Quebec's Stunning Mont Tremblant and its Eastern Townships

For these last several years—really ever since I bought a new pair of skis and got back into skiing—I’ve found a renewed appreciation for New England and all that it has to offer, year-round: from its coastline and beaches to its forest-protected interior lakes, to the spine of mountains cutting through Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, everything is here. And as someone who has traveled abroad, nearly twenty European countries and counting, my wandering eye has taken me far.

            February vacation 2024 reminded us of another benefit of living in New England: the ease with which we could drive across our northern border and land in not only another country, but one with its own distinct culture and language. Three-and-a-half hours from our home, we found ourselves in the eastern township of Magog in Quebec, surrounded by a stunning frozen lake, Mont Orford just to our north, and plenty of welcoming shops and restaurants to keep up busy for our one night here, before heading an hour and a half west, past Montreal to the impressive ski resort of Mont Tremblant.

            With Montreal traffic, the drive to Tremblant clocked in at closer to two-and-a-half hours versus the one-and-a-half Google said it would be. We’d visited Montreal together a few years earlier, in the summer, and were a little underwhelmed, especially after spending two nights in magical Quebec City. By comparison, Montreal felt like just another generic city. Creeping through this stubborn commuter traffic did little to make us reconsider our original harsh verdict of Montreal.

            But Tremblant just might be the best ski resort on the entire eastern seaboard of North America. Having never skied out west, I’ve got nothing there in which to compare it, but I can say it bests anything I’ve skied here in New England.

            Two things make Tremblant particularly special—three things, to be fair. First, it’s a great ski mountain with endless trails, beautiful views, and that squeaky cold-weather snow that can only be found on cold, pristine days with ideal conditions. I’d been worried about the temps up here in Canada, but my worried proved to be mostly unfounded. Not because it wasn’t cold—it most certainly was—but so long as you’re dressed properly, so long as that sun is shining and the sky is blue and the wind is light, there’s almost no such thing as too cold.

            Second, the mountain is hosted by a beautiful resort village that looks like something out of a European fairy tale, everything accented in strategic soft lighting and pastel colors. Finally, add in all the French you hear, and Tremblant becomes the best and easiest European ski vacation you can take, all without flying across the Atlantic.

            After a full day on the snow, Christine took the people mover—an open-air gondola—to the top of the pedestrian village to meet me. We ate at Fat Mardi and then stopped for a dark hot chocolate and a beaver tail for me (pretty much a fried dough). Then, back at the hotel, I swam in the outdoor pool, the Canadian night sky a black canvas of stars, so dense and deep it felt dizzying to look at for too long.

            On the return drive, we stopped for the night in the town of Bromont, and I bought a three p.m. ticket for the local mountain, Ski Bromont. This was really nothing more than an afterthought—something to do on our long return home—but Bromont exceeded our expectations, and we both enjoyed it nearly as much as our stay in Tremblant. While the mountain is smaller than iconic Tremblant, it isn’t drastically so: the mountain hosts a variety of trails, plenty to keep me busy exploring. And as a bonus, Bromont is lit for night skiing, meaning I watched the sun set from its summit, a dramatic orange and pink horizon crowning this day and this trip.

            Christine waited for me, sitting at the outdoor fire pit, string lights framing an inviting base zone where guests could drink and people-watch. I took a couple breaks from skiing and sat with her, warming my hands and face at the fire. Bromont’s design reminded us of something akin to Scandinavian—all the clean wood, the straight lines, the lighting. All of it was modern and inviting. Later, Christine went inside to the bar—distinctly high-end—and had a couple glasses of red wine and a tomato soup.  

            That night, after dinner at Brasserie Bromont, we went to the Hotel Beatnik, a converted farm at the end of a long and winding desolate side road, lit by nothing more than the moon and that heavy canopy of stars. Adding to the remoteness, the room didn’t have a television, but instead had an old vintage record player, with a few old albums on a shelf above. We made a drink and settled in for a quiet night, an old 1970s 10CC record playing. My legs weary from back-to-back days of skiing but my head clear from this clean Canadian winter air.

            We drove home the next morning, feeling rested and good. We marveled that we’d been able to experience such a trip without having to deal with airports and shuttle buses and security lines, just our vehicle and our radio. Even customs at the border was a breeze. We talked about our overall love of New England and all it has to offer, and now this whole backyard we’d discovered. We vowed to come back, and in fact, on the following winter’s Christmas vacation, after visiting Stowe, Vermont with Christine’s family, the two of us drove ninety minutes north, the call of French Canada strong and enticing. We stayed one night in the town of Sutton, Quebec, and I skied the afternoon at Mont Sutton. Then, the next morning, we headed home, exchanging that same vow: let’s go back. Let’s go back soon.