos: Jean-Sébastien Chartier-Plante 2021-10-14 12:43:58
Ski traffic looks a little different in the Chic-Choc Mountains of Quebec’s Gaspésie region. Fueled up and ready to go, the Chic-Chac cat heads to the hills near the former mining town and current East Coast powder haven of Murdochville, QC.
“This is the fourth or fifth time I’ve ever put on climbing skins,’’ 35-year-old JF Houle said as he tried to attach the back clip to the tail of his fat twin-tip.
His crew laughed. It was another cold February day at Mont Édouard, a community hill turned quasi-backcountry gold mine in L’Anse-Saint-Jean, four hours north of Quebec City, QC. The laughter was more out of surprise than in jest. Houle had been a pro skier for nearly 20 years and is a legend in the world of street skiing. Now he was admittedly flailing with his backcountry setup. This was new territory for Houle, and for the whole crew. Phil Casabon, Émile Bergeron, and snowboarders Frank Bourgeois and David “Meloche” Melançon—all top urban riders—have never been known for bushwhacking on tech bindings. Still, the skintrack was well-packed, and as the morning light softened the icy route, the team awkwardly cut upward through dense spruce forest.
Calling themselves the Prospecteurs—French for “prospector”—the group was seeking something outside their comfort zone. After years of metal, concrete and icy transitions, they’d turned their attention to the trees and a new way to ski in their own backyard, discovering the oft-overlooked backcountry of frigid northeast Canada.
It was a quest that, like so many during the 2020 winter, was born from travel restrictions. With Quebec under strict COVID quarantine, Casabon and film director Raph Sevigny wanted to put their downtime to use and began plotting missions around Mauricie, QC. Their local towns of Shawinigan and Trois-Rivières, about one hour west from Quebec City, already grace many classic street-skiing segments, but Bourgeois and Melancon held a wild card. The snowboarders had spent their summer cutting lines and digging landings all over the region, and now they were hoping to make good on their sweat equity. They’d also set sights on the Saguenay region to the northeast and the deep offerings of the Chic-Chocs—all missions within the confines of tightly drawn pandemic borders. From what seemed like a winter of cancelled connections, a project was born. The search for “la Creuse,” Quebec’s deep powder, was on.
These trees, while beautiful, stand so close together that a ski or a human might slide through, but rarely both.
A thin layer of fresh snow covered an omnipresent crust. It had been a poor snow season for the East Coast, with strong heat waves during the holiday season melting snowpacks before cold Arctic blasts froze hills solid. L’Anse-Saint-Jean was the group’s second stop on their mission. The first, in Le Valinouet near Lac-Saint-Jean, had been a bust, with most lines shut down due to yo-yoing weather conditions. Now, Casabon, Bergeron and crew hoped for better around Mont Édouard.
The ice-covered ridge that we traveled upon was bordered by an infinite sea of dense trees along the Secteur des Géants area rising from the Mont Édouard backcountry. The rhythmic clapping of boots against tech heel pieces broke the morning silence. Following Gab Levesque, a local ski guide in the winter and lumberjack come summer, gave the group a quiet confidence. Tall and sporting a red beard, Levesque had promised powder, and few other folks were around to ski it. Between branches we could see the five other summits; rolling peaks covered with fall-line glades and cliffs, its canvas protected from the wind by a thick maze of deciduous trunks and limbs.
The Saguenay region, where Mont Édouard tops out at 2,076 feet, is known for its surprisingly good conditions by East Coast standards. Each year the surrounding mountains receive 236 inches of snow, the result of cold northern winds spinning off major water sources like Lac-Saint-Jean and its eastern fjord that links the 30-mile-long body of water to the massive Saint Lawrence River.
But getting to the snow can be hard around here. Saguenay is home to one of Canada’s biggest forestry operations—an industry driven by extensive and tightly woven spruce forests. These trees, while beautiful, stand so close together that a ski or a human might be able to slide through, but rarely both. The only way to find good lines here is to cut them yourself—something the Mont Edouard community has done for the last 10 years. It started when the tiny ski resort didn’t have budget to fix its two chairlifts and attract clientele. That’s when volunteers proposed going back to basics, giving birth to a human-powered uphill movement. About 2009, they built the Secteur Sacré-Coeur, a simple bootpack to access 630 vertical feet of glades. Then, off the back of the ski area, lumberjacks like Levesque carved out more tree lines, and skiers from across the east came to the hill to see some of Quebec’s home-hewn secrets.
