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!

Day Fifteen, July 19: "Treasured Friends and Campfires". Bayview Nature Reserve to Woodford, 18.2 km.

It's always sad to see Dan and the dogs drive away on Sunday mornings, and this week was no exception.  After delaying it as long as I could (hey, there's a geocache over there - better stop!), I headed into the woods once again.  

My friend Shannon was planning on joining me at the campsite later that day and I was very much looking forward to that. 

There is a minor reroute in this area due to landowners' wishes (no dogs on pasture land) not being respected.  It was done after I had designed my hike, and would have added too much mileage to tomorrow's hike, so I had incorporated some of the extra into yesterday's and today's hikes.

The terrain was great for hiking, with soft springy ground underfoot and few roots and rocks.  The leafy green forest was cool, and once again the wind served to keep the bugs down.  Sunlight filtered through the canopy and dappled the underbrush with gold. The effect was ethereal, almost magical.

Once, I stopped for a bit to admire the view at an overlook, when I heard the barely discernible sound of footsteps on soft ground.  I turned to see another solo hiker approaching.  An elderly man with a daypack was slowly ambling along the path. After we exchanged pleasantries, I lingered at the overlook a bit longer to allow him sufficient time to get ahead of me.

I passed by two couples towards the end of the hike.  One was the couple I had run into yesterday at the meadow, and I was happy to see that they were now wearing pants and bug jackets.  

Then I was on the path down to the camp, and Shannon came out to pick me up.  A lovely afternoon and evening ensued, ending with a campfire and a great sleep.

Days Thirteen and Fourteen, July 17 and 18: "Sunny Pastures and Dank Caves.". Centennial Tower to Bayview Nature Reserve, 25.6 km.

The first day was filled with grassy meadows, old farm tracks and back roads, with the occasional rocky outcropping thrown in.  It started out with pouring rain, but lessened to sprinkles throughout the day.  As I had a shorter hike to a nearby campground planned, I used the soggier morning to catch up on my blogs, and hiked much of the afternoon.
The second day dawned beautifully with clear blue skies, though it rapidly turned to haze and then cloud.  I quickly packed so I could be on my way, as there had been warnings about record humidity levels. Before I left, I draped the solar panel over the top of my pack to charge my cell phone. This has been working very well, even in partial shade or cloud.
The Trail followed meadows and old farm tracks.  Across a particularly marshy area north of Hwy 26 it turned into a series of nicely-crafted boardwalks.  The cattails on either side were over my head, and some had grown through the slats on the boardwalk.
In the next meadow I could hear wild turkey hens clucking, but couldn't catch sight of them over the tall grasses.  The bugs were fairly heavy here but it was in the following forest that I had to finally get my net jacket out, for the first time this trip.
Then across a dirt road and into a rolling meadow, where I met up with a middle aged couple.  They nodded in approval at my long pants - they had worn shorts and told me the vegetation ahead really warranted leg coverings.
The Trail meandered through tall grasses to a small pond.  Across its surface, dragonflies danced in time to the rhythmic "pinging" of frogs, the sound that so reminds me of the plucking of guitar strings.
A short while later the Trail entered a pasture through a cattle gate, and I found myself in the midst of a dozen wide-eyed Jersey cows, all enjoying the shade in a small forested area.  They watched curiously as I picked my way through numerous cow patties.  I breathed deeply - I actually really like the smell of cow manure.
I shortly came to a blue-blazed side Trail. My commitment is to stick to the white-blazed Bruce, but this side trail was not a shortcut for the Bruce; according to its sign, in 100 metres it would take you to "the spectacular Laycock Cave".  Curiosity got the best of me and I started down the narrow rock corridor.  It twisted and turned, and I startled a turkey vulture when I came around one of the turns.  There was much rock to climb over or around, and finally I arrived at the final descent - a twelve-foot drop.  " Well, I've come this far", I thought, and began the descent.  About halfway down, my friend the backpack became lodged in the rock.  I unclipped it and left it there.
The cave really was spectacular:  tall and deep, craggy and very cold.  No sign of bats or snakes or anything else that breathed, though I'm sure there must've been some kind of creatures inhabiting it.
I managed to get myself and the pack back out, then to the main  trail to continue the day's hike, ending at the weekly supply drop spot to meet up with Dan and the dogs.

