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.

Day Twenty-Three, July 27: "Brutal Heat and Buntings.". Kolapore Uplands to Len Gertler Forest, 16.8 km., 6 hours.

The Trail followed a dusty dirt road for the first kilometre.  At 9:30 the sun was already blistering hot, so it was a relief to finally turn into the forest and feel the cooler air on my skin.

I followed a fast-running stream for a while before turning into a wildflower meadow, and then into another forested area with mossy rock crevices and cedars growing every which way.  A huge beech tree stood next to the Trail, its insides pretty much decimated by woodpeckers.

A series of crude boardwalks took me through a marshy area, and then I was back into the open where the world unfolded below me.  I could see the escarpment in the distance as it snaked across land where I'd walked just days earlier.

Behind me, a meadow filled with sparrows and butterflies swayed in the breeze, its grasses well over my head.  Gnarled apple trees hung heavy with fruit - perhaps an abandoned orchard?  A pair of cedar waxwings flitted through a chokecherry bush, and mountain ashes showed off their cheery orange berries.

Then the Trail took me out to a blacktopped road, where the sun beat mercilessly down and trucks roared by at breakneck speed.  I caught the first views of Georgian Bay I'd had for over a week, since I followed the Trail inland.  The great blue expanse was hazy in the heat.

The next turn in the Trail brought me back into the woods, where I sat on a bridge over a stream and enjoyed my lunch of hummus and crackers.  Hummus rehydrates beautifully, so I'd made it the way I like it, with plenty of garlic, then dehydrated it and sealed it in small packages.  Quick and easy to rehydrate right on the Trail.

There was quite a bit of milkweed in the meadows, and I caught sight of a number of monarch butterflies.  I also saw an Indigo Bunting - the first time I've ever seen one outside of my spring Pelee birdwatching excursions.

The Len Gertler Forest seems to be a favourite exercise spot for the locals, offering a 5 km loop in conjunction with a side trail.  I came across numerous people here, including one man who passed me twice.  He had a set of bearbells on his hat, which tinkled merrily as he walked.  The first time I saw him he was walking jauntily but by the second time he was noticeably droopy, the heat having taken its toll.  It was pretty brutal in there today.  Such a high elevation brings us closer to the sun, I guess

I was glad it was a comparatively short hiking day.  Heat doesn't usually bother me, but today's highs, coupled with the high humidity, were quite the challenge.

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.

Day Twenty-One, July 25: "Apprehension and Guitar Strings". Eugenia Falls to Old Baldy, 14.5 km., 4.5 hours.

I waved goodbye to Violet and Judy at the trailhead, after making plans to get together again before the end of my journey.  Taking the first steps on the Trail that morning was difficult; I had become comfortable over the last three days, knowing where my bed would be each night, and what to expect.  I soon flowed back into the rhythm of the hike, though, as I followed the rushing waters of the Beaver River.

The soft strumming of a guitar floated through the air, and I soon came upon the source:  a rather pensive-looking young man seated on a rock by the river.  I skirted around him quietly so as to not disturb him.

The Trail climbed to an overlook and allowed me views of the land I would be traversing in the next few days.  It seemed to stretch on forever.

Then I passed both ends of an old stone tunnel that was built in the early 1900s as a power project.  The endeavour was abandoned before it ever reached fruition. An interesting bit of history that is well-documented in the area.

I also saw more people on the Trail than I'd seen in the past week:  a runner, a group of six seniors, and about four smaller groups of teens - a sure sign it was the weekend. One of the groups of teens marched by me reciting the Lord's Prayer.  A bible camp nearby, perhaps?

I cut through a Bruce Trail parking lot full of hikers' cars, then crossed a road and was back into the bush, where I knew I was once more alone by the cobwebs crisscrossing the Trail.

The wind started picking up around midmorning, and with it came rainclouds, dark and ominous.  Beech leaves rustled, trees swayed and creaked.  I passed two tall narrow watertowers which I imagined supplied the folks in the valley.  In the clearing I could see the old abandoned ski hill on the other side.

A red-tailed hawk took flight, and two eastern kingbirds raised a fuss as I drew near an apple tree.  I glanced around but couldn't spy their nest.

There were fewer waterfalls on this side of the valley, and the Trail was much less rocky here.  For the most part I was walking in a mixed forest that topped the bare rock face of the escarpment.  Then I reached Old Baldy, a rockface that is visible for miles, where my old baldy (sorry, Dan!) picked me up for the weekly supply drop.

On our drive out of the area, a family of wild turkeys crossed the dirt road in front of us.  It seemed like a never-ending procession of poults:  every time we would start to pull ahead, another would pop out of the bush.

Days Nineteen and Twenty, July 23 and 24: "Ski Hills and Red Wine". Epping to Eugenia Falls, 35.9 km.

Yesterday I found out that yet another of my friends has been diagnosed with cancer. Although the prognosis is excellent, the news certainly gave me pause to reflect on how fragile life really is.  To consider the many people who are caught in a struggle much greater than my mere walk in the woods.  And to reaffirm the notion that we must learn to savour every single moment of our existence.

The hikes on these two days brought me deep into the Beaver Valley.  The escarpment seems to fold back on itself here, heading straight south for about forty km. and then sharply turning north again. As I walked deeper into the valley I noticed a definite change in both temperature and type of vegetation.  Occasionally I caught sight of the escarpment to the east, so I imagine the two great walls of rock create a unique microclimate here.

At first, there were many meadows to traverse, resplendent with the pinks and whites of clover and Queen Anne's Lace, the reds of young maple saplings, and the yellows and blues of goldenrod and chicory. Their tendrils overflowed onto the Trail and playfully caught at my feet.

