Baptism by Snow: My First Rotation in Northern Quebec
After a rocky start that had me nearly miss my flight on the very first day of my new job, I finally landed in Radisson. It was a small airport in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by an endless blanket of snow stretching to the horizon in every direction.
The plane had been filled with workers from all sorts of industries, many of whom were likely beginning work rotations similar to my own. As soon as we landed, everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going. Within minutes they had collected their luggage, climbed into waiting vehicles, and disappeared. I stood there for a moment, alone, trying to figure out what to do next.
I was supposed to meet a colleague I had previously dubbed Bob in a white Ford pickup truck. Unfortunately, I had no contact number, no way of reaching him, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have made much difference. There was no mobile signal, no internet… nothing. I had been in remote parts of Canada before, but this felt like an entirely different scale of remoteness. Everything seemed quieter, farther away, and buried beneath an endless blanket of snow.
It felt like waiting for the white pickup truck ferryman to carry me across the frozen River Styx. The only problem was that when I stepped outside, the parking lot seemed to be filled with white Ford pickup trucks. None of them had drivers. So I wandered in and out of the airport terminal, occasionally scanning the parking lot again, hoping that one of those trucks, and more importantly, Bob, would eventually appear.
The Trans-Taiga Road
What followed was a long half-day drive across the white northern landscape. For the first half hour, we were still on asphalt, occasionally passing another vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. Then, after turning off the main road, we joined a long gravel road called the Trans-Taiga, though at that time of year it was completely hidden beneath a thick layer of snow and ice.
Our destination was Mirage, a remote outfitter that provided accommodation deep in the wilderness. Over the years, it had become a convenient temporary base for various mineral exploration companies operating in the region.
At first, I was captivated by the landscape. It was my first time seeing such an immense northern wilderness in winter. Soon enough, however, the scenery settled into an almost hypnotic rhythm. Trees. More trees. Endless forests stretching in every direction, interrupted only by open snow-covered spaces concealing frozen lakes of all sizes beneath them.
The terrain itself was relatively flat, broken only by the occasional rolling hill. Whenever we reached one, the view opened up, revealing an immense white-and-green horizon that seemed to go on forever. Different, yet somehow always the same. It was impossible not to appreciate just how vast northern Canada really is.
Bob and I spent much of the drive getting to know one another. Naturally, I was eager to learn more about the job that awaited me. In my mind, I imagined spending most of my time thinking about rocks, chemistry, and geology. As I would soon discover, the work, at least during the entry-level, was often far more technical than geological. Being practical and handy was a valuable skill in the field. As someone who had grown up in a small apartment in the city, I couldn’t exactly claim that as one of my strengths. Fortunately, I was more than willing to learn.
Getting My Feet Wet
The following day, I met the rest of our small team on site. After a quick introduction to the facilities, it was time to begin learning the job that would occupy most of my first rotations.
The role was called Geotechnician and in simple terms it involved performing a series of measurements and observations on the drill core recovered by the drilling crew. The individual tasks themselves weren’t particularly difficult, but each came with its own procedures, details, and quality standards that had to be learned.
Everything, however, began with reconstructing the core. The rock recovered from the drill holes arrived in long wooden core boxes after being transported from the drill site. Before any measurements could begin, the broken pieces had to be fitted back together as accurately as possible, recreating the sequence in which they had come out of the ground.
To some people, this was the most tedious and frustrating part of the workflow, especially when particularly fractured sections looked like someone had emptied a box of irregular stone jigsaw pieces into the tray. I loved it. In fact, it quickly became one of my favourite parts of the entire process. As far as I was concerned, they were essentially paying me to build geological LEGO sets all day. And I love LEGO.
Once the core had been reconstructed to a satisfactory standard, Bob gradually introduced me to the remaining geoteching tasks. One by one, I learned the measurements, the tools, the small tricks that only came with practice, and the little details that separated a beginner from someone who could work confidently on their own.
