Days Seven and Eight, July 11 and 12: "Canines and Marmots". Hope Bay to Wiarton, 42.6 km.

I left camp with a full belly of bacon, eggs, toast and beans, courtesy of my newfound friends, and headed into the forest.  These two days were filled with great hiking.  Much of the Trail is within First Nations land here, and the spirit of co-operation and mutual love of the land surrounded me:  from staircases and stiles, to the beautiful boardwalk the Band had built along the marshy shore in conjunction with the Bruce Trail Association.  It was along the boardwalk that I pulled out my snacks of fresh cherries and dark chocolate, which my new friends had insisted I take with me. 
On the first day I found myself in a particularly quiet area of the forest, when something crashing through the trees broke the silence.  I turned and caught sight of a black bear retreating further into the woods.  I smiled to myself and continued on.  Later, in that same section, a ruffed grouse flew up from the path, disturbed at my presence.
I made good time along this section.  My foot was feeling much better, and, except for a few precarious metres descending the Sydney Bay Bluff, the Trail was basically flat and somewhat rock-free.  I was also fuelled by the knowledge that I was to meet with Dan and the dogs for the weekly supply drop later that day.  It would be great to see them, and the prospect of an actual bath and hairwash was enticing.  It's amazing, the things we take for granted in our manicured-lawn subdivisions.  I'm finding I'm becoming grateful for every sip of water I take:  I've carried it myself, sometimes even purified it myself, and it's finite, until I'm able to replenish the supply. 
The second morning brought more beautiful weather, and I bade goodbye to Dan and the boys where I'd left off the afternoon before.  Even with the heavier, freshly-resupplied pack, this, too, was a beautiful hike, winding through wildflower-filled meadows and cool, leafy forests, following the shoreline of Colpoy's Bay.  I could hear the call of loons and the raucous cry of gulls below.  An iron spiral staircase brought me down to water level; it was very narrow, reminding me of the staircase up Brock's Monument in Queenston, which I'd climbed many times in my youth.  I ended up descending this one backwards because the breadth of the pack was too much for it otherwise.
At water level I stopped for a few minutes to watch the gulls dive into the water and retrieve their lunch.  There seemed no shortage of fish; the birds were sleek and well-fed.
I ended the day at the Bluewater Park campground on Wiarton's waterfront, camped in one of the two backpacker sites they offer.  Of course, I had to take an evening stroll over to pay homage to Wiarton's famous rodent resident.