Day Twenty-Two, July 26: "Jack and Wendy". Old Baldy through Kolapore Uplands, 23.0 km., 6.5 hours.

On our way back to the trailhead at Old Baldy, we stopped to check out a new closure of the Trail.  The reroute had me concerned as it would have added four km. to an already heavy day later in the week. Turns out the two km. of trail was blocked off due to concerns about an unsafe bridge over a stream.  We hiked in and discovered a mere two inches of water in the stream, so at this time of year it really seemed like a non-issue.

We drove past a family of raccoons with at least five kits, all gathered at the side of the road.  And Dan noticed what appeared to be a pair of deer in a field, but upon closer inspection turned out to be sandhill cranes. I also was lucky enough to catch sight of a great gray owl taking flight, easily identifiable by its sheer size and round, flat face.

I  waved goodbye to Dan and Jake (Tim had to stay home this weekend; the place where we stayed didn't allow non-neutered dogs). The forest was still and quiet with little wind, which allowed for more bugs.  I'd noticed the deerfly population had been picking up over the last few days, so I'd applied a deerfly patch to my hat before I left, which offered some relief.

At an overlook I took one last glance over the Beaver Valley before I followed the Trail to the east.  It went through a narrow rock corridor and descended to a plateau about midway down the escarpment.  This was a rocky section with many springs bubbling up, and required intricate footwork to traverse unscathed.

Then out to an old dirt road where I noticed a rather distressing No Hunting sign, which read, "In Memory of Jack McKeown, killed by hunters, 2005".  I actually remember this in the news ten years ago.

I eventually arrived at the Duncan Crevice Caves parking lot.  It was brimming with vehicles, and along this section I came across many young families enjoying a Sunday hike.  I passed by a mother breastfeeding her newborn on a rock; the rest of that family picnicked a short distance away.

Up and over a stile and into a pasture where cows crowded into the shade by the side of the Trail.  I eventually arrived at Pinnacle Rock, craggy and big as a house. Though rocky, the terrain in this area was much tamer than I had imagined.  There were a couple of wide creeks to cross, the water rushing over multiple layers of shale.

Metcalfe Rock was massive - Pinnacle paled in size by comparison.  There were many rock climbers here, their ropes strung down the rockface, and other climbing paraphernalia splayed out on the grasses below.  I could hear calls of " Awesome!", "Killer!", and "Sick climb!" drifting down from above.

The next few kilometres ran alongside farmers' fields, meadows, and pastures, bordered with ancient cedar rail fencing and long piles of rocks from fields cleared a century ago.  The route opened up into grassland and low shrubs, and brought me to a wooden bench carefully placed to look out over the escarpment.  The recessed plaque read "Wendy loved the Bruce Trail. And I loved her", and displayed a picture of a woman laughing, happy, holding a dog.  I sat for awhile, savouring the peacefulness.

A few metres further and the ground erupted at my feet.  Ruffed grouse flew up, scattering everywhere, startling me.  Then I came upon a sign proclaiming this to be the "Old Mail Route" from the early 1800s, when the area hamlets were linked by this old wagon trail.

I caught sight of two wild turkeys, their heads poking up through tall grasses.  Then over another stile and into yet another cow pasture, loaded with patties.  It took all my concentration not to step ankle-deep in one. I soon found the culprits,  big brown Jerseys with youngsters at their sides.  One still had an umbilical cord hanging down.

Over another stile and into another pasture. This one boasted different-looking droppings, but that little tidbit of information didn't really register with me until I followed the Trail around a bend and stopped short - two large horses stood end-to-end across the Trail, swatting each others' flies with their tails.  The Trail was blocked by cedar rail fence on one side and thick brush on the other.  While I was ruminating over my next course of action (I'd surely be kicked if I tried to pass on either side), they both approached me, bent their heads, and nuzzled the brim of my hat.  I brushed the flies away from their eyes, patted their noses, and continued on.

Not ten seconds later a fawn jumped across the Trail in front of me, though I saw no sign of its mother.  Out to the road, and it was a short two km. walk to the river outfitter's where I had arranged to spend the night.