Time out of Time—Festival du Voyageur 2025

“The human social animal still does not have a more significant way to feel in tune with the world than to partake in the special reality of the Festival, and celebrate life in its time out of time.”

—Alessandra Falassi, Festival: Definition and Morphology

Peter Rindisbacher's 1821 watercolour, Winter Fishing on the Ice of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers.

The calendar turns at the end of another endless Winnipeg January. The tariffs kick in. Wab stands his ground. The Canadian flag returns to Facebook banners and Instagram stories. The cold snap briefly breaks. The tariffs pause. The cold snaps back.

I scream for joy in a sports bar on the eve of western Canada’s largest winter festival when Mitch Marner rips the OT winner past the Swedish goalie in game one of the Four Nations Cup.

The next night—Friday—in a zone of old encampments near the confluence of the Assiniboine and the Red, in what is now called Whittier Park, much has been done to prepare for our arrival. In Tente Forest, parkas hang from clips holding up the sidewalls of the tent and gather in piles on the woodchip floor. I grab a HéHo Festibroue and a Caribou and catch up with friends who flew in from Vancouver and Toronto, drawn not by the weather but by the specific magic of St. Boniface on Louis Riel weekend.

A creeping awareness that I’m talking too much. That I’m too far from the stage to really experience the Tired Cossack set. That the night is already drifting away.

So I slink through the crowd toward the stage. I’m a fucking work of art. I am hit by his voice. I won’t suffer ’til I’m old. I sink into the song. One day I’ll lay my head down. It gathers in my chest. One day I’ll lay my head down. I release it to the air.

The set ends. I gladhand a while, rally the squad, and shuffle through the cold to Cabane à Sucre. We snake into the thick of it. I am fueled by Les G Strings, the Franco-Manitobaine party rockers whose mix of energetic fiddle music and CanCon bangers really gets the people going. The fiddler peacocks across the stage. The frontman beams through frequent costume changes—one moment in a loose blouse and steel-vest frottoir. The next, tarps off beneath a beaded suede jacket. They have us swaying arm in arm, belting Nickelback lyrics we’ve all somehow absorbed.

And then it’s over. We hug goodbye and disperse into the cold, dark night.

***

Fast forward to the next Thursday. The night of the Four Nations finals. Canada–U.S. Tie game. At second intermission, I rush to Whittier Park for Bush Lotus. A bit distracted at first, checking too frequently to see if it’s still 2–2.

And then Shawn Dearborn’s Telecaster rises, soloing above the driving bass, and her voice slashes with the double-edged desire to run away from everything. I’m pulled into the momentum of the moment.

The set ends, and I watch the end of regulation on my phone, leaning over a Tente Forest picnic table.

Still tied, I run back to the vehicle and make it home for the overtime puck drop—for Binnington stepping up, for McDavid alone between the hashmarks, the puck on his stick, for the rippling twine and the massive red leaf rising over Boston.

***

The next night (Friday) feels less about the music. With our friends in the long line outside Tente Rivière, my wife and I field questions and share impressions about our recently announced move to Edmonton. Everyone is nice about it. It hangs a little heavy in the air. The line is moving slowly. Restless for the night to begin, and with not much left to say, we abandon the line and make our way to Tente de Neige.

We grab a drink and bob a little but can’t get into the house music. We end up around the fire in a bigger circle, reveling in last night’s big win—our shared hatred of the Tkachuk brothers, how fun it was to watch Crosby pass the torch to McDavid.

We drift into the big tent for the end of Neighbour Andy, drift back out into the night, take a break from discussing the next move to watch a train go by on the elevated tracks that skirt Whittier Park, and grab Ubers to Times Change(d).

Glad we do. Andrew Neville and The Poor Choices supply the perfect mix of outlaw country and hold-your-partner-close love songs for us to reminisce, scheme, lean, and dance cheek to cheek with our beloveds.

After last call, waiting for our ride on the Main Street sidewalk, someone says how good it feels to be warm enough in just a light jacket. I nod in solemn agreement. Another train passes, heading west. I imagine the conductor, just leaving and longing to return.

Andrew Neville and the Poor Choices

***

The second Saturday at Festival will be my last night of the season. Feeling worn out, I go a little early to stand around the fire and process the declarations and promises made in last night’s revelry.

I get some mini-donuts and take in the most beautiful sculpture I’ve ever seen at the festival—Libellule s’envole—a walleye leaping for a dragonfly. The fish’s snowy head and body twist from the earth, reflex captured. Spires of ice spray from the gap in the surface, some crested with clear orbs—energy frozen. The dragonfly—bent sticks bound together on closer inspection—hovers just beyond its reach. The walleye’s massive eyes, sharp teeth, and spiky dorsal fin—all made of clear ice—reflect and refract the bright light of the commons.

I am found by the folks I am meant to meet up with. I don’t feel like talking, but it’s good to be with them. We enter Tente Forest and join the many gathered for FINN, a local family outfit I’ve heard good things about. The three brothers center stage take hold of the crowd with their harmonies, the magic blending of their voices possible, perhaps, through some alchemy of shared genetics and history. Their earnest exuberance is steadied and given order by the cool detachment of the guitarist and drummer.

I’m fading big time and almost sneak away, but my wife reminds me I’ve been waiting years to see Corb Lund. Once inside, I am buoyed by the crowd and settle in for the long haul. I sing along with my favourites and bob along with the rest. At the end of my last night, I am completely spent, respectfully turning down invitations to the next spot.

My wife and I shuffle along the icy sidewalks of St. Boniface to our vehicle, hand in hand in light jackets, glad we answered the call of Festival du Voyageur—the call to emerge and connect despite the weight of winter, the call to give in to where a night might take you. To float. To drift. Together. Apart. Together again.

Libellule s’envole