Day Twelve, July 16: "Italy and British Columbia". Jones Falls to Centennial Tower, 16.8 km., 6 hours.

With the motel as home base, I found myself in a great position to hike without the pack today.  The Trail dips south of Owen Sound to the beautiful Inglis Falls, and then right back up again, so I planned to do a circle route, travelling light.  This would be one less day without the weight on my newly blistered foot, and one less day straining the torn shoulder strap.
The first part of the hike was flat and easy, with very little rock.  I passed through meadow and picked my way through big lumps of road apples adorning the Trail.  Eventually it came out onto an old farm road, where I was greeted by Arnold Ziffel's relative, a young pink oinker in a pen at the side of the road.  
I was preoccupied with the backpack problem, so I often lost the Trail and had to retrace my steps, looking for the iconic white blazes.  I used this time to speak to people at the SportChek in Owen Sound as well as Barrie, where I'd bought the pack a year earlier.  I also had an email conversation with the backpack manufacturer in Italy and was eventually put in contact with the ex-supplier who now works for CTC's designing division in BC (The Canadian part of the company was bought out by CTC last year).  He was more than helpful and although the backpack had been discontinued, he located a display model on a dusty shelf somewhere and offered to UPS it to me.  I arranged to have it sent to my friend Violet, since she will be joining me on my hike next week for a couple of days.
Then suddenly I found myself at Inglis Falls.  I hadn't seen anyone else on the Trail all morning, and there were only a handful of people at the Falls.
The Trail became quite challenging on the east side, and took all my concentration to get through.  In some parts there was even a certain amount of rock climbing involved, which I welcomed, since it involved using muscles other than the ones I had been using while hiking.
It seemed like there were a lot of challenges to face today, but it does look like everything will work out.

Day Eleven, July 15: "Jalopies and Wardrobe Malfunctions". Bass Lake to Jones Falls, 22.4 km., 9 hours.

We had an extremely windy night.  Tent pegs wouldn't hold in my campsite's gravel surface, so I used heavy rocks to hold the guy lines down.  Good thing I did, or I'd be in Kansas hiking right now!
I woke up early to a beautiful but very cool morning: 12 degrees Celsius.  While packing up, I noticed my backpack's right shoulder strap was half torn off.  I blinked, and examined it closely. Duct tape would definitely not fix this problem; I'd have to give this some attention very soon.
After a shuttle back to the trailhead, I was happily on my way once again, and about to go through the Sydenham area known as 'The Glen'.  The coolness of the day plus the still fairly strong winds kept the bugs down nicely.  The Trail took on many guises here:  grassy meadows, cedar forests, rocky outcrops, even the odd road.  But it was always the same Trail, always beckoning me onward.
In one area I waded through waist-high ferns.  I have read that there are rare ferns along the Trail, but I really don't know my ferns so couldn't tell if these were rare or not.  They sure were prolific in this area, though.
The Glen's rock formations were impressive. Though I really missed the huge bay overlooks of the Peninsula section, the overlooks here were beautiful also, with carpets of trees as far as the eye could see.  I imagined they must be beyond description in the autumn.
I arrived at my scheduled night stop around midmorning, a wilderness campsite on a short side trail. It seemed much too soon to stop for the day, though, and the day was gorgeous, so I carried on.
It was along this stretch that I became adept at peeing in the woods with a 40-lb. knapsack strapped onto my back.  I didn't want to add any more strain to the torn shoulder strap than I had to, so I was trying to minimize the number of times I took the pack off.  It's amazing what you can do if you put your mind to something.
Although there were clear skies, I kept hearing a crashing in the distance, almost like thunder.  After giving it some thought, I decided it was the gusts of wind slamming into the huge rock formations at just the right angle.
The Trail took me past an old blue jalopy, abandoned in the middle of the woods.  I know my cars about as well as I know my ferns, which is to say not very well.  I do know it was old, and it was blue, and it definitely no longer runs.
Out to a dirt road, where I passed an old couple on a vintage tractor; she was driving, and he, resplendent in straw hat and denim coveralls, stood on the running board.  They both waved cheerfully at me.
It was around this time that I noticed the familiar rubbing sensation of a blister forming, this time on my left foot.  My boots had still been wet when I put them on this morning, which probably heavily contributed to the situation.  I made a mental note to hunt down some bleach later - my friend Kathleen's surefire cure for blister pain.
When I saw the "Owen Sound" sign, I knew it was time to stop.  A quick check on the internet showed me no nearby campgrounds, but there was a motel about 2 km. off the Trail.  I crossed my fingers they'd have room for me, and headed east.