After reaching the summit, Levesque led the way to a hidden cliff area midway down 950 vertical feet of glades. While the freeskiers might have been out of their element on the climb, this takeoff made sense. In fact, the whole mountain offered an array of natural features, a near-private backcountry terrain park. Even with a thin snowpack, it was full of possibilities.
Casabon quietly found an opening between a large cedar and a tiny spruce, followed by a 20-foot drop. “Don’t you think the landing is a little bit flat?” Bergeron asked. Casabon’s used to landing on flat concrete. He gave a shrug, then pointed it off the ledge, knocking spruce branches loose mid-flight before landing in a pillow of white. With every snow-covered rock a takeoff and each stump a launch ramp, the group’s imagination took over, and they applied the style they’d developed in the park and street to gnarled timber.
“What’s crazy around here is how you have possibilities with every aspect. There are so many places for new lines and new ways to see the actual line,” Levesque said. Hidden beyond a rock structure at the end of another access track, he turned a corner into an invisible entrance.
“There’s always secret lines,” he continued. “But for those, you need to be with the lumberjack who designs it. Follow me.”
He flashed a smile and led the way to a skinny cut between trees. It would have been impossible to find without the maker’s direction (and blessing), and it held 30 inches of fresh snow. Bergeron slashed a deep turn and then another before the crew followed suit. Deep in the timber, the Prospecteurs had struck white gold.
“There’s always secret lines. But for those, you need to be with the lumberjack who designs it.” — Gab Levesque
The Chic-Choc Mountains stand in the middle of the Gaspésie Peninsula in southeastern Quebec. With summits rising higher than 4,100 feet directly from the sea, the range is a ridge of rock advancing toward the Atlantic Ocean, giving the mountains an unusually dramatic alpine relief by East Coast standards. Along the north shore of the peninsula, a two-lane road connects small villages that sit between the tumultuous mouth of the Saint Lawrence River and the rising mountains. It’s a harrowing drive come wintertime, but gives access to some of the East Coast’s biggest lines.
In the heart of the range, and at the end of the bumpy and winding road, Murdochville was a virtual ghost town as late as the year 2000. Built in 1950 to service copper mines in these hills, the town rose to economic prominence, but dwindled when mining slowed about the turn of the century.
Although the population fell from a high of 3,300 folks to approximately 500, Guillame Molaison recognized a new natural resource when he moved to town in 2006. He saw an endless array of terrain and, after buying up lodging on the cheap, he began expanding glades and launched the ski project he called Chic-Chac. Molaison started small with snowmobile shuttles up the surrounding peaks, then brought a snowcat to Gaspésie in 2012, offering something new for East Coast skiers. The catskiing operation became Chic-Chac, and put Murdochville back on the map. In 2016, he helped reopen the decaying town ski hill, Mont Miller, giving new energy to the previously deteriorating community.
But Molaison‘s last acquisition might speak the loudest: the abandoned town church that serves as his new company headquarters—a temple now dedicated to a different kind of deity. In place of the picture of Saint Paul in the nave, a portrait of the late JP Auclair stands in this temple of snow. The powder pilgrims have followed. The Chic-Chac experience has turned heads on the East Coast and worldwide. Accommodations are often booked a year in advance, and Chic-Chac’s stable of three snowcats motor all winter long.
After an up-and-down winter, Casabon and Bergeron jumped at the opportunity to explore the holy depths of the Chic-Chacs. In late March, snow peppered the range and, making good on a short weather window, the duo jumped in one of Molaison’s cats on the way up to nearby Mount York. There they sought the promise of clean lines accentuated by deadfall sculpted into kickers, wooden rails and butter pads by Molaison’s team—a natural terrain park perfected at 35 degrees.
The weather was iffy and there was little snow down low. But as the group slowly gained elevation, the snowbase thickened. Rime-riddled white birch clung to steep hillsides as the range spread out before them—it was an expansive winter wonderland. When Bergeron exited the cat, he sunk to his knees. After a winter of hard yards in the backyard, they had found final salvation at 2,700 feet.
Pushing into the fall line in that moment, la Creuse was worth the squeeze.
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