The Big Land: Labrador in All Her Glory
Labrador don’t whisper, b’ys—she roars in wind and in silence, in cracklin’ ice and the low hum of the wilderness. She’s loud and she’s mighty. And on this day, this long, perfect, frostbitten day up in Labrador West, she gave me more than a story. She gave me stillness. She gave me a philosopher. She gave me something I didn’t even know I was looking for.
If you’ve never been up to Labrador, you’re missing out, let me tell ya. It’s the Big Land for a reason. Wide open spaces, snow-covered hills, and ice that stretches as far as ya can see. Labrador got a beauty to her that’s wild and untamed, almost like she’s challenging ya to come and see if you’re tough enough.
I spent most of my time in Labrador West – which is made up of two towns – Labrador City and Walbush. It’s a proper little town feel, full of good-hearted folks who know how to handle the cold. Everything up there got that rugged feel—buildings built to last, snowmobiles parked outside like they’re family pets, and the kinda warmth indoors that makes ya wanna sit and stay a spell.
The views, though. B’ys, I can’t even describe it right—mountains risin’ up outta the ground, thick with snow, and rivers runnin’ clear even when the edges are iced over. You could sit there and stare at it all day if your nose didn’t start freezin’ off.
The sun was just starting to stretch when we fired up the snowmobiles—Polaris machines hummin’ like winter wolves—and we tore off into the backwoods, to Bill’s cabin. The cold hit like a fist, but we didn’t flinch. I was ridin’ with a man who knew these hills, a fella with hands like bark and eyes that saw every snowflake fall before it even touched the ground. He didn’t say much, at first. Just led the way through spruce thickets and frozen lakes, where every turn was a memory he’d already lived a hundred times over.
After what felt like hours, we pulled up at a cozy little cabin, leanin’ into the trees like it knew the wind by name. Smoke curled lazy from the chimney, and the air smelled of the promise of a warm fire.
We drilled through the thick pond ice and both dropped a line into the cold black water, and sat together in the silence.
And then… Bill spoke.
Not about fish. Not about snow. About life.
He said happiness don’t come from money or medals. It’s found in sitting still long enough to hear yourself think. It’s found in frying trout on a cast iron pan in a one-room cabin while the wind howls outside. It’s in knowing your neighbour would come find ya if your machine broke down at dusk. It comes in letting things go, and not letting life beat up on your mojo. And it’s about bouncing back every time life trips you up.
Bill was pretty cool. An ice fishing philosopher.
We talked about love, about mistakes, about the way time sneaks up on ya. There was no rush, no script—just two souls and a hole in the ice, waxing poetic philosophy into the vast, stark whiteness of a Labrador winter.
That moment? That was church in the woods.
When our hands were good and numb and we had a couple of fish to show for it, we headed inside. The stove was roarin’, the pan was hot, and before long the place smelled like home. Trout sizzled in butter, tea steeped strong, and homemade break warmed by the fire.
It wasn’t fancy. It was real. The kind of meal that fills your belly and settles in your heart. We ate in the glow of the fire, talked about how mom cooked trout and I swear, the warmth of that night stayed in my bones long after the last bite was gone.
After a super peaceful day and night up at Bill’s cabin I headed back into Labrador City to meet up with Labrador Games coach Dennis Drover. I was about to try out for one of the most grueling events in the Labrador games – digging a hole in the frozen ice until you strike water. Easy enough right?
Coach Dennis— was training a crew for the Labrador Winter Games, and I got it in my head that maybe I could hold my own.
We’ll see!
From the very moment I met Dennis I found myself under a different kind of pressure. He was serious about cutting holes in the ice – and he was intense. The ice was supposed to be six feet deep. And the hole was not a dainty fishin’ hole cut with a motorized auger—this was a full-body, heart-pounding, sweat-flyin’ war against nature. Steel digging bar in hand, snow in me beard, heart in me throat, I gave it everything. The cold didn’t care. The ice didn’t budge easy. But I swung and I swung and I swung some more, digging into the super chilled Labrador ice. It felt more like I was hitting concrete. With coach Dennis barking orders in my frostbitten ears I swung with all my might until steam rose from my jacket and every muscle begged for mercy.
