I started the day off on the patio of a Tobermory motel, where Dan and I ate our continental breakfast. Then off to the jeep to retrieve the backpack. As soon as I opened the back door, I knew something was amiss; the smell of whiskey wafted thickly towards me. Sighing, I unstrapped the tent from the bottom of the pack to find that my small backpacking flask was... leaky.
Something I'd learned from my friend Diane, one of the true luxuries on a backpacking trip is enjoying a dribble of whiskey in one's morning coffee. This week I'd have to do without that! Luckily, the defective flask was at the bottom of my pack, so I wiped the liquid up with Dan's hanky and hoisted the pack onto my back.
A quick picture at the cairn and a quick peck from Dan (and also his expressed hopes that bears don't particularly like whiskey), and I was off! It was 9 a.m.
I passed a few casual hikers at first, but soon found myself alone and into rougher terrain. The bugs were astonishingly light and the crystal clear day allowed for beautiful views of the water.
In mid-afternoon, I heard it - a consistent rattle, and in close proximity. About ten feet ahead of me, stretched across half the trail, was an Eastern Massasauga Rattlesnake, head raised, poised to strike. I stopped dead in my tracks, and glanced hastily around. On my left side was a sheer cliff, and on my right was thick brush. The snake was still rattling, but not moving. I made a wide berth around him (her?), and crashed through the brush, getting a nasty poke in an eye from an errant branch in the process (my first Trail wound! The eye is still bloodshot, days later.) I headed back onto the path when I figured I'd overshot him enough, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The Grotto area was packed with young people enjoying the water, clear and smooth as glass. I passed an old man with a small pack and a hiking stick who was gazing down at them. If I could have painted him, I would have called the result 'Guardian of the Trail'. "Good for you", he said, upon finding out I had come from Tobermory that morning. "But you've still got a fair way to go to StormHaven".
Around 4 p.m. I felt I couldn't go on any longer. The backpack now felt more like 400 lb., and not its actual 40. When I came across a secluded cobble beach, I heaved the backpack onto a small piece of clear ground and lay there for about ten minutes, trying to talk myself into carrying on. I figured I needed to go another five more km. to get to the camp at StormHaven. I filled my water bottle and purified it, all the while ruminating on whether to continue on. This flat patch of ground, about 10x10 feet, was rare - no brush, no rocks or stones, and it was lovely, so close to the water. The perfect place to pitch a tent. But stopping here would make the next day's hike almost unmanageable in length, not to mention that it's frowned upon to stealth-camp. Then I smelled something oddly familiar, and eyed a suspicious-looking couple of rocks in the middle of the clearing. Lifting one, I discovered a nice pile of fresh dog poop that someone had covered up! Instantly, I made up my mind. On went the pack, and off I went.
There were lots of young couples at StormHaven. My neighbours on the next wooden tent platform were a lovely couple from Cambridge, who were camping with their large doggie companion. Sure made me miss my two brutes! Set up my tent and then enjoyed a brilliant sunset that defies description, while sitting on a boulder on the waterfront eating my evening meal of Walnut Pasta. I collapsed into my sleeping bag soon afterwards.
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