Late August: Looking Back - and Looking Forward

There are so many who have helped me realize this dream, so many who deserve my gratitude. 

I very much appreciate the hard work of the many BTC volunteers who have spent countless of their own hours painting blazes, building bridges and boardwalks, crafting steps out of logs, from the founders right through to the present day volunteers.

I also greatly appreciate the support and kind words from blog readers and Facebook friends.  They made sharing my experiences so easy. 

Julie's texts were an inspiration every day; I found myself eagerly awaiting the daily quote.  Trish's friendship absolutely shone the night she was prepared to dump her midnight shift, jump into her truck at 10:30 and drive three hours so I wouldn't be alone in a wilderness campsite in a thunderstorm.  The many kindnesses of Annette and Richard, Mandy and her family, Annie and Kris, Judy, Martin and Shalani, Shannon, Ted, Rhonda, Ron and Janet from the defunct B&B, Sandy Proudfoot, Violet and Adrian and their two girls, and many others I've met along the way, will never be forgotten.

But most of all, I am truly indebted to my husband Dan.  Without his love and support the logistics of a trek like this would have nearly been insurmountable.  He gave up his weekends throughout the summer to bring me fresh supplies every Saturday, and was always just a text or email away, all the while never complaining.


"Travel is the discovery of truth; an affirmation of the promise that humankind is far more beautiful than it is flawed.  With each trip comes a new optimism that where there is despair and hardship, there are ideas and people just waiting to be energized, to be empowered, to make a difference for good." 
- Dan Thompson, 'Following Whispers: Walking on the Rooftop of the World in Nepal's Himalayas'.

Day Forty-Eight, August 21: "The Finale". Woodend to Queenston, 12.5 km., four hours.

It was an exciting last day.  Rhonda drove me back to Woodend in the morning so I could carry on towards Queenston.  We had arranged to meet Gloria and her dear friend Gwen there before I started out, so I could present her with The Shoe.  She was quite ecstatic to get it back.  Turns out we live fairly close to each other, so I am looking forward to meeting up with her in the future.

The Trail soon left Woodend and travelled onto a road for a while.  It brought me past one of Niagara's famous Shoe Trees, and I couldn't help but be reminded of how Gloria had described her lost shoe to me - how she'd told me it had so much life left in it, how it held the promise of so many more miles.

When I passed through the Screaming Tunnels (which I remember visiting as a young teenager), I took the requisite photograph in case ghosts might show up on the image.  Then the Trail went over a fairly new pedestrian bridge that is also part of the Trans Canada Trail and the Laura Secord Legacy Trail.  Last time I travelled this section of the Bruce, we crossed the QEW via the adjacent railway bridge.

Peach orchards and wildflower-filled meadows, goldfinches and butterflies, cicadas and grasshoppers, buzzing bees and hopping frogs:  the sights and sounds of the Trail, my beloved Bruce Trail, seemed much more intensified that day.  And for the first time I noticed a sense of peace about me, a serenity I knew I didn't possess seven weeks ago when I first started out.  Poplar leaves were strewn over the path, interspersed with the odd maple leaf:  signs of autumn, the end of one season and the beginning of another. 

As I approached Queenston, as I grew nearer with each step, I found I was experiencing an odd mix of euphoria and sadness - a euphoria that I was fortunate enough in so many ways to be able to take this journey, and a profound sadness that this part of the journey was nearing completion.  It had proven to be one of the most interesting and challenging summers of my life.

Then it was out of the forest and along the paved path to the cairn that marks the southern terminus of the Bruce Trail.  Dan and the dogs, and dear friends Trish, Violet and Adrian were there to greet me, and to walk with me that last couple hundred metres.  Hesitantly, I reached out and touched the cool stone of the cairn, then kissed it.