It was a surprisingly satisfying workflow. Every task had its own rhythm and its own small challenge to master. My goal, of course, was simple. One day, I wanted to graduate from being Bob’s apprentice and earn the title of Master Piecer. Not an official company designation, but an badge of personal prestige in my head.
Later that day, two more members of our team arrived. They were familiar faces—the same colleagues I had met over drinks in Montreal only a couple of days earlier. With everyone finally on site, our little field crew was complete.
The Path to Professional Geologist
So, puzzle piecing and technical measurements aside, you might be wondering: “What about the actual geology?” Well… there was a small catch.
In Canada, the practice of professional geology is regulated. Each province has its own professional regulatory body responsible for licensing geologists, much like the system used for engineers. In Quebec, that organization is the Ordre des géologues du Québec (OGQ).
Before receiving a full professional license, graduates first register as Geologists in Training (GITs) and complete a period of supervised professional experience. Only after meeting the experience requirements and successfully completing the professional ethics component can they obtain full professional status.
I had applied to join the OGQ as a Geologist in Training around the same time I accepted my job offer. As with many administrative processes, however, approval wasn’t instantaneous and would take several months. Until my registration was finalized, I wasn’t permitted to formally sign off on geological work in my own name. That meant my responsibilities initially focused on geoteching. Looking back, I think it was probably the best possible introduction to the profession.
Those first rotations gave me plenty of time to understand the entire workflow that takes place before geological logging even begins. More importantly, they allowed me to appreciate the challenges faced by geotechs, whose work forms the foundation for everything that follows. In time, geologists would rely on that work every day while supervising projects and interpreting the drill core. Having first learned the process from the ground up proved invaluable later in my career.
That didn’t mean I was excluded from the geology itself. Far from it. Discussing the rocks, asking questions, debating interpretations, and learning from more experienced colleagues was encouraged from day one.
Fortunately, my somewhat turbulent final years in academia hadn’t diminished my scientific curiosity. If anything, they had strengthened it. I was always eager to listen, ask questions, and join geological discussions whenever I had something worthwhile to contribute. To my relief, those years spent in research turned out to be surprisingly useful, and my colleagues seemed to appreciate the perspective I brought to the conversations.
Life at Mirage
The work schedule consisted of twelve-hour shifts every day. That might sound grueling at first, but the trade-off was equally generous time off once the rotation ended. Most of our projects operated on a two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off schedule, which over time I came to appreciate as a great balance. It was long enough to stay productive and fully immersed in the project, yet short enough to avoid burning out. Whenever rotations stretched to three weeks—or, on rare occasions, even longer—you could almost feel everyone’s energy and focus beginning to fade during that third week.
Lunch was usually around an hour, while the evenings were ours to spend however we liked. We’d all have dinner together before gradually drifting off to our own routines. Mirage was actually a fantastic place to unwind after work. The lodge had a small gym, which quickly became my favorite spot. I wasn’t trying to follow my regular training routine from home, but getting in a workout every now and then helped me stay active during the longer rotations.
There was also a sauna, hot tubs, a pool table room with comfortable seating around a large fireplace, and plenty of opportunities to simply sit and chat after dinner. During the summer, people would go fishing or gather around bonfires. Winter had its own reward. On clear nights, if you were lucky, the northern lights would make an appearance.
During that very first rotation I caught my first glimpse of the aurora borealis. To the naked eye, it was surprisingly subtle. More like faint wisps of pale light stretching across the northern sky than the vibrant green curtains you see in photographs. Fortunately, I had my camera with me, and a long exposure revealed the spectacle my eyes could barely see.
As for me, I usually spent a little while chatting after dinner before retreating to my room. I’d try to squeeze in an episode of a TV series or play something on my laptop, but after twelve hours of work I rarely stayed awake for very long.
Even in those first weeks, I could already tell this was a place where colleagues naturally became friends. Living and working together for weeks at a time created a sense of camaraderie that, at least to me, felt more like the brotherhood and sisterhood of a student dorm than simply a workplace.
