The Rivière des Mille-Îles stretched out like a long, flat scythe of glass, frozen under a thin layer of dry snow. From its banks the shore rose gently onto the rough beaches of Laval Ouest on one side, and the town of Saint-Eustache on the other, the silver-gray spires of the church at the latter settlement rising into the gray sky, overlooking the landscape as they had for almost two centuries.

From a distance, the white of the snow-covered river was dotted with darker shapes. From the height of the crows, the shapes sharpened into small structures: ice fishing huts, scattered outward from shore, a handful of square marbles. Some were close to the safety of the riverbank, but others had been rolled out nearly to the halfway point of the river, marking where bravery had finally been outmatched by fear.

Inside one of the huts two men sat, cramped but warm, thanks to a small wood-burning stove in the corner, with a fire crackling in its belly. A faint smell of woodsmoke filled the hut. The men sat in chairs, a foot-wide hole in the ice at their feet, two fishing lines reaching down into the ice water from solid fishing poles nestled in holders. Between the men was a small table laden with a bottle of rum, a thermos of coffee, two cups, and a radio. The radio chattered at just the right volume to prompt the men to comment, when the talk was interesting enough. At this moment, a man was describing what was happening in the city.

“The demonstration happening today is, without a doubt, one of the largest ever seen in Montréal,” said the announcer, a tempered incredulity in his voice. “Police say some two-hundred-fifty-thousand people are in the streets today, protesting the government’s recently announced changes to energy policy.”