Here’s how I actually enjoy winter in Manitoba | Canada Voices

Whenever people lean in close and talk to me in earnest about finally settling down and getting serious about life, or to give their hot take on the new celebrity novel or to say that what the Liberals really need is a good economic plan, I know it’s time to go alone into the wilderness.

Manitoba, where I live, is particularly good for seclusion, especially in winter, when the rest of the country (and a good portion of Manitobans) considers its Antarctic-adjacent conditions to be far too abominable.

In late December, I knew I could count on solitude and snow at Turtle Mountain Provincial Park, a 184 square kilometres of low hills, marshland and deciduous forest abutting the North Dakotan border that some long-sighted people in the past partitioned off from being razed and plowed. And while mountain is somewhat misleading, this comely backcountry is perfect for cross-country skiing. Some three-dozen kilometres of trails are kept well groomed, and in regular use by the eager Nordic ski club based in nearby Boissevain. There is, too, a hockey rink, a lighted skating pond, and various wildlife observation towers.

As I’d hoped, Turtle Mountain had sunk into a deep quiet slumber, succoured under a white duvet of snow. I had everything needed for a successful spell in the backcountry: skis, a good sleeping bag, spare clothes, enough beef, lentils and wine for three days, a box of desserts from the Boissevain Bakeshop, a volume of Chekhov’s early short stories, and a copy of Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, a book I thought would provide me some solace should anything go cattywampus.

Not that it would – I wasn’t sleeping in some ice cave, but rather a little off-grid cabin within the park, one of two available to rent. Within were enough mattresses for five souls, a solar-powered battery charger, a gas hob, cooking miscellany, a wood stove and a cord of split logs. The proprietors had also left, at my request, a pair of backcountry skis, which are a ski/snowshoe hybrid good for going off-piste into the woods.

I arrived the first day with enough daylight left for a quick circuit on the skis. To test my legs, I made for Mary Lake, sipping at the cold air – it was a bracing -26C. The snow on the lake was as whipped and rippled as a meringue, with glades of golden cattails poking through the crust.

No one would accuse Manitoba of being picturesque, but that quality is overrated and has been the ruin of many fine and charming places around the world. Whatever Manitoba may lack in striking scenes, it makes up for in movable beauty: the sun, red-rising to a noontime prismatic sparkle; a splash of red chokecherry on a white snowbank; and Turtle Mountain’s tangle of aspen, poplar, green ash and birch, their boughs dusted with brittle hoarfrost. Beautiful by any measure.

I returned to the hut on the cusp of dusk. I’d laid the fire beforehand and needed only to strike a match, uncork the Malbec and put my feet up. Soon I was toasty and looking up from Chekhov only now and then, to restock the fire or disturb the browning tenderloin. Monks have found less consolation at Mount Athos than I did on that silent night.

I woke early the next day, the stove still tapping with heat. It had snowed in the night, a few inches of fluffy powder. In the pitch of pre-dawn, I melted pots of snow for coffee, each errant drop hissing like a serpent on the hot iron. As the world softened into a monochrome blue, I could see it was still snowing, covering the groomed trail. I was determined to make it to the John Lake cabin, the most remote shelter in the park and a good 23 km return trip, so I began as soon as light allowed.

My ski tracks from the day before were gone. The snow was ankle-deep, and lifted from the path to sting my cheeks and nose. Cross-country skiing is hearty exercise, but hard to dress for: wear too little and you freeze, too much and you sweat, which then freezes. The only solution is to have somewhere warm and dry to periodically rest. There are several warming huts throughout Turtle Mountain, with stoves, wood and axes. After a couple hours of skiing, I came to one, and lit a small fire inside. It was -20C and windy, and the orange in my pocket had gone as solid as a snooker ball. I skinned it with my knife and ate it as if it were a scoop of ice cream.

It was another hour to John Lake cabin on a trail completely blown in, the snow sometimes to my knees. The cabin, too, was cloaked behind a drift. I didn’t bother to stop, so tuckered out I was from plowing my way forward, with the cold getting to me. I didn’t have whatever madness drove the polar explorers onward. I clicked my heels and turned around.

In the morning, you fight the pull of the warm bed. In the afternoon, you fight the falling light. Already at 3 p.m., the sun was scraping the treetops, and there was a hint of night in the deepening blue. I moved quickly, tired but possessed by visions of the hut and dinner. I was too intent for my return to stop even when a partridge exploded from the snowbank beside me.

I reached the cabin and brought the stove to roasting. I used the last light to watch fat, fuzzy chickadees, blue jays and northern flickers blitz the bird feeder beyond the cabin window, until the darkness rendered them less than shadows.

After a rest, I strapped on the backcountry skis for a little evening mosey. I glided to the skating rink, where overhead lights gleamed on the ice. A couple were skating wordlessly, the only sound the sickle-on-stone scrape of their skates as they came together, spun, drew away to arms length and rejoined. This winter retreat had given me solace. Watching the skaters, I knew I was ready to give society another chance.

If you go

Turtle Mountain lies 300 km southwest of Winnipeg.

Cabins at Turtle Mountain can be rented for $125/night, with a two-night minimum. Nordic skis, backcountry skis and ski chariots can be rented and delivered to the hut for an extra cost. ($15-$25). Bring food, water and sleeping gear. For more details, visit adventurehuts.ca.

Hotels can also be found in nearby Boissevain, where there are also several good coffee and bakeshops.

Special to The Globe and Mail