Day Ten, July 14: "Sandhill Cranes and Rock Walls". Slough of Despond to Bass Lake, 26.6 km., 10 hours.

Rain teemed down while I was eating breakfast, but then thankfully turned to a steady drizzle by the time I started out.  The leafy canopy over the dirt road kept me fairly dry, but with the rain came the mosquitoes, swarms of them.  They were joined by their biting friends, black flies and deerflies, all looking for any patch of skin that wasn't bathed in Deet.
I crossed through a meadow, where the tall wet grasses plastered my pants to my legs.  My socks acted as a wick and drew the wetness inside my boots.  The meadow was lovely though, even in the greyness, with its wildflowers of purple, yellow, and pink, and the humidity seemed to intensify their aroma.
The Trail turned and followed a dirt road for a while.  I watched a common yellowthroat make his way along a rusted wire fence.   A catbird called from a nearby tree, and a bumblebee buzzed along the roadside.  There were no sounds of human presence here, save for the odd jet flying overhead.  A sandhill crane popped out of a marsh and loped across the road in front of me; its mate caught sight of the stranger and called out a warning.
Then through another wet meadow and out to a black-topped sideroad.  Here the sounds of civilization met me:  an old woman used a whippersnipper in her side yard.  Cows called from a nearby pasture, a farm dog barked.  The road began a steady uphill climb, which reminded me, as hills often do, of my geocaching friend Flick.  He had such an aversion to them.
And then the turn into Kemble Mountain.  The rocks were slick and were a huge concern.  More than once I slipped, but managed to catch myself.  I kept thinking of my friend Linda, who fractured her ankle halfway through our North Coast Trail hike on Vancouver Island last year.  She thought it was just sprained, and hobbled through the rest of the hike; I'm not sure I'm made of the same mettle.
At one point, the Trail took me over a stile into a bull pasture.  Although there was a large 'Caution' sign posted, the bull was not in sight - which I was grateful for, as I had a red hanky tied to my backpack.
Then a turn back into the rocks, where the Trail actually went down into a rock corridor.  The walls must have been twelve feet high.  Not the place to be if one were claustrophobic.  It surfaced after about 50 metres, and continued alongside the rock corridor as it twisted and turned.
I heard the sounds of other hikers coming towards me, the only ones I would see all day.  A group of eight seniors approached, so I stood off the path a bit and waited for them to pass.  The woman in front greeted me and looked beyond, for my non-existent companion. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, rapidfire, "Are you alone?  Are you hiking the trail end-to-end?  Are you staying at Rocklyn Inn in a few days?"  As I kept nodding, she grinned excitedly and called back to the others, "This is the woman that Diana from the Inn was telling us about!"  Then she turned back to me and added, "Diana is so looking forward to you coming!" They each greeted me in their own manner, as they passed. Some must have been in their eighties, and these rocks weren't easy walking.  Truly inspiring.
Then out and through a swamp, with every kind of bug imaginable.  I must have used half a bottle of bug spray in there.
The sun finally made an appearance around midday, and the rest of the hike was lovely, through cedar forests, and, for the most part, soft ground underfoot.  I found a few geocaches; one took me to an underground waterfalls.  The spring surfaced nearby, but by putting my ear to the rock I could actually hear the water fall underground.
Out to the rendezvous spot by 6:30, where the campground owners picked me up for the night.