I had made it. I had walked every step of the Bruce Trail, from Tobermory to Queenston, in forty-eight consecutive days.  I had lost fifteen pounds and two toenails, and I'd gained experiences I'd remember the rest of my life.  I had weathered a tornado and came very close to heat stroke. I had walked among thousand-year-old cedars, and marvelled at young saplings that perhaps one day will be just as old.  I'd skipped across rocks that were here long before I was born, and will still be here long after I'm gone.  I'd crawled through dark crevices into what felt like the very belly of the earth, and I'd gazed into treetops, watching raptors soar far below me.  I'd walked along ancient tracks that the Petun peoples travelled centuries ago, and through the virgin paths of brand new reroutes to the Trail.  I had made new friends and spent time making memories with old ones, in the process learning more about myself.  Perhaps it was necessary, inevitable that this was a solitary journey, perhaps I am getting closer to answering the "Why".

What's next?  I'm not sure.  But it's pretty exciting to think about.  After all, we really are limited only by our minds, aren't we?

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Day Forty-Seven, August 20: "Old Engineering Feats and Quotes of Inspiration." Merritton to Woodend, 7.9 km., three hours.

I spent the night at Violet's house, and the next morning she was kind enough to drop me back off at the pub so I could retrace my steps once again, and try to find the lost piece of paper with Gloria's phone number on it.  It had rained rather heavily during the night, and I didn't hold out a lot of hope for this endeavour, so was almost ecstatic when I did find the folded piece of paper along a small pathway I'd taken from the main Trail.  I unfolded it and held it out in front of me as I walked, so it wouldn't stick together as it dried.

The Trail became quite overgrown and very wet from last night's rain as I approached the Welland Canal.  Grasses grew thickly on either side of the path, and I picked my way gingerly through, trying to minimize the wetness from transferring to my pantlegs.  Poison ivy grew in dense clumps; I fervently hoped I wouldn't find The Shoe in the midst of one.  I crossed an old train track completely choked by weeds, and was amazed to find the rails and ties still intact. 

I noticed a clearing off to one side where someone had made a shelter out of tarps and old furniture.  No-one was home.  Rain started to fall again, so I pulled the brim of my hat further down over my eyes, then realized that if someone had found The Shoe and tied it to an overhead branch for discovery by the owner, I probably wouldn't notice it, so lifted the brim again.

The Trail crossed an active railroad track, and then ran right alongside it.  I'd seen this at least once before on my hike, but it still amazes me that this is allowed. 

I found The Shoe laying at the side of the Trail a short distance away from the tracks. Its colouring was muted because it was soaking wet, so I actually almost missed it.  With a big grin, I picked it up and tied it securely to my backpack.

The Trail took me out to a meadow, and then to the lift bridge over the Canal.  No ships were in sight, so there was no wait at the bridge.  Rain had pretty much stopped, though the skies still looked upset.  I hoped the meteorologist was correct with her prediction that it would clear.

The General Motors shift change was nearing, and the road was quite busy with employees arriving at work, but I managed to cross in front of the plant in one piece.  Then the Trail turned alongside the old canal.  Someone had trimmed the path here, making it quite wide, so it was an easy, dry walk.  An engineering feat in its day, the canal itself is now crumbling, as are many of the cement bollards.  I had to wonder how much longer it will last before falling in on itself. 

The buzz of my cellphone alerted me to an incoming text.  My friend Julie has been sending me daily motivational quotes since I'd first started out on July 4, most having to do with wilderness hiking.  They had given me much food for thought; today's was no exception:  "Conquer the trail, test your limits, share your experiences and don't let the opportunity to embrace nature's beauty pass by."   This one was not credited, and I would amend it to read "Revere the trail", rather than "Conquer".  I prefer not to conquer nature, but to live peaceably within it.  The conquering was done inside of me, to my own limits.
But there was one a few days ago that still haunts me.  "Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking.  You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits."  (Cindy Ross).  I am apprehensive to see how that one will play out.

The Trail led me away from the old canal, and through a golf course.  It actually runs inside a hedgerow dissecting the course and is crossed regularly by paved golf paths, so I had to exercise caution as I came out to these little roadways: the rain had stopped, and more golfers were zipping along in carts.  Apples had fallen on the Trail like little land mines, lying in wait to wreak havoc with my ankles.  The wind had kicked up and the sun began to peek through the cloud cover and pervade the forest canopy.  I thought perhaps I was leaving the golf course, because each side of the hedgerow had become wider and thicker with trees.  Fallen pears began to join their apple comrades underfoot.

