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.

Day Forty-One, August 14: " Artwork and Christmas Decorations." Hermitage to Wentworth Steps, 16.0 km., 5.5 hours.

I woke to the patter of rain on the window. Meteorologists had promised it would stop shortly, though, so I lingered a bit over coffee with Annie and her lovely daughter Kris.

I had met the petite "Amazon Annie" many years ago, when we were both fairly new to geocaching.  It was easy to strike up an instant friendship with the convivial, affable woman, and we have since enjoyed many caching trips together.  She and Kris were excited about my hike, offering their home near the Bruce Trail as a base for me while I was in their area.  Kris practises an ancient art called Encaustic painting, which involves embedding finely cut stencils into molten wax, and presented me with a beautiful piece of artwork she'd created.  It depicted a lone tree, and I fancied it was one of the thousands I'd hiked past during my recent weeks on the Trail.  Definitely a keepsake I will cherish forever.

Annie drove me to the Trailhead where I'd left off the evening before.  After we exchanged farewells, I started out along the Trail under overcast but drier skies.  A jogger easily overtook me, running up the hill I was struggling to walk up. 

These are clean, wide paths with a tangle of colourful wildflowers on each side, through rolling hills and open forests.  It is a very relaxing place to hike.  I hadn't looked at the map for a while and didn't have a clue where I was, and I soon came to the realization that I really didn't care.  I was just happily following the white blazes.

I stopped to examine an old cast-iron bell that had a deep crack down one side.  It had been mounted in concrete in which these words were engraved:  "Where there is no vision, the people perish."  It commemorated the opening of the Resource Management Centre in 1970, but surely the bell is much older than that.

I followed the Trail to Sherman Falls, and watched the lacy streams of water in their freefall down the escarpment.  I remembered caching here a few years back, when someone in our group was stung by a bee - maybe Shilo the dog.  The Trail had been rerouted since then, and no longer travels up the escarpment to a lookout.  I wondered what had happened - a change in land ownership, perhaps?

A line of big grey clouds appeared and rumblings began off in the distance, but still the rain held off.  I crossed a busy road and climbed a steep set of stairs up the escarpment.  At the top, I noticed a big 8-point buck standing stock-still through the trees.  We watched each other for a few minutes, with me admiring him and he probably wishing I would leave and let him go about his business.

Two minutes further down the Trail I ran into Lorenzo.  A young man of about 30, he was hiking with a large pack, and so we struck up a conversation.  He, too, is through-hiking, but doing the Trail in four segments of ten days each.  We compared notes on camping spots, and he commented on the canister of bear spray I still carry.  Though I am now out of bear country I still feel much safer travelling with it, especially since I now know first-hand how effective it can be.

We wished each other "Happy Trails" after I told him to keep an eye out for the buck near the top of the stairs.  Then the rain began, and I had to cope with slippery rock underfoot.  It was still raining and quite windy when I reached the pedestrian bridge over Highway 403.  I passed a bicyclist just going onto the bridge as I was stepping off, and I puzzled over how he was going to get his bike down all those stairs on the west side of the bridge, especially with everything being so slippery.  I turned to watch him but could no longer see him through the rain.

The sky began to grow lighter in the distance, the roiling grey clouds retreating behind me, as I entered an open field.  A baby snake slithered across the path in front of me, and I jumped when I heard the 'ding' of a bicycle bell break through the quietness.  Two men rode past me on their bikes, grinning but apologizing for startling me. 

I caught up with them about ten minutes later, in a wooded area where they'd stopped to rest.  "Any more bicycle bells startle you?" one asked.  "No," I answered.  "I don't know what I was thinking - I must've really been lost in thought."  "Well, that's exactly why we come to places like this, isn't it?" replied the other. 

Then I found myself above that crazy, layered cliff that's visible directly above the 403 when driving up the rise.  A stream trickled down from above me; I remembered being here one spring when it was a raging torrent - so powerful that I was afraid to let my German Shepherd cross hike over it, for fear he would be swept away.

Someone had hung Christmas decorations on a nearby apple tree, for some reason:  four glass balls in a bright red colour.  An ancient wall made of carefully pieced-together stones ran alongside the Trail, and I admired its craftsmanship.

The rain started up again, this time much stronger, just as I reached a golf course.  Great timing, I thought.  A few metres later and I entered the clubhouse to dry off and have a fresh salad for lunch.

It was a much drier walk in the afternoon, culminating at a bed and breakfast just off the Trail, where I met my friend Trish for the night. 

Day Forty, August 13: "Bicycles and Old Ruins." Clappison Woods to Hermitage, 16.9 km., 5.5 hours.

I left on foot from Annie's, and headed into the maze of trails that is Clappison Woods. The Trail meandered into a wooded area after passing near wetlands behind some big box stores.  A buzz of cicadas on one side and the roar of Highway 6 on the other nearly prompted me to dig out my earplugs.

I stopped for a bit near the highway to examine the ruins of an old homestead, and thought how interesting it would be to learn its story.  Then it was through the tunnel underneath the highway with its graffiti-covered walls, which caused a niggling worry of mine to resurface:  I don't believe I am at all ready to re-enter society. I climbed a set of steep stairs up the escarpment and turned away from the graffiti, the noise, and those thoughts, for the time being.