Getting Comfortable
Just as I was getting used to my new daily routine, a new task popped up. The two colleagues who had driven up the day after I arrived had both recently obtained their professional geologist licenses. Management decided it would be better to have them working on opposite rotations, so the following day one of them, let’s call him Bill, was heading back to Montreal. That meant making the long drive back to the airport near Radisson. Since the truck wouldn’t drive itself back to Mirage, someone had to accompany him. That someone turned out to be me.
Fortunately, I already had a Canadian driver’s license by that point. Unfortunately, apart from my driving test, I had barely driven at all. In fact, the last time I had properly been behind the wheel was on the one day during my Iceland trip back in 2017, five years earlier, and even then I hadn’t exactly been overflowing with confidence. Driving had quietly become one of my bigger stress factors. There was no avoiding it, though.
My mind wasn’t particularly cooperative. It happily imagined every possible worst-case scenario along the way. To calm myself down, I tried to prepare for everything I could think of. I downloaded offline maps of the region, even though the route was essentially one long road with a single important turn-off at the end of the Trans-Taiga. The company also provided emergency communication equipment, making sure I had both a satellite messenger and a satellite phone in case one system failed.
The safety culture with these guys was very much alive and well.
The Road To Radisson
Bill and I set off early the following morning. He kindly offered to drive us to the airport, leaving me with only the return journey. That alone was a huge relief. During the drive, Bill shared stories from the beginning of his own career. Like me, he had started with very little technical experience and limited confidence behind the wheel. But, as he explained, this line of work had a way of teaching you everything eventually.
Before long, you became a bit of a jack-of-all-trades. Building makeshift core shacks from scratch, riding snowmobiles in winter and ATVs in summer, flying around in helicopters, solving unexpected problems on the fly… At the time, it all sounded almost unbelievable.
As we talked, I paid close attention to the road, trying to memorize landmarks and intersections for the journey back. To my inexperienced eyes, however, the landscape looked incredibly uniform. Trees. Snow. More trees. There were landmarks, of course, but they were few and far between. It would take several trips before they became second nature. For now, all I really needed to remember was one important fact: As long as I stayed on the Trans-Taiga and didn’t miss the single turn-off near the end, I was heading in the right direction.
Getting Back Behind the Wheel
After dropping Bill off at the airport, it was finally time. I climbed into the driver’s seat of a full-sized North American pickup truck. I couldn’t help thinking back to my summer field trip with Alexandre years earlier, when he had commented on how comfortable these big vehicles were to drive despite their size. Their power and stability were genuinely impressive.
I have to admit… For the first half hour, I had the classic nervous beginner’s driving posture. You know the one… Leaning slightly forward, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, head stretched toward the windshield as if trying to spot danger before it appeared. To be fair, the asphalt section near Radisson was practically rush hour by northern standards. I probably saw enough vehicles to push the total comfortably into double digits. I was also determined not to miss the turn onto the Trans-Taiga.
Once I reached the long white gravel road, though, I slowly began to relax. For the first time that day, I stopped worrying and started appreciating where I actually was… Driving a big Ford pickup across one of the most remote roads in North America, surrounded by an endless winter wilderness, blasting my music through the speakers… …and getting paid to do it. I could definitely see myself getting used to this.
In hindsight, the Trans-Taiga was probably one of the best possible places to rebuild my confidence behind the wheel. The road was exceptionally wide. Particularly along the first hundred kilometers toward LG-3. Plus, traffic was almost nonexistent. Seeing another vehicle became a noteworthy event rather than a usual occurrence.
One thing I did quickly notice, however, was that most drivers travelled considerably faster than the posted speed limits. Covering these enormous distances took a long time, and people who regularly worked in the region tended to settle into their own rhythm.
Several hours later, after a spectacular northern sunset and the final stretch through complete darkness, I arrived safely back at Mirage. I was tired. Mentally drained. But also quietly proud. My return to driving had gone far better than I could have hoped.
A Different Kind of Challenge
With an exciting and exhausting first week behind me, I found myself wondering what the second week of my first rotation had in store. Unfortunately… It wasn’t nearly as enjoyable.
