I had an early start the first morning, aided by the owner of the motel who gave me a lift to the Trail on her way in to town. It was still drizzling lightly but soon cleared up. The day stayed cool, though, which helped to keep the bugs at bay.
The Trail started out through long grasses, soaking me from my knees down. I was hoping this might help loosen some of the ground-in dirt on my pantlegs. Again my socks acted like wicks, drenching the insides of my boots, but my feet rather enjoyed the soaking.
With its spent flowers and partially-formed pods, the milkweed through here seemed much more advanced than I'd seen recently; was the climate more temperate here, or had I been on the Trail throughout its growing season, not noticing the changes? In any event, it always pleases me to come across milkweed, for the sake of the monarchs.
The mist hung in patches through the escarpment, and as I walked into it, I could feel the heaviness of the air on my skin. What should have been a quick scramble up some rocks turned into about a fifteen minute balancing act, due to the slippery rocks and weight of the backpack.
I had the backpack with me during this time, having had no opportunity to send it on ahead. It fits me better than the old one did, though, and is actually quite comfortable to wear. And, I find I am getting more used to the weight as the days go by, and am better able to keep my balance over the escarpment rocks.
In the end it wasn't the slippery rocks that got me, but a cedar root laying inconspicuously across the Trail. It caught the toe of my right boot. Instantly I was down, both my forearms slamming against another root. The weight of the pack made the fall that much harder; I was quite fortunate I didn't break both forearms. I escaped with only scrapes, having left a good layer of skin on the root.
There were few overlooks along this section of the Trail. The ma-a-a-a-a-a of lambs calling to their mothers drifted up to me, though, so I knew I was close to a farm. Then out to a road where I was greeted by the woolly creatures, and a quick turn back into the woods. Trees had been planted here in the year 2001; in the plantation stood a sign describing the reforestation project. "Today - 2001, Tomorrow - 2015" it proclaimed, with a sketch of small trees, and then much larger ones. It was right. The Scotch Pine seedlings had turned into magnificent trees.
Upon entering the Hockley Valley Nature Preserve I saw my third Indigo Bunting of the trip. I always get a thrill when I see these birds, with their deep blue hues accented in black. The wide path through the Preserve finally gave my pantlegs a chance to dry out. Many trees had fallen in the storm, some right across the Trail, which made for a good amount of scrambling. Someone would have a bit of chainsaw work to do. I noticed that the trees that had fallen were mostly beech: these trees were huge and quite old, many with hollowed out centres, which would have aided in their demise.
The creeks and streams through here were forded by bridges almost too narrow for my pack. I discovered I had to walk exactly in the centre of the bridges in order to fit through.
After my stay at a delightful bed and breakfast near the Trail, I started the next day under drier but still cloudy skies. The section around Blount was mostly privately owned and full of interesting paraphernalia: ancient lime kilns, pieces of old machinery, car and truck parts, old cement tower platforms. Many trees were down over the Trail here, as well. It was quiet in the forest, the silence broken only by the tapping of a woodpecker and the occasional hum of cicadas. I eventually came out to the busy Airport Road and managed to cross it safely. Then it was back into the forest, this time into a maple syrup enterprise. Miles of blue piping hung from tree to tree on both sides of the Trail, even crossing from side to side above my head. A gazebo containing a picnic table was placed invitingly in its midst, but I did not linger there.
I came across a sign offering a lovely tribute to Philip Gosling, one of the founders of the Bruce Trail. In the forest named for him was an overlook that gave me my first view of the Toronto skyline. It looked miniscule compared to the wide expanse of trees that stretched across my field of vision, a full 180 degrees. Still, my heart skipped a beat when I saw it: had I really come this far? Was I really this close to home?
The next day afforded many similar views, which helped ease the excessive amount of road walking. Hopefully someday the Conservancy can make more acquisitions through this area.
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