While driving northward into Quebec’s Laurentian Mountains, I watched nervously as the clock ticked past 10, then 11. What was supposed to be a two-hour trip to the trailhead from Saint-Jérôme, a small city about 35 miles north of Montreal, soon became three. We had almost 40 miles of biking ahead of us, three young kids in tow, and my anxiety was kicking in.

My husband and I had been looking forward to taking our daughters on their first bike trip. Before they were born, he and I were avid cyclists; we pedaled the Pacific Coast Highway from Astoria, Oregon, to San Francisco, camping our way down Highway 101. After we had kids, we’d braved only a few miles on the path near our house. Now we were ready to get back onto the saddle, courtesy of an invitation to bike the P’tit Train du Nord—a historic, 200-kilometer linear park curving around rivers, lakes, and the base of the Laurentian Mountains.

Photo courtesy of Bike List

Le P’tit Train du Nord translates to “The Little Train of the North,” as it’s built on a former railway line. The Little Northern Train saw its glory days from the 1920s to the ‘40s, delivering Montrealers to the nearby mountains. With the rise of automobiles, however, the snow train’s heyday drew to a close, and the little locomotive made its final trip up the line in 1981. In 1996, the rail bed was transformed into a recreational trail—its bucolic surroundings and easy grade a boon for Laurentides tourism. Today, more than half a million cyclists, hikers, and cross-country skiers visit the relatively flat trail each year.

We pulled into Mont-Laurier, the northernmost town on the trail, just before noon. While my husband loaded our ancient saddlebags onto five bikes, the girls—aged 9, 11, and 13—got a feel for their own wheels, looping around the old train station. It was the first of many we’d see; most, however, have been converted into restaurants and tourist information centers. As the last of our shuttle companions rode off, I continued to fret about the time, packing more snacks and rain gear into our already stuffed panniers. It was nearly one o’clock by the time we finally pedaled past the sign reading, “Bienvenue Parc Linear P’tit Train du Nord,” kicking off our four-day journey south, to kilometer zero.

 Soon enough, we left civilization behind—the traffic and fast food outposts of Mont-Laurier giving way to dewy-eyed cows, grazing pastures fringed with bright saffron goldenrod. It took some time for the girls to get situated, with frequent stops for seat tweaks and sips of water. But we settled into a groove, and kilometer markers began to tick by. The dense, surrounding conifer forest yielded every so often, offering between-the-trees glimpses of Lac-des-Ecorces.

In a world full of cycling routes, Le P’tit Train du Nord offers bike-tripping greenhorns and veterans alike a fusion of outdoor adventure and creature comforts. Every 15 miles or so, quaint French-Canadian villages pop up waiting to be discovered—from charming cafes housed in restored train stations to tiny museums and cozy, family-run auberges. We’d booked a cyclo-gîtes package, which included bike rentals, the shuttle to the trailhead, and three nights' accommodations, dinner and breakfast included. For a nominal fee, our bags were collected each morning; we’d find them waiting for us later in the day, at our next inn.

The first day’s five hours on the trail ended at kilometer 145, where Belgian expats Ignace and Yolande Denutte run Chez Ignace, a gastronomic B&B on Lac Nominingue. Parking their bikes on the lawn, the girls were enthusiastically greeted by Patou, the resident border collie. My husband and I headed inside to partake in a celebratory Westmalle Trappist Tripel, and to accept congratulations from our fellow shuttle riders who were already in the dining room, tucking into Yolande’s delicious cooking. After logging some time in the outdoor hot tub and visiting the lake with Patou, the five of us gorged on house-smoked salmon, buttery escargots, elk stew, Belgian chocolate mousse, and maple flan.

 And so it went. Our little family chugged south for the next three days, pedaling across greying cedar bridges that spanned mountain streams, their banks bursting with Queen Anne’s lace and deep-purple loosestrife. We stopped to rescue a tiny toad from a section of trail that wound through verdant marsh. We consumed giant bowls of spaghetti at the Jack Rabbit Restaurant in Val-David, named for local trailblazer Herman "Jack Rabbit" Smith-Johannsen, who was still cross-country skiing in the region nearly up until his death in 1987 at age 111. Once I surrendered to the fact that we would always be the last ones to leave in the morning and to arrive in the afternoon, a sense of peace breathed into our (mostly) mellow days on the trail.

A dozen or so kilometers from Saint-Jérôme, our final destination, the atmosphere became more urban, the path more congested. Graffiti decorated the walls of large concrete culverts. Young people zipped by on rollerblades. Parents helped little ones navigate training wheels. As the Little Train path wound its way back to civilization, we acclimated back to reality. My ride through the colorful, flag-festooned archway marking the trail’s end in Saint-Jérôme was bittersweet—a mix of excitement for my girls’ accomplishment and sadness that our first family cycling adventure was drawing to a close.

There’s something meditative about seeing a place from the seat of a bike. Pedaling through the landscape, we found ourselves immersed in both the beauty of our surroundings and the characters we encountered along the way. A rhythm emerged as we rolled along, powered by our own steam—a rhythm that served as a much-needed antidote to the hyper-scheduled hustle of daily life, providing a lasting sense of peace.

Unexpected Fun: Despite feeling like we needed to get our show on the road on our second morning, we ultimately had no regrets about going with Ignace to visit his personal, and incredible, natural history museum, L’Arche Perdue de Noah—the Lost Arc of Noah.