A paintbrush has touched this place. Soft reds tint the early-morning sky, the snow in the fields is white, the St. Lawrence River a cold navy blue. Pretty cottages in pink and yellow line the road, smoke from chimneys curling into the air. And in the little town nearby, signs in spidery script hang over the sidewalks: Auberge, Gallerie, Café, Dépanneur.
So this is Charlevoix.
At the ski resort, snow is falling on the Chalet du Sommet and skiers are rushing out the door. They slap down skis, click into bindings, push toward a volunteer standing in front of a giant trail map. “Télécabin, télésiège, secteur hors-piste,” he is saying, tap, tap, tapping on the map with a pole. He switches to english, traces steep runs with his pointer, plus…