Then it was over a stile to the road, past the "Beware of Flying Golfballs" sign, and into the Woodend Conservation Area.  It was quiet and serene in there, despite the roar of the QEW below.  Crevices and huge layered rocks dotted the forest, in typical escarpment fashion.  I passed an old ruins, perhaps a lime kiln, standing ghostly in a glade below. 

The Trail brought me behind the old house, which is now an educational centre, and out to the road where my stepmother and dear friend Rhonda, who lives nearby, picked me up for the night.

Day Forty-Six, August 19: "Meeting Gloria Strayed." Short Hills to Merritton, 17.4 km., 5.5 hours.

Trish dropped me off in the early morning at a Scout camp, and I hiked along a side trail to reach the white blazes where I'd left off the night before.  The sky was totally different from the way I'd last seen it, crystal clear and blue.  I passed many folks enjoying the Trail this morning:  joggers, dogwalkers, bicyclists.  Like so many other waterways in the area, Terrace Creek was a stone riverbed devoid of water, the falls a mere trickle.  I wondered if the dryness was due to the area I was now in, or maybe it was the time of year - nearly a whole season had passed since I'd started my trek.

Stopping at an interpretive sign, I read with interest that this section of the Bruce was twinned with a section of the Rim of Africa Trail, in South Africa.  Though I hadn't set foot on that trail, I had been fairly close to it when we'd hiked the Cape of Good Hope area early last year.

The gently sloping hills through the Short Hills were a hiker's mecca, and I passed through wooded areas as well as wildflower-filled meadows.  Butterflies were everywhere. Most maple trees had begun to blush, and many had progressed to full crimson.  I checked my GPSr for geocaches, and realized I'd forgotten to load it with this area when Dan had brought the laptop on Saturday.  A blessing in disguise, perhaps - I could concentrate more on my surroundings without the distraction of searching for caches.

I passed a lone woman hiker laden with a heavy backpack:  a through-hiker, I thought.  She cheerfully bade me "Good Morning."  She didn't seem inclined to stop and talk, though, so I let her pass me by.

The Trail left the Short Hills all too soon, and followed a road a short distance to Morningstar Mill. There were many cars in the parking lot, though there wasn't anybody in sight.  Plenty of water flowed over the falls here, and its roar continued through rocks and rapids as I walked further along the riverbed.  Eventually, the Trail climbed up a pebble embankment and brought me to a dam at the top of Lake Moodie.  The water sparkled in the sunlight, and geese and ducks floated on its ripples. I watched as a fish jumped.  The wind was fairly strong up here and refreshing; it was a beautiful walk on an equally beautiful day. The Trail took me by a lovely memorial to our fallen war heroes, and then crossed a bridge to the other side of the lake.  I could hear a rooster crowing from a nearby farm, and the pop-pop-pop of shots being fired at a shooting range off in the distance. 

A short time later I reached a clearing on the left side of the Trail.  Now, I do need to interject here that I don't make a lot of noise when I hike by myself; I tend to walk lightly, and if I'm not talking to Pauline (my hiking stick, but that's another story), I can walk right up to a lot of wildlife and people before they notice me.  So the first thing I saw as I approached this clearing was a full-sized backpack flung carelessly to the ground, at the treeline.  Then I caught a blur of motion as the hiker rose from his crouched position and stepped behind a tree that was much too thin to hide him, his pants around his ankles, a wad of toilet paper still clutched in his right hand. I averted my gaze and kept walking.

The Trail ran through woodland for a bit longer, then suddenly took me out to a road on the Brock University campus, with the Schmon Tower looming in front of me.  This brought back memories of time I had spent here, taking various science courses. Soberly, I realized that was almost three decades ago.

The Trail then began to run alongside a fence protecting lands owned by the local power company. Someone had installed many birdhouses along here, and I noticed one that had been taken over by wasps, the kind that build the huge papery nests.  Then it was back into the University campus proper, and I passed right by the entrance to Alphie's Trough, Brock's original campus pub.  This is exclusive to staff, grad students and their guests now, so I didn't think I could get in, or else I'd have stopped for a cold one.