Day Nine, July 13: "Wild Strawberries and Hummingbirds". Wiarton to Slough of Despond, 16.4 km., 7 hours.

Last night, another hiker stumbled into the other backpacking site in camp.  The young man set up his bivy, crawled in, and promptly fell asleep.  This morning we shared coffee and Trail stories:  he is travelling from south to north, through the northern sections, having already completed the southern sections in years past.  He had moved to Alberta before he could get the entire Trail done, and it always bothered him that he'd left it unfinished, so he's finally returned to complete it.
We wished each other "Good Trails", and headed off in opposite directions.
After leaving the Wiarton waterfront, I entered the woods and climbed to the top of the escarpment by way of a lovely pair of ladders.  Almost immediately I found myself in a huge wild strawberry patch, the fruit plump and still glistening with dew. Their time is later here than at home, it seems.  I've also noticed a few trilliums still in bloom up here.
Savouring the intense flavour of these berries was a great start to an enjoyable hike.  I passed through meadow and grassland, then around the airport, which was playing host to a small jet.  Old farm implements lay at the side of the Trail, relics from another age.  A good-sized maple had grown through the centre of a rusted cultivator.  A few minutes later I came across some of the oddest things I've ever seen while hiking:  next to the Trail were three cement grave liners, shaped like caskets.  One was even lidded.  I was very glad the sun was overhead, that it wasn't dusk.
The Trail followed a busy road for a bit, then headed up towards Bruce Caves.  Lost in thought, I walked by two geocaches before I thought to look at the GPS.  The next one was near the opening of the Caves, but the Trail runs along the top of the escarpment here.  When I arrived I took off the pack for a rest, and contemplated climbing down.  The sound of voices below dissuaded me, so I ended up cacheless for the day.
The next three hours were spent hiking through some of the oldest white cedars in eastern North America.  The views over Colpoy's Bay were magnificent, and I watched bald eagles below me, soaring over the water, while I took in the fragrance of the trees.  I had it all to myself the entire time, not meeting a single other hiker on the path.
Once, I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being watched, so I stopped and glanced around.  Two does stood in the trees, still as statues, then suddenly took off.
At a particularly inviting overlook I paused to sit on a log for a few minutes, and heard the unmistakable whirr of a hummingbird's wings.  She buzzed around me twice, curious as to the stranger, then darted away.
The Trail opened up into meadow once again, and cut through what appeared to be old farmland.  A pair of butterflies wildly danced atop waist-high grasses.  Dilapidated cedar rail fencing zigzagged along the escarpment edge.  On my other side was an ancient orchard with its gnarled apple trees still boasting fruit.
That hike was over much too soon, but I had a soft bed lined up at a B&B next to the Trail for the night, and after that, another day of hiking to look forward to.

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.

Day Six, July 10: "Old Friends and New Friends". Rush Cove to Hope Bay, 17.6 km.

I bade farewell to my hosts at 9 a.m. and headed out on another perfect, cloudless day.  The Trail followed roads at first, about 4 km. of pastoral scenery.  I saw many kingbirds and tree swallows on the wires. 
Then I passed through a variety of landscapes:  shale-topped shoreline, sunny meadow, and shady deciduous forest.  Ahead of me a hawk took flight, with a snake dangling from its beak. 
I had a lunch of rehydrated hummus and Mary's Crackers at the Jackson's Cove Overlook.  This was the first time I've ever had a good look at Barrier Island, and I eyed it well through binoculars; it would be neat to put in there by boat, I think. 
Looking down on Jackson's Cove, my thoughts were filled with the doctor I had in Woodstock for many years.  He was a wonderful human being who met with a tragic, untimely death after moving here.  His last years sure were spent among idyllic surroundings. 
When I left the Overlook, I nearly jumped out of my skin.  There, leaning against a tree watching me, was a man.  Something in his demeanour was frightening, or perhaps it was that I was still startled from discovering him there.  I uttered a greeting as I passed by, and he questioned me, in a British accent, about what lay ahead on the path.  I told him about the Overlook and quickly departed.  I was still so shaken by the encounter that I kept glancing behind me to ensure he wasn't following me.  A few minutes later I heard more male British lilts ahead of me on the Trail, and shortly after, their owners appeared.  The two men asked me if I'd seen their companion, and I gave them directions to the Overlook.  It's strange how one man alone can frighten me to the core, and yet two together weren't a concern to me at all.
The rhythm of the forest quickly calmed my nerves, though.  A redstart flitted through the cedars, his crimson patches bright against the green and brown.  The brilliant sun turned an ordinary jay into a vision of magnificence, lighting up every nuance of blue imaginable. 
I arrived at Hope Bay and soon found my campsite.  After setting up, I was enjoying my supper when a woman from a neighbouring site approached.  She expressed interest in my expedition (with the backpack and no vehicle, I find I'm tending to draw a certain amount of attention).  She also took note of my GPS and its tell-tale lanyard, and to my astonishment asked me if I was caching along the way!  That's how I ended up spending most of the evening in the company of three wonderful, empowered women who were out camping for a few days in their van.  We walked a short ways to find a geocache, then DNF'd another.  We talked and laughed, and made plans to meet again.  It was a few short hours that I will always treasure.