It was really hard. Like crazy, nuts, over the top, who could ever do this hard! Now in my defense the ice was frozen right to the bottom! Which gives you an idea of the winter temperatures in Labrador. And even on that icy cold day, with the wind whipping the snow into frenzied squalls – I never felt more alive. Gasping for air as I determinedly dug and dug and dug. It was one of those activities that is all consuming. You have no choice but to be present. To be all in.
Now b’ys, let me tell ya—if you ever get the chance to clip on a pair of skis and glide through a winter wonderland carved out by the gods themselves, you best not pass it up. And if you’re lucky enough to have Alf Parsons and Rhonda Lawrence as your guides? Well then, you’re not just skiin’—you’re soakin’ in a legacy.
Alf and Rhonda aren’t just good—they’re legends. Champions in their own right. The kind of people who make skiin’ look like floatin’ and breathin’ all at once. These two have trained on trails from Europe to the Rockies, but they both swear by the magic of Menihek Nordic Ski Club, right here in Labrador City. And after spending a day with ‘em, I know exactly why.
We hit the trails on a clear day, sun spilling gold across the snow. Trees heavy with frost framed our path like cathedral arches, and every breath we took was like drawing in pure life. The wind howled across the open patches, reminding us where we were—but there was somethin’ in that wind, somethin’ alive, that made your heartbeat a little louder in your chest.
The trails were perfection—world-class, they say, and they’re not lyin’. Folks come from all over the world to train here, and I could see why. Smooth, fast, challenging. Every stride felt like a small miracle, and for once, I didn’t feel like I was chasin’ the land. I was dancin’ with it.
Alf would holler encouragement from ahead, a big grin on his face, while Rhonda skied beside me with the grace of a snowflake in flight, throwing out tips and cracking jokes. We laughed, we sweated, we moved like a little pack of winter wolves through the Labrador wild.
And in the quiet stretches—just the swish of our skis and the rhythm of our breath—we got talkin’. About life. About staying strong in hard places. About how winter has a way of strippin’ things down to what really matters. Alf said these trails taught him more about patience and strength than any classroom ever could. Rhonda said the woods don’t care who you are—they just ask you to show up.
And I did.
I showed up, and I loved every second.
When we finished, we were red-cheeked and wind-whipped, and our legs were singin’ a tired tune—but our spirits? Our spirits were sky-high. We huddled up in the Menihek ski lodge with hot drinks and wide smiles, and I realized I’d found something rare out there: joy, carved into a snowy trail, shared with people who live and breathe the land.
After a full day gliding through the snow on skis, most folks would’ve called it a day. But not Alf Parsons. That man’s got the energy of a teenager and the soul of a mountain goat. As we sipped our hot drinks back at the lodge, cheeks still flushed from the ski, Alf looked over with that familiar spark in his eye and said, “Donny, the day’s not done yet. The best part’s just beginnin’. Ever snowshoed at dusk?”
Now I was tired, sure—but when Alf invites you into somethin’ special, you don’t say no. You lace up, layer up, and lean in.
So off we went, just the two of us, strappin’ on snowshoes big enough to make you feel like a moonwalker. We headed out into the Labrador woods, just as the sun started dippin’ low—gold turnin’ to pink, pink meltin’ into lavender, and then the hush of twilight settlin’ in like a soft wool blanket.
The snow was deep—real deep. It swallowed our boots and begged us to slow down, to feel every step. There was no rush in this part of the world. Just the steady crunch of snow underfoot, and the quiet strength of trees standin’ tall and still, cloaked in ice and wisdom.