If the first week had been about learning new tasks and adapting to unexpected challenges, the second week became about doing exactly the same thing while feeling like someone had strapped lead weights to every limb. I had come down with a nasty flu.
It started with a mild headache and unusual fatigue before progressing into muscle aches. The nurse on site immediately tested me for COVID-19. Had the result been positive, I would have spent the next several days isolated in my room. Instead, the test came back negative. Great. Well… sort of. I still had the flu and kept on working through it.
Over the following days, the nurse continued testing me, but every result remained negative. The first few nights were drenched in sweat, while each twelve-hour shift somehow felt twice as long as the last. I started using my lunch breaks for quick naps, hoping to recover enough energy to make it through the afternoon. Then came the congestion. All the while, I continued working in a face mask.
Every evening at dinner, the nurse would encourage me by reminding me that it was simply another day closer to the end of the typical week-long flu. It became a real test of endurance. Taking a sick day was technically an option, but it honestly never crossed my mind. I had come north to work, not to sit in my room feeling sorry for myself. As long as I could still do the job safely, I was going to show up.
Slowly but surely, things began to improve. After three or four days, each morning felt just a little bit easier than the last. By the end of the week, my strength had returned almost overnight. In fact, I felt better than I had before getting sick—that strange burst of energy that sometimes follows finally shaking off the flu.
Between learning an entirely new job, rebuilding my confidence behind the wheel, and surviving a week-long flu in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, I certainly felt like I had earned my place on the team.
The Final Week
On the third and final week of my first rotation, a new group of colleagues arrived on site. This was going to be our overlap week between cross-shifts. Basically, everyone would be brought up to speed, trained, and eased into the rotation routine that would continue from that point onward.
A couple of new employees joined the team, and suddenly I found myself in the position of training them. It was surreal. Less than three weeks earlier, I had arrived completely clueless about the job and the tasks ahead of me. Now I was already passing on what I had learned to the next people coming in. This week was arguably my favorite of the entire rotation.
I was now in full optimization mode, trying to figure out the best ways to complete tasks efficiently while maintaining the quality of the work. Then, at the same time, I was learning how to explain those same processes to others. The once-quiet workspace became much livelier. The evenings around the dinner table turned into proper social gatherings. The energy was high, and I was thoroughly enjoying it.
My soon-to-be cross-shift partner turned out to be quite the ambitious character. Let’s call her Sally. Coming from Europe herself, Sally was just as academically overqualified as many European geologists I had encountered. She also had that same desire to prove herself shared by many Europeans making the move to North America. In that sense, we had a lot in common.
Our shared work mindset quickly led to a strong collaboration. Not only during that first rotation, but throughout the following years. The week flew by, and before I knew it, it was time to prepare for my travel day home. My first rotation was coming to an end.
Unfortunately, two of my colleagues had caught my lovely flu by then and were now dealing with the consequences. Their time off would consist mostly of couches and beds for the next week. Sorry guys!
A Chaotic Departure
My return journey proved to be almost as chaotic as my first travel day. This time, however, the chaos came from a completely different source. It was the first time our company had hired a private aviation company to fly smaller aircraft directly to Mirage rather than using the commercial route through Radisson.
There was a small airstrip nearby, and despite the cost of chartering flights, it actually made financial sense when transporting multiple workers in and out of the field. It also eliminated the long drive between Mirage and Radisson. The only problem? The weather.
The forecast wasn’t looking particularly promising. Without a control tower at the airstrip, visibility conditions were critical for landing. The sky was still relatively clear earlier in the day, but due to various delays, the plane’s arrival was pushed later and later into the afternoon.
Soon enough, the day became a strange combination of: “Get ready, we’re leaving soon!” and: “Actually, never mind, we might be staying another night.” Personally, I found the whole situation quite entertaining. At this point, I wasn’t in a desperate rush to get home. I was already enjoying the unpredictability of field life. Besides, an extra day meant extra pay. A win-win.
Not everyone was quite as relaxed, however. The helicopter crew, in particular, were eager to return home. Their time off between rotations was limited, and every delay meant less time with their families.