Day Five, July 9: "Bikers and Runners". Lion's Head to Rush Cove, 21.6 km.

It was pretty cool, knowing I was above the Lion's Head looking down.  I was standing in a spot that seemed remote, even inaccessible, from the town the night before. 
Early on, I passed a fellow about my age who was doing a short three-night trip.  I spent a bit of time at the Lion's Head Pothole, marveling at the sheer power and artistry of the glaciers; a lone woman hiker passed me here and called out a greeting.  I saw no-one else until I arrived at the wilderness camp at McKay's Harbour.  Here, above the camp, I happened upon two mountain bikers.  They were, of course, walking their bikes, and I knew they would continue to do so until they were down at ground level at Lion's Head; the terrain was much too rocky. 
On the south side of the peninsula it got rockier yet, and took me a fair length of time to get through.  The views off the sheer, unguarded cliffs were magnificent; I'm sure I could see the CN Tower!  I watched cormorants on a rock below, spreading their wings to dry. 
The terrain changed as I drew closer to the hamlet of Barrow Bay.  It became much less rocky, and easier underfoot.  I passed a young fellow with his dog who, he informed me, was named Eve.  They were out for a run and were hoping to make it around the Lion's Head peninsula.  He was quite astonished to discover he'd only made it halfway up the bottom side, but set out again with renewed vigour.  I didn't have the heart to tell him about the rocks that awaited him.
I had previously arranged with a local couple to camp in their front yard on this evening.  There were no accommodation facilities of any kind in this area, and when my research had discovered a now-defunct bed-and-breakfast, I threw myself at the owners' mercy.  They very graciously went along with the camping idea, until I arrived that evening.  When I hobbled up to their front door, they basically threw it open wide, taking me in and giving me a bed for the night.  It was very much appreciated and I shall always remember their kindness.

Days Three and Four, July 7 and 8: "Improvising and Recuperating". Mtn Trout Camp to Lion's Head, 37.0 km.

The next morning, I woke up to sprinkling rain and protesting feet.  Upon doing a quick inventory of what was left of my food supply, I discovered I'd lost most of the breakfasts and some of the snacks to that blasted raccoon, but all the suppers in their vacuum-packed bags remained intact.  That was okay - I had extra suppers so could always eat those for brekkie if I needed to, and new supplies were coming Saturday.
The bearspray situation was grim, though.  I made arrangements to have another canister included with Saturday's food drop (thank you, Daryl, Danette and Dan!) and fervently hoped I wouldn't run into a maniacal bear til then.  Shaking the can I'd used, I thought there might be one more squirt left.
Then I turned my thoughts to the foot dilemma.  I made the decision to change the next two days' itinerary slightly:  rather than spend the first night at Reed's Dump and the second at McKay's Harbour, the two wilderness camps, I would set up base camp on the waterfront at Lion's Head for both nights and see about getting rides back to the trailheads in the mornings.  This would allow me to complete these hikes, but would also give my injured foot a rest from the extra weight of the pack.  As well, it would afford me time to attend the clinic in Lion's Head and have the toe taped properly.
After inquiring at the local pub I was able to find a retired couple to do the shuttling, and the plan worked out well.  The first day was very rainy, the kind of cold rain that chills you to the bone, so I was very glad I'd packed my heavy-duty raincoat.  Views were pretty much non-existent so I spent my time avoiding slipping on the wet rocks, and trying to figure out where I could find a llama to carry my pack.  When I didn't get anywhere with that, I considered becoming another Mr. Katz from Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods" (a wonderful read), and heave heavy items from my pack over the cliff indiscriminately.  Then I began to make a mental list of what I could send back with Dan on Saturday - did I really need that second can of propane?  What about the packed pair of pants - wouldn't the pair I was wearing do me for the week?
On the second day, the gorgeous weather returned, making for a great, albeit short, hike.  A red fox crossed my path, startling us both.  I stopped and found a geocache, and DNF'd (Did Not Find) another.
All in all, an enjoyable couple of days, though I would like to come back sometime and stay overnight at the two wilderness camps.  They both looked very cosy.