Al moved like the land was part of him. Barely leavin’ a mark. A shadow among shadows. I followed behind, huffin’ a bit, but smilin’ from somewhere deep down. This wasn’t just exercise. This was communion.
We wound through birch and black spruce, where every branch shimmered with frost and every breath turned to silver mist. The wind was still blowin’ up high, you could hear it shushin’ through the treetops, but down where we walked, all was calm. It felt like Labrador herself had paused to let us pass.
Al told me stories in the quiet—soft and sparse, like the land around us. He talked about love and loss, about the times he’d walked these woods alone and the times he’d shared them with others. He spoke of how this time of day, this soft hour just before dark, always reminded him of how fragile and precious everything is. How we get so caught up in the rush that we forget how to be.
I didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. I was listenin’. Not just to Al—but to the land, to the moment, to that quiet voice inside that only ever speaks when the world goes still.
We came up over a ridge, and there it was—a frozen lake stretchin’ out before us, smooth as glass, wrapped in the last light of day. The sky above had turned a deep, bruised blue, like Labrador was closin’ her eyes for the night. The lake caught the colors and held them close, like a secret it wasn’t ready to let go.
We stood there, side by side, breathin’ in the cold and the quiet. No talk. No noise. Just the beauty of a moment that’ll never come again.
And in that silence, I felt it.
Not just peace.
Belonging.
I came to Labrador thinkin’ I’d capture her with cameras and quick edits. But the truth is, she captured me. Not with flash or fanfare, but with stillness. With honesty. With a rawness that peels back all your layers and shows you who you are underneath.
Happiness, I learned, isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s deep. It’s sittin’ in a cabin, smelling wood smoke, talking to a man who’s lived this land like a poem. It’s swingin’ a steel bar over and over into the icy trying to get to the bottom, even when you know you won’t win. It’s ski trails and snowshoe paths that whisper your name.
As I zipped up me gear for the last time and looked out at the moon risin’ over frozen pines, I knew I wasn’t sayin’ goodbye. I was sayin’ see ya later. Because Labrador stays with ya. In your breath. In your bones. In your better self, the one she brings out without even trying.
Catch ya on the next one,
Donny Love
Wiser, colder, and just a little more alive.
For those who prefer a bit more speed and adrenaline, snowmobiling is the winter sport that brings out the inner thrill-seeker in all of us. These activities offer a fun and dynamic way to experience Newfoundland’s snowy expanses.
I’ll never forget the rush I felt during a snowmobiling adventure on Newfoundland’s highest peak—the Lewis Hills on the west coast. The engine’s roar, the blur of snow flying past, and the sheer exhilaration of maneuvering through frosty forests—every moment was a burst of pure, unadulterated excitement. Of course, nothing compares to a traditional sledding session with locals, where the air is filled with laughter and friendly competition. I’ve often found myself racing down gentle slopes with a group of new friends, the cold wind whipping past us as we laughed and shouted in pure delight.
Winter in Newfoundland is not just about the sports and the physical challenges—it’s also about the rich local culture that shines brightest during the cold months. Gathering with locals for a hearty meal known as “scoff” is one of my favorite winter traditions, as it provides a warm and comforting experience. Imagine sitting in a cozy outport home or a small-town diner, sharing stories over plates of steaming seafood chowder, cod tongues, and freshly baked toutons. The warmth of the food, the laughter of the people, and the spirited banter (often punctuated by the beloved “Yes B’y!”) make these moments unforgettable.
I’ve also had the pleasure of attending winter festivals where traditional music fills the air. There’s nothing quite like the sound of a local band playing folk tunes as you sip on hot totties, the melodies weaving together past and present in a tapestry of sound. These cultural experiences are a reminder that even in the harshest winters, Newfoundland’s heart beats strong and true.
Before you set off on your own winter adventures in Newfoundland and Labrador, here are some practical tips I’ve picked up over my years of braving the cold:
Check the Weather: Newfoundland’s climate can change in an instant. Always check the forecast before you head out and be prepared for sudden shifts.