After crossing a busy highway, the Trail took me along the top of the escarpment for a while, where I could occasionally glimpse the rooftops of St. Catharines below.  Then it was out to another busy road and past the Pen Centre, a huge shopping mall.  A memory suddenly came back to me:  I had bought my first record album here, a 33 rpm, when I was twelve years old.  John Denver's Greatest Hits.  I still have it.

Then it was under Highway 406 and a right turn into Merritton.  The Trail goes through a small roadside park here, and as I entered, I noticed a woman rising from a park bench.  She smiled and waved to me, and as I drew nearer, she said "I've lost my boot!  I don't know what to do about it!"  I looked at her backpack; she had tied her boots to either side of the pack, and one was now missing.  "Well," I said, "I am going that way.  I will keep an eye out for it."  She asked me how far I was going, and when I told her Queenston, she asked, "Did you come from Tobermory?"  Turns out Gloria is through-hiking to Tobermory from Queenston, and had just started that day.  She gave me her phone number in case I did happen to find her boot.  I told her she reminded me of Cheryl Strayed in 'Wild', who had lost her boot while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and she laughed, saying it was a good thing she had sturdy sandals and didn't have to use duct tape, like Cheryl had.

About a kilometre later I was done for the day, so hiked over to a pub I had passed, to wait for my friend Violet to pick me up for the night. It was then I noticed I had lost the page of notes I'd made on what had happened during the day, complete with Gloria's phone number.  Violet helped me retrace my steps, but I never did find the paper that night...  so I thought that if I did manage to find the boot the next day, I'd have to take it further up the Bruce sometime soon and tie it to a tree, for Gloria to discover when she passes there.

Day Forty-Five, August 18: "Wicked Weather and Inner Voices." Jordan to Short Hills, 15.9 km., 5.5 hours.

Rain was in the forecast, to begin around nine a.m., so I rose early and started breaking camp.  I had plugged the cellphone into an electrical outlet on a nearby site to recharge, and had placed it atop a post that held water connections.  While taking down the tent, I heard a rat-tat-tat and looked over to find a robin perched on the post beside it, pecking on the screen.  She didn't manage to shatter it, though.

Jordan is full of interesting little shops, and although everything was closed when I walked down its streets, I noticed a small plaque in one of the windows, with an interesting quote from one of my fellow countrymen:  "You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star".  (Nietzsche).  Made me feel better about my own perpetually chaotic innards.

I stepped onto the Trail and crossed more dried-up streambeds.  I wondered why they were so dry - was this area more affected by drought than areas I'd been in earlier, which had running streams?  Or was it because time had passed, and we were later in the season now?  It began to dawn on me that the lack of moisture was probably largely responsible for the limited amount of biting insects I'd been exposed to.  I felt a bit selfish, praying for no rain the past few weeks.  All this greenery really wasn't looking especially thirsty, though. 

Bird bangers boomed incessantly, accompanied by the tapping of a distant woodpecker.  The Trail followed a road lined with vineyards, black clusters of grapes hanging heavily from the vines.  At one winery, workers were busy assembling a huge white tent and hanging flower-filled baskets from trees.  I entered Louth Conservation Area, and wasn't surprised to see that the falls there was displaying its great layers of rock, without even a trickle of water falling from its rim. 

The Trail took the form of a boardwalk, and then brought me through the middle of a soybean field.  The sky showed promise of clearing, finally; it hadn't rained yet but had remained cloudy all morning. 

I walked through a meadow, where Black-eyed Susans lined the path.  A small black frog sat to the side but didn't jump as I approached.  It appeared he had a bum leg, so I moved him off the Trail a bit, for fear he would be stepped on.  Then the Trail took me back into the woods and up the escarpment.  It seems a rope had been strung here, and subsequently removed by the BTC because of safety concerns.  They had left a note for the owners in case they wanted to retrieve it.

I discovered a small reroute near Rockway that wasn't reflected on the latest paper map of the Trail.  It was on the app, though.  The BTC must have obtained more permission, and fairly recently, too. 

As I hiked into Short Hills, the sky grew quite dark and the wind began to pick up.  I listened to my nagging inner voice and decided to bail down a side trail, and as the wind worsened and the clouds began to swirl, I quickened my pace to a jog and managed to arrive at a pub just before the skies opened and torrential rain began to fall. 