Then down into the escarpment, where the Trail ran along a plateau between two levels of rock.  The path was bare here, and I loved the feel of my feet hitting the damp earth over and over again, heels moulding into the clay.  The action was becoming strangely addictive.

Gradually the sounds of civilization drifted up to me as I drew closer to the tiny hamlet of Kimberley:  the hammering of nail to wood, the echo of a combine in a field.  I passed through a defunct ski hill, the overgrown slopes a riot of colour now.  In the parking lot, an old couple was stowing their hiking gear in their vehicle, done for the day.  We spoke, and the woman reminisced about the times of her youth when she and her friends would ski these slopes, careening carelessly down the side of the mountain and ending in a flourish of snowspray at the bottom.

Later, the Trail crossed an operational ski complex.  The blazes weren't obvious here, and I spent some time trying to figure out its route.  At one point I was using the newest paper Trail map, the Trail app on my phone, my GPSr, and even binoculars - to try to see the white markings at a distance.  I eventually figured things out, but in the process I discovered how many geocaches I'd walked right past in the last few days.  (I've been keeping my GPSr turned off unless I need it for checking my route - my mantra on this journey has been "every ounce counts", so I didn't want to carry extra batteries in the backpack).

The Trail south of the ski hill stayed under forest cover for the most part, crossing numerous waterfalls.  Creeks, streams and even springs sprayed their water over rocks and boulders on the escarpment face, sometimes in the form of rapids, sometimes in freefalling cascades. Each was beautiful in its own unique way.  I could hear the roar of turbulent water from some distance away, so always knew when I was approaching a waterfall.  Quite often I would pause for a bit because someone had thoughtfully placed a handhewn bench near the water's edge.

Violet and Judy hiked with me for a while the first day, and the entire time the second day.  We ended the hike with a picnic at Lake Eugenia, a good-sized lake created as a reservoir for a hydroelectric dam in the early 1900s.

It was a wonderful two days spent with dear friends, in idyllic surroundings.

Days Seventeen and Eighteen, July 21 and 22: "Gossamer Threads and Gobblers". Bighead Camp to Epping, 41.5 km.

I left the Bighead Camp in high spirits. Although it had taken me a couple of hours to pack up due to the rain the night before, everything (including the food bag, which I'd hung from a tree over the escarpment) seemed intact.

I followed the Trail down to the Bighead River, where I watched a huge turtle moving around at the bottom of a beaverdam.  At first I thought he must be trapped in the entanglement of branches, but then I realized he was trying to climb over the dam to get to the deeper water.  I stood there until he reached the top, bellyflopped into the water, and swam gracefully away.

The Trail took me through Walters Falls, where I stopped for lunch at the Inn.  I've been craving fresh greens since I started the trek, having subsisted mostly on dehydrated food since then, and the folks at the Inn were happy to oblige.

The rest of these hikes offered beautiful escarpment views, rushing streams, and waterfalls.  No chance of a hiker ever running out of water around here.  There were also a couple of wetland areas, where I had to avoid stepping on frogs.  Once, I came across a common gartersnake laying lengthwise along the Trail.  He had buried his head in some leaves, but most of his body lay exposed on the surface.  I do believe he thought he was hiding from me. Reminded me of that old picture of the deer hiding behind the skinny tree trunk, head sticking out one side and hindquarters out the other.

I knew I was the first one on the Trail the second morning because I needed to wave my hiking stick in front of me to break the cobwebs.  The gossamer threads crisscross the Trail, and when I feel them cling to me, I always wonder if I've picked up their owner as well.

Poison ivy was a bit lush in spots along here, overlapping the Trail from either side.  I'd tried to avoid it up to this point, but finally I just threw in the towel and waded through it, hoping for the best.

Towards the end of the day I caught sight of a couple of wild turkey hens ahead of me on the Trail, as it meandered through a meadow.  They quickly scurried away, alarmed by the sight of me.

Out to a parking area, where my friends Violet and Judy picked me up.  We have rented a tiny cottage in the Eugenia area for three nights, and they will be shuttling me back and forth to the Trail for the next two days.  This will give us a chance to visit in the evenings, and will also allow me a couple days of packless hiking.

Day Sixteen, July 20: "Bees and Golden Eagles". Woodford to Bighead Camp, 22.2 km., 8 hours.

After a hug and farewell at the trailhead, I watched Shannon drive off, and then headed into the forest.  This was a long and very beautiful stretch of Trail right through to Bognor Marsh, and was an absolute pleasure to hike.
Around mid morning the Trail rounded an old decayed tree.  As I came around the tree, I heard a deafening buzzing sound. There, at my eye level, was a hole in the tree the size of a football.  It was overflowing with bees, hundreds of them.  I caught my breath, lowered my head and kept on going, hoping for the best.  I relaxed a couple of minutes later when it became evident that no angry bees had followed me, stingers at the ready.
I startled a lot of ruffed grouse through this section.  They were on the path ahead of me, basking in the sunshine.  There were also numerous raptors in the trees along the escarpment edge, and they would take to flight as I approached.  I couldn't really tell what they were, though, through the trees.  They would also fly overhead, casting huge shadows upon the forest floor.
Closer to Bognor Marsh I stopped at an overlook and couldn't believe my eyes. About fifteen of these raptors glided below me, over the carpet of trees, rising with the wind and then dipping, and rising again, in a carefully synchronized dance. Spellbound, I stood and watched for quite some time.  I still am not sure what they were; if I didn't know better, I'd swear they were golden eagles.
The Bognor Marsh was deserted, so I ate my lunch there in solitude.  It was actually nice to have the change in scenery, though the floating boardwalk caught me off-guard with the weight of the pack on my back.
Then up to the wilderness camp.  It was an interesting evening, being alone up there in the middle of nowhere overnight, especially with the high winds and thunderstorms that rolled in later that evening.  Not much sleep for me that night!