Day Two, July 6: "Snarlings and Toenails". StormHaven to Mtn Trout Camp, 25.6 km, 10 hours.

I woke up to a brilliant sunrise, which I could see through my tent door.  The water was ablaze with colour.  StormHaven is situated in a way that summer sunrises and sunsets can both be viewed over water; it truly is a beautiful place.
After saying goodbye to my neighbours, I left camp at 8:45 a.m.  500 metres on, I realized I'd forgotten my hiking stick back at camp, so had to make a quick trip back to retrieve it.  The real time of departure turned out to be more like 9 a.m. 
The trail between StormHaven and High Dump (named for an area where forested logs were dumped for water transportation in years past) is touted as being the most difficult on the entire Trail.  These nine km. took me five hours to traverse.  The terrain was extremely rocky, boulders strewn every which way by an angry glacier in another time.  At one point, I heard the unmistakable sound of a snake rattle again, this time coming from under a low bush that encroached upon one side of the trail.  There was nowhere to go to avoid this one, as the brush was extremely dense on the non-cliff side, so I waited it out.  About ten minutes later he finally stopped rattling and seemed to disappear, and I very cautiously moved forward.
I stopped often, enjoying the views from the overlooks.  It's amazing how some of these cliffs with their overhangs of rock don't break right off and fall down into the water.
About four hours in, I began to pass a few hikers with packs: late risers from the High Dump camp.  I came upon one such group with huge backpacks, and a young fellow with a very large bear barrel strapped onto his back.  The hikers were sprawled out on the rock, not looking happy.  "Does the path get any better?" the barrel guy said to me plaintively, as I picked my way over him.  "Umm,  no," I replied, wryly.  Then I changed my tone to one of encouragement, and added, "But you're much younger than me, so you'll probably just dance over the difficult parts!"
The next eight km. or so was on an old logging road heading inland.  Plenty of frogs hopped off the path along the way, and I passed a couple of inland lakes blanketed in water lilies.  Part of the old trail is lined with corduroy road, made with small logs nailed together.  It was a beautiful hike, with only the occasional black fly to bother me.  Loons called from nearby lakes.  At one point I passed a spring bubbling up from the ground.  I should have filled my water bottle there, but I didn't want to take the pack off - there was no rock to set it on, and it takes a lot out of me to put it on from the ground.  This was a decision I'd later regret.
I passed a huge pile of bear poop, plopped right in the middle of the path.  It was still really fresh - very moist, with some kind of green berries in it.  I comforted myself with the thought that this particular bear was obviously a vegetarian! 
I also noted owl pellets on the ground in many places along this trail:  the regurgitated fur of the owl's victims. 
The last eight km. were on rather remote but concrete-topped roads.  I passed Crane Lake, where my friend Shannon and I watched Sandhill Cranes during a short hike last year; there were none in sight now.  The sun was beating down, and this section seemed like a long, long trek, with two vehicles in total passing me, and bush on either side of the road.  I ran out of water with five km. still to go, and no water sources in sight.  Yet another rattler was laying on the road, watching me closely but not rattling; the road was wide enough to give me plenty of berth around him.