Day Forty-Four, August 17: "Dizziness and Attack Moths." Grimsby to Jordan, 21.8 km., 8 hours.

I awoke early, to the sound of birdsong surrounding my tent.  Quietly I rose and began making coffee for Shannon and I; there was no stirring from the other tent, or even from our neighbours in the adjacent sites.  Though Shannon had to leave this morning, I was going to camp an additional night here.  It was only a 2 km. walk off the Trail, and I felt it was still doable even after being tacked on to the end of the day's Trail hike. 

After Shannon had broken camp and we enjoyed a quick breakfast together, she dropped me off where we'd finished our day yesterday.  The terrain subtly began to change:  I set out through rolling hills, fording streams that were a mere trickle of what I imagined they must be in the springtime.  The Trail took me across Thirty Mile Creek and through marshes thick with dew, cattails and tall grasses waving gently in the breeze.  Then it followed a road for a short distance, where I noticed a chipmunk's tail lying on the shoulder.  The lucky fellow appeared to have escaped narrowly with his life. 

I walked past a plum orchard and admired the dark purple globes hanging from the branches.  They looked to be ripe for the picking.  Then I began to hear the loud reports of bird bangers:  propane-fired cannons designed to keep our feathered friends from eating vineyards' profits.  The noise would stay with me intermittently until I ended my hike in Queenston a few days later.

The Trail meandered through a vineyard where workers toiled, weeding rows of grape vines.  Then it brought me along a snowmobile trail and back into the woods of the escarpment.  Huge rocks made up the path, and I found I needed to practically jump from one to another.  It was here where I noticed the air was becoming stiflingly hot and humid.  I am not normally bothered by high temperatures and humidity, but I was noticing it on this day. 

The Trail came out to an attractive park with a set of wide steel steps leading down the escarpment.  Three girls were using them as a stairmaster, ascending and then descending.  I sat for a while on a park bench and rested, because the heat had begun to make me dizzy.  After a bit, I rose and started descending the steps as well, arriving at the second landing before I realized the Trail actually stayed on top of the escarpment.  Back up the stairs, and I was on the Trail once more. 

In Cave Springs I managed to startle two raccoons, causing them to take off quickly through the trees.  The Trail follows along a ridge here, with trees growing thickly below; one can almost touch the treetops.  I heard many blue jays scolding me as I passed through, and even saw a great gray owl leave his perch and soar off into the sky as I drew too close.  Everything was overgrown and green, every hue of green imaginable.  Even the boulders were cloaked in greenery.  For some reason I kept thinking of my friend Kim, a motherly sort who would be admonishing me to stay away from the edge, so in my state of increasing dizziness I heeded her advice.  A tiny snake crossed my path as I finally came out to the busy Victoria Avenue, where I was treated to views right across Lake Ontario. 

The Trail then followed a laneway where I passed someone's rabbit colony, and then a pasture full of goats.  It turned into a wagon trail and then to a single path.  I watched what I thought at first was a Monarch butterfly, but it wasn't behaving like a Monarch at all; I found out later it was actually a Red Admiral.  It perched on the bark of a tree at eye level, and kept flexing its wings.  I began taking pictures, trying to get one with its wings fully opened.  Creeping closer and closer, I got within eight inches of it before it started to fly off.  I shrieked when it flew right into my face. 

The buildings at Balls Falls were open, so I took some time to look through a few of the doors.  I was feeling a lot better by now, and managed to descend the rickety escarpment stairs safely.  Because there was so little water flowing over the Falls, the gorge at the bottom was free to show off its rocks with all their erosion patterns. 

Then it was out to the road, through the historic town of Jordan, and to my campsite for the night.  As I sat at my picnic table writing notes about the day, a woman from an adjacent site joined me, wanting to hear about my hike.  We sat together for a while, as it grew dark.  The days are getting shorter.

Days Forty-Two and Forty-Three, August 15 and 16: "Socializing and Shrines." Wentworth Steps to Grimsby, 38.3 km., 13.5 hours.

