Day Twenty-Four, July 28: "On Top of the World." Len Gertler Forest to Pretty River Valley, 22.9 km., 6.5 hours.

This morning I was asked once again, "Why?" Why the Bruce Trail?  Why end-to-end, all at once? Why alone?

I had decided to stay two more nights at the river outfitter's:  the price was very reasonable, they were willing to shuttle me to and from the Trail every day, and, quite frankly, I loved it there.  My room had a screened patio door opening out onto a balcony in the midst of a forest; Georgian Bay could even be glimpsed in the distance. I awoke in the mornings to sunrises and birdsong and absolutely no sounds of civilization.

Richard was a fascinating host.  A true adventurer, he has spent much of his life climbing mountains, hiking, and kayaking all over the world.  Now, at 73, he owns and runs a busy full-service adventure tour company and guesthouse.

And that's how I met Annette.  She is also an adventure tour operator, specializing in the Bruce's caves and crevices, as well as being Richard's sometime assistant.  And, she is a freelance journalist, writing human interest stories for local publications.

Two kindred spirits, we hit it off immediately. She wanted to write about my journey, hence the question "Why?"

So today I hiked the Trail along the edge of the escarpment near Collingwood, through various ski clubs offering fabulous views of Georgian Bay, down dirt access roads, along snowshoe trails, across waterfalls that tumbled their way down the escarpment, all the while trying to sort out "Why".

I know it's been something I've always wanted to do.  I've hiked about 2/3 of the Trail already, in bits and pieces, but that just served to give me a mere taste of the long-distance hiking experience.  Did I wake up one morning and think, " I'm not getting any younger.  I'd better do this!"?  Is it some kind of pre-retirement kick-off?  An immersion way of increasing my health and fitness level?  My friend Violet keeps telling me that good health is paramount in life, and I'd been feeling myself declining over the last few years, the six-day-a-week work schedule taking its toll.  Standing on hard concrete eight hours a day was bothering my knees and hips, and the repetitive factory work affecting my shoulders and...  mind.  Was that it?  Since I hadn't had a regular weekend in so long, was there a deficit of time spent in the outdoors that I needed to address?

I wonder if we lose touch with ourselves -become mere shells of humanity - in the monotony and superficiality of our day to day lives, when it's easier to live in the future or the past, rather than the present. Perhaps we need to go back into the wild, to our roots, to become whole again.  When you're faced with survival in the wild, and tasked with ensuring you have the bare necessities of life:  water, food, a roof - whether canvas or wood - perhaps then you can better understand and learn to take joy in the truly important things in life, the simpler things. To appreciate the sounds and sights of the forest.  To revel in family and friendships, and to recognize the inherent goodness in people.

Tomorrow marks the halfway point of my journey - three and a half weeks out of seven. I'm not ready for that, it feels like the journey has barely started.  One thing's for certain:  time will not wait for us.  It marches relentlessly on, whether we're ready or not.

Suddenly, I found I'd arrived at Petun Conservation Area, where the Petun peoples lived before being decimated by smallpox in the 1600s.  I imagined what it would be like to be transported back in time, standing in this very spot, to a much different way of life.  The boulder under my feet would have been under theirs, too. That old cedar might have been a sapling. And I pictured the scene as a James Lumber painting, the past melded with the present. Did I see deerskin shelters in the campsite I had just travelled through?  Were young native children playing nearby?

Then into the Pretty River Valley Conservation Area, where I passed many other hikers and cyclists. I stood on the highest point on the entire Bruce Trail; at 540 metres, it is just off the actual Bruce, on the blue-blazed John Haigh Side Trail.

I noticed a group of about ten children and a couple of adults clustered around a large puddle, counting frogs.  A couple of minutes later I came upon a man who asked me if I'd seen a bunch of kids.  "Oh, yes," I replied. "They're at the frogpond," and I pointed behind me.  "Were they noisy?" he asked, and then apologized.  And I got to thinking, is that what I crave?  Is that why I'm here - to search out the peace and quiet of the wilderness?  The small town where I live has four sets of train tracks running through it, plus a major highway on one side.  No quiet to be had there.

The Trail drew up alongside the Pretty River, and at that point became one of the most beautiful hikes I've ever done.  The clear waters of the river flowed gently over rocks and boulders and through an old-growth cedar forest, the trees brimming with character.  The setting was quiet, peaceful, reverent. I had found the answer to the question - for that moment, at least.