Anticlimactic
Later in the afternoon, we were eagerly waiting in our cars near the airstrip. Waiting and listening for any sounds of an approaching airplane. The wind howling outside adding to the drama. The weather had gotten visibly worse. Nobody said a word. It was like we were in a suspenseful thriller just before the climax. At one point we finally heard the aircraft approaching.
We stepped out of our vehicles and gathered around, waiting to see if the plane would attempt the landing. We could hear it somewhere above the clouds, getting closer and closer… almost directly above us… And then it started fading away. Further and further. Until it was gone.
The aircraft never appeared. With the thick, low cloud cover the pilots made the decision to abort. It was a rather anticlimactic ending to that tense build-up scene. We were staying one more day.
My First Helicopter Ride
That evening after work, I overheard the helicopter crew discussing their frustrations and mentioning Saguenay. It turned out the pilot was from the region and lived near Chicoutimi. When I mentioned that I was also based there, they offered me a ride back home. Their plan was to fly the helicopter to their nearest southern base, then drive the remaining distance.
A helicopter ride home? Absolutely. I checked with my boss first, and they were more than happy with the arrangement. It also saved them the headache of reorganizing another complicated travel itinerary. Another win-win.
The next morning was mostly spent in standby mode. The colleagues who were leaving by truck had already departed early toward Radisson. I, meanwhile, was simply waiting for the helicopter crew to finish their morning tasks before we could leave. Naturally, that took longer than expected. Eventually, around 11 a.m., I drove out to the laydown area where the helicopter was operating.
Once the crew finished their work, they gave me the pre-flight safety briefing. I wondered whether I would feel motion sickness. I wondered whether my annoying fear of heights would make an appearance. Mostly, though, I was just incredibly excited. Thankfully, neither issue appeared.
The rotor blades spun faster as the pilot completed his final checks. Then, almost effortlessly, the helicopter lifted away from the ground. And just like that, we were flying. There is honestly no comparison for the feeling of a first helicopter ride. The sheer cool factor is difficult to describe. To my geeky brain, it genuinely felt like stepping into a video game.
Once we reached cruising altitude, the flight became incredibly smooth. Clouds of different shades of blue and grey stretched across the horizon, while beneath us the endless white landscape of northern Quebec continued in every direction.
The pilot explained that wind, rain, and snowfall were usually manageable. The real concern was freezing rain. That was the nightmare scenario for helicopter pilots, as ice accumulation on the rotors could quickly become dangerous. Fortunately, we had no such issues. The weather remained calm, with only a few darker clouds scattered across the sky.
Back to Civilization
About an hour later, we landed somewhere else remote, but much farther south than Mirage. The helicopter crew completed their cross-shift exchange, and soon enough we were packed into an overloaded truck filled with everything from helicopter equipment to personal fishing and hunting gear.
Another long drive followed. More forests. More snow. More endless wilderness. Hours passed before we finally reached the asphalt road.
At some point, the guys started talking about stopping at a fast-food restaurant in the nearest town. That was when I realized where we were. Near Chibougamau. After three weeks in the northern wilderness, it genuinely felt like returning to civilization. McDonald’s. PFK. Cars. People. Buildings. It felt strange.
What an unusual profession. You could spend weeks living in an isolated camp surrounded by nothing but wilderness, then suddenly find yourself standing in a fast-food restaurant surrounded by everyday life. Throughout the years it really felt like living two completely different lives.
It took several more hours of driving before we finally reached the Saguenay–Lac-Saint-Jean region, well after nightfall. Then, after another stretch of driving, I was finally back in Chicoutimi. I was incredibly thankful for the ride and wished the pilot a good time off. Meanwhile, his poor mechanic still had several more hours of driving ahead of him all the way to Québec City. Now that’s a commute.
Finally back home, I was looking forward to some well-deserved rest. But there was another major change waiting just around the corner. My time in Saguenay was coming to an end. I would soon start to prepare for my move to Montreal.