The bed-and-breakfast where Trish and I had spent the night was just metres away from the famed Wentworth Steps, so it was a quick walk back to the Trail the next morning.  We had spent the previous evening catching up on each other's lives and enjoying each other's company; we have known one another for over 26 years and we still both work at the same place, so there was plenty of fodder for conversation.  In the morning, we became part of a rather eclectic group around the breakfast table, which also included a brilliant young chess player accompanied by his mother, in town for an important tournament, and a couple from South Carolina here to catch up with distant relatives - she a teacher, and he, a government worker. 

It was Saturday, the day of my supply drop, so Dan and the boys would meet us later in the afternoon at Fruitland and drive Trish back to her car at the bed and breakfast.  The plan was a good one, and went off without a hitch:  we had a wonderful day of hiking, and plenty of conversation.  There was a small ski hill to pass through, this one marked much better than ones I'd previously experienced on the Trail.  After hearing numerous cracks of club to ball, we caught sight of a golf course below.  Trish pointed out a huge black and yellow butterfly dancing through the scrub - or perhaps it was a moth?  We cogitated on the difference, and decided it was a job for Google.

We drew nearer to the Red Hill Valley Parkway, and into a small parklike area dedicated to ecological restoration.  A joint effort by Six Nations and Hamilton, it includes an interesting replica of an ancient aboriginal meeting place:  huge escarpment rocks placed in the formation of a bear paw.  Interpretive signs in the area caught our interest, and we spent some time here.

Then it was under the Red Hill Valley Parkway, and past Felker's Falls, which was a mere trickle this time of year.  Trish was a bit disappointed that the Trail didn't actually go past the Devil's Punch Bowl, with its enormous gorge.  It was accessed by a blue-blazed side trail, so we'll have to come back one day and explore that area. 

Suddenly, two goofy canines bounded along the Trail towards us:  a Saint Bernard and a cream-coloured Golden Retriever, and I knew we'd reached our destination, near Fruitland.

The next morning, Dan ferried two of my friends from the end-point in Grimsby to where I was waiting near Fruitland, at the point where Trish and I had ended the night before.  Shannon is an avid camper; we have been on many adventures together and she and I had plans to camp in Jordan overnight, after the hike.  Ted is an outdoor buff and a highly respected geocacher in southern Ontario, and had wanted to join me for a day's hiking.  I was looking very forward to hiking with both of them.

The day was filled with laughter and great conversation.  I was anointed our 'fearless leader' and handed the front position in our small group, but I had the sneaking suspicion that the other two simply didn't want to be draped with the dreaded cobwebs that crossed the path.   As an indication of how the thought processes were going, when a small group of crows scattered at our presence, Ted noted there weren't enough to actually constitute a murder, and declared them merely an 'attempted murder'.

We passed by a glacial erratic, a huge boulder dumped by the great sheet of ice as it moved across the land.  Shannon and I heard a whoop from Ted, and turned to find him phooning on top of it.  A phoon is a pose in a running position, and Ted has it down to a fine art. 

We met a large family coming our way.  They were out for a walk after their brunch; I was grateful to see them, as this meant no more cobwebs for me.

We saw many toads along the Trail, and I was lucky enough to catch sight of a young rose-breasted grosbeak in the shrubbery, its red neckerchief still quite subdued.  Then we passed through a patch of stinging nettle that encroached upon the path.  All of us were affected by it, but thankfully only slightly. 

Upon entering Beamer Memorial Conservation Area we noticed a look-out tower in the middle of a field, and guessed at its purpose.  We thought maybe a dark-sky observatory, but we were wrong:  this is actually a hawk watching tower, used to monitor the migration of raptors over the Niagara Escarpment.  We followed the Trail down the escarpment, across Forty Mile Creek, and up the other side, and noticed an odd structure set in the side of the mountain.  Built of rock with a rounded roof, it reminded me of small shrines I'd seen during other hikes in mountainous countries, but might even have been a fountain at one time.   Shannon seemed to remember us seeing it during a previous hike through here.  I'd love to learn the history behind it, but so far have had no luck with this.

We finished the day at a nearby English-type pub, so Shannon could satiate her craving for fish and chips.  During supper, Ted asked me a question I hadn't been asked yet, but that I knew would be coming sooner or later:  "What's after this?"  A question I was almost dreading more than the infamous "Why" question.  Hmmmmm.  Lemme think.