Know Your Route: Detailed maps and local guidance are essential, especially on remote trails.
Layers are Key: Start with a moisture-wicking base layer, add an insulating mid-layer, and finish with a waterproof, windproof outer layer.
Accessories: Don’t forget a good pair of insulated gloves, a warm hat, and thermal socks. And of course, always carry a pair of extra mittens in your pack.
Footwear: Invest in high-quality, insulated, waterproof hiking boots or snow boots with good traction.
Safety Equipment: Whether you’re snowshoeing, skiing, or snowmobiling, always have a first-aid kit, headlamp, and extra batteries on hand.
Hydration and Nutrition: Even in the cold, staying hydrated is crucial. Carry a thermos filled with a hot beverage and pack energy-boosting snacks.
Ask for Tips: Don’t hesitate to ask locals for the best spots, shortcuts, and insider tips. A friendly “B’y, any advice for a first-timer?” can open up a world of information.
Respect Traditions: Embrace local customs and join community events. They’re the heart of Newfoundland’s winter culture.
Embrace the Unexpected: Some of the best adventures happen when plans change. Be open to detours and unplanned stops—they might lead you to hidden gems you’d never have discovered otherwise.
Be Patient: Winter activities often require a bit of waiting—whether it’s for the perfect light during a hike or the ideal conditions for ice fishing. Enjoy the moments of quiet as much as the adrenaline rush
After all these adventures and countless frosty mornings, what makes winter in Newfoundland truly unforgettable? For me, it’s the combination of physical challenge and cultural richness. The cold is not an enemy—it’s a canvas upon which the beauty of nature is painted in sharper contrasts and where every breath of cold air reminds you of the wild, untamed spirit of this land.
I’ve learned that winter here is as much about internal warmth as it is about external resilience. It’s about sharing a laugh with a stranger turned friend during a community feast or marveling at a sunrise that transforms the world into a glittering spectacle of ice and light. It’s a season that tests you, teaches you, and ultimately leaves you with a deeper appreciation for both the harsh and the beautiful sides of nature.
There’s also a profound sense of connection during these winter months. When you’re out there on a snow-covered trail or sitting by a crackling fire with local fishermen, you realize that despite the challenges, the human spirit endures—and often flourishes—in the cold. That’s a lesson that goes far beyond the realm of outdoor sports; it’s a reminder that every season of life, no matter how challenging, holds its own unique beauty and wisdom.
So there you have it—my personal account of winter adventures in Newfoundland and Labrador. From the quiet solitude of ice fishing and snowshoeing to the exhilarating rush of cross-country skiing and snowmobiling, each experience has deepened my love for this rugged, frost-kissed land. I’ve shared the practical tips I’ve learned along the way, the local traditions that warm the heart in the coldest months, and the moments of breathtaking beauty that have made every winter adventure unforgettable.
I hope that through my stories, you’ve caught a glimpse of what makes winter in Newfoundland so extraordinary. Whether you’re an experienced winter sports enthusiast or a curious traveler eager to explore a different side of this province, I invite you to join me on this journey. Step out into the cold, embrace the challenges, and let the wild beauty of Newfoundland’s winter transform your spirit.
Thank you for taking the time to read about my winter adventures. I’d love to hear your own frosty tales and any tips you might have for braving the cold. Drop a comment below or tag your photos with #AdventuresUnknown on social media—let’s share the magic of winter together.
Until next time, happy winter travels, stay warm, and remember: the true adventure lies in embracing every season, no matter how cold.
Donny Love,
Adventures Unknown
donny@adventuresunknown.ca
If you enjoyed this journey through Newfoundland’s winter wonderland and want more firsthand stories, practical tips, and immersive adventures, be sure to subscribe to our newsletter and follow me on social media. There’s always another frost-kissed trail and a new adventure waiting just around the corner.