About a kilometre away from camp I felt something happen to the nail on the little toe of my left foot.  Didn't hurt much, just felt weird, as though something had broken off.  I hobbled into camp and the wonderful folks at the office golfcarted me to my campsite.
Upon inspection, it seemed like the nail bed had become detached and was poking through the skin on my toe.  Very strange.  I taped it up and put moleskin on the blisters on my heels (who knew you could get blisters on the bottom of your heels?)
Then I was faced with a dilemma.  I had no vehicle to put my food bag in, like the other campers did.  There was no tree around that was substantial enough to hang it from.  I had noticed earlier that the little girl a few campsites away was handfeeding peanuts to chipmunks, so I figured I might have a problem overnight.  Didn't feel like hobbling back up to the office to leave my food bag there (bad decision!) so I tucked it next to my tent under the fly, thinking I'd hear the little buggers if they tried anything.
I woke up two hours later to a chewing sound.  I scared the offender away, and then investigated.  Something had torn a huge hole in my food bag and some of the packets had been opened.  Granola and nuts had spilled all over the ground.  I rose and did what I could to clean up the mess.  The wind was picking up, and blowing every which way.  I placed the torn foodbag into my sleeping bag sack, thinking I'd use the bottom section of my pack for the sleeping bag from now on.  Then I tied the bag tight and brought it inside the tent with me and went back to sleep.
An hour later I heard more chewing, amidst the howling of the wind.  It seems that the creature was picking errant pieces of granola from the cedar-barked ground right near my tent.  I kept flashing my light, trying to scare it away, and at one point came face to face with a raccoon, with only the flimsy screen of the tent between us.  Over the next hour this fellow became increasingly aggressive.  I thought about moving the tent away from the spilled granola, but it had been very difficult to peg into the gravel beneath the cedar, and the wind was getting even stronger. 
The raccoon began circling the tent, snarling and growling.  Its noises actually sounded like a catfight.  I became alarmed, thinking it might slash through the featherweight material of the tent to get at the foodbag beside me.  I grabbed the bearspray, unzipped the tent door, and sprayed two short sprays down either side of the tent, hoping the wind wouldn't shift it back at me.  The raccoon took off and I received only minimal exposure to the capsicum, with just a throat tickle.  I settled back down, to sleep.
Half an hour later, it was back circling the tent, snarling again.  I repeated the spray, but this time was not so lucky with the wind.  A slight whiff of the spray and I spent five minutes choking and coughing, tears streaming from my eyes. 
The raccoon returned, and once again circled the tent.  At this point I became totally pissed and got out of the tent, armed with what was left of the bearspray.  Sat in the dark at the nearby picnic table and waited.  Ten minutes later it scooted out from behind me, and I blasted it good from behind, with one spray.
Back to bed and finally to sleep for a couple of hours before dawn, listening to the drumming of light rain on the tent.

Day One, July 5: "Rocks and Rattles". Tobermory to StormHaven, 21.7 km., 10 hours.

I started the day off on the patio of a Tobermory motel, where Dan and I ate our continental breakfast.  Then off to the jeep to retrieve the backpack.  As soon as I opened the back door, I knew something was amiss; the smell of whiskey wafted thickly towards me.  Sighing, I unstrapped the tent from the bottom of the pack to find that my small backpacking flask was...  leaky.
Something I'd learned from my friend Diane, one of the true luxuries on a backpacking trip is enjoying a dribble of whiskey in one's morning coffee.  This week I'd have to do without that!  Luckily, the defective flask was at the bottom of my pack, so I wiped the liquid up with Dan's hanky and hoisted the pack onto my back.
A quick picture at the cairn and a quick peck from Dan (and also his expressed hopes that bears don't particularly like whiskey), and I was off!  It was 9 a.m.
I passed a few casual hikers at first, but soon found myself alone and into rougher terrain.  The bugs were astonishingly light and the crystal clear day allowed for beautiful views of the water. 
In mid-afternoon, I heard it - a consistent rattle, and in close proximity.  About ten feet ahead of me, stretched across half the trail, was an Eastern Massasauga Rattlesnake, head raised, poised to strike.  I stopped dead in my tracks, and glanced hastily around.  On my left side was a sheer cliff, and on my right was thick brush.  The snake was still rattling, but not moving.  I made a wide berth around him (her?), and crashed through the brush, getting a nasty poke in an eye from an errant branch in the process (my first Trail wound!  The eye is still bloodshot, days later.)  I headed back onto the path when I figured I'd overshot him enough, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The Grotto area was packed with young people enjoying the water, clear and smooth as glass.  I passed an old man with a small pack and a hiking stick who was gazing down at them.  If I could have painted him, I would have called the result 'Guardian of the Trail'.  "Good for you", he said, upon finding out I had come from Tobermory that morning.  "But you've still got a fair way to go to StormHaven". 
Around 4 p.m. I felt I couldn't go on any longer.  The backpack now felt more like 400 lb., and not its actual 40.  When I came across a secluded cobble beach, I heaved the backpack onto a small piece of clear ground and lay there for about ten minutes, trying to talk myself into carrying on.  I figured I needed to go another five more km. to get to the camp at StormHaven.  I filled my water bottle and purified it, all the while ruminating on whether to continue on.  This flat patch of ground, about 10x10 feet, was rare - no brush, no rocks or stones, and it was lovely, so close to the water.  The perfect place to pitch a tent.  But stopping here would make the next day's hike almost unmanageable in length, not to mention that it's frowned upon to stealth-camp.  Then I smelled something oddly familiar, and eyed a suspicious-looking couple of rocks in the middle of the clearing.  Lifting one, I discovered a nice pile of fresh dog poop that someone had covered up!  Instantly, I made up my mind.  On went the pack, and off I went.
There were lots of young couples at StormHaven.  My neighbours on the next wooden tent platform were a lovely couple from Cambridge, who were camping with their large doggie companion.  Sure made me miss my two brutes!  Set up my tent and then enjoyed a brilliant sunset that defies description, while sitting on a boulder on the waterfront eating my evening meal of Walnut Pasta.  I collapsed into my sleeping bag soon afterwards.

July 3 - Preparations.

Well, after weeks of preparation, I am nearly ready.  And very excited.  I've never done a hike of this magnitude before; the North Coast Trail on Vancouver Island, although extremely challenging and one of the physically toughest things I've ever done, took me only six days last year.  This will take me 50. 

I've spent the last month dehydrating my meals, and organizing places to stay at night.  The Bruce Trail isn't a typical long-distance trail, in that it is not conducive to through-hiking.  I had to get quite ingenious with the route, and the km. per day while designing the hike, to optimize the use of the few wilderness campsites that do exist.  In some cases I have to go off-trail to find private campgrounds, sometimes as much as seven km.  So I think the 892 km. of the Trail will turn out to be a much longer hike for me, in reality.

Towards the middle of the hike the accommodations start to change; there are fewer campgrounds and more B&Bs, some of which offer through-hiker discounts.  My preference has always been to camp, but in some cases a B&B is the only option.  I have tried to avoid "stealth camping" as it is illegal on private land, which is what most of the Trail is comprised of.  Hopefully I am successful with this.

A chief consideration it seems, is my age.  It's not something that I personally think about, but others keep bringing it up, so I suppose I should give it some credence.  I am sure I will be reminded of it first thing in the mornings, though I am hoping the air mattress will help somewhat with that.

Another is safety.  There are black bears in the north sections, where I begin my trek.  This time of year, though, there should be other hikers in the wilderness camps, and there are special contraptions to hang one's food bag in some of the camps.  I am bear-savvy and can rig up my own, if need be.  And the hot-pepper bear spray will be handy.  I've never seen a Massasauga Rattlesnake on the Trail, though they are there.  I will be listening for the tell-tale "rattle". 

Time to pack my pack, and try it on.  Weight is always an issue, I'm hoping to keep it under 40 lb. even with the water.  We shall see.

Contents of the tub need to go into the backpack!

 

 

Cathy Hamel

July 3, 2015