The escarpment was topped with meadow swaying in the breeze, big heads of Queen Anne's Lace floating gently atop. Goldfinches and grasshoppers greeted me, and once more I found I could hear myself think. I followed the Trail across a road and entered RBG lands. They had placed many birdhouses in their meadows, and there were more rock ruins to explore.  Overlooks offered views of Hamilton, Burlington, and beyond, with the ubiquitous turkey vultures soaring below.

I paused to read the many interpretive signs throughout the Rock Chapel area.  The Trail arrived at a beautiful stonework bridge over a stream, and after crossing it I noticed a huge orange fungus atop a stump, bigger than a cauliflower, and had to stop to take pictures of it.

I reached a hydro tower and followed the Trail directly between its legs.  I fervently hoped walking through them wouldn't have the same effect as walking underneath a ladder.

Then a change of pace:  the Trail headed down, and through the streets of Dundas. There were plenty of interesting old houses to admire, but I couldn't help but wonder why I wasn't still up top, where I could see other hikers on overlooks.

A train passed over a stone railway bridge above my head, the big iron horse heading for faraway destinations.  Then the Trail took me through a golf course's utility area, where mounds of cedar chips delighted my olfactory senses.  The path beyond was a bit hair-raising, though:  local children on their bicycles use it as a thoroughfare, which required me to jump out of their way more than once.

Dundas Conservation Area was a pleasure to hike through, as always.  I stopped to gaze at an algae-topped pond, with its many geese, dragonflies, and different kinds of frogs.  The railway station-inspired Trail Centre had just closed when I arrived, but there were many interesting interpretive signs to read.

The Hermitage had changed immensely since I last saw it:  it is now a huge pile of rubble, with a few pallets covered in rocks, all laid out in a pattern.  I imagine the reassembly will be like completing a jigsaw puzzle.

The day ended with a dear friend picking me up and taking me into Dundas for a nice supper. There was a bit of miscommunication as far as the meeting place went, and after a bit of a wait I ended up hiking another 2+ km. out to the main road, but the extra hiking took me past the original sulphur spring, which was interesting to see.

During supper, the young waitress noticed my Bruce Trail maps and we struck up a conversation. Michele wants to plan a three-day hiking trip on the Bruce and was looking for suggestions as to location.  Then it was back to Annie's for another relaxing night.

Day Thirty-Nine, August 12: "Meadows and Wetlands." Mount Nemo to Clappison Woods, 16.0 km., 6 hours.

The day started out as overcast and very humid, but the wind cooled my skin and kept the bugs away.  The threat of rain was in the air but never quite followed through.

I walked from a wooded area into an open meadow, which I find is fast becoming my favourite type of hike, with its birds, butterflies, and open air.  About midmorning the wind finally blew the clouds away, and I emerged from a forest to find bright sunshine.  An apple hanging on a low branch knocked me on the head.  Tree swallows darted from shrub to shrub.  Through some trees, I caught glimpses of sunlight glistening on the surface of a small lake. 

Then the Trail took me along a hedgerow and into a marshy area, with a pond in the middle.  I counted thirteen turtles sunning themselves on a floating log.  They were all craning their necks, eyeing me warily.  As I watched, one slid into the water; I slipped away silently, so as not to bother them further. 

I noticed another pond, this one off the Trail a bit, but I couldn't resist a detour.  It was covered with green algae, and was positively teeming with life.  Birds flew constantly over its surface, enjoying a smorgasbord of insects.  Butterflies fluttered along the edge, dragonflies glowed in the sunlight, frogs called from lilypads.  I blinked when I recognized cedar waxwings flying low across the water.  I never realized they ate anything other than berries.

Two black squirrels chased each other and ran right past my feet before they discovered my presence.  I could have stood there all day, but eventually gave myself a shake and carried on down the Trail.

I came out onto a road and an open area, which gave me great views of Lake Ontario and its bordering cities and boroughs.  It all was becoming much closer.

Great Falls were lovely as always.  I pretty much had the entire area to myself, and really enjoyed the walk along the bubbling Grindstone Creek.  Then it was into the maze of trails in Clappison Woods, and out along a side trail to meet my friend Annie, who is housing this wayward traveller for the next two nights.

Day Thirty-Eight, August 11: "Lost Kittens and More Wrong Turns." Kilbride to Mount Nemo, 17.4 km., 6 hours.

The day dawned clear and dry, which was a tremendous relief after yesterday's rains.  I packed up slowly; I was sorry to leave Mandy's place after the two nights I had spent there.  I had met her during my early days on the Trail, up in the Peninsula where she was camping near me one night.  She'd offered me a place to stay once I'd reached her neck of the woods, and I'd gratefully accepted.  The past couple of nights she and her family had opened up their hearts and their home to me.  There sure are some remarkable people in the world.

The Trail began my day with a long boardwalk, fording streams that were overflowing after the downpour yesterday.  It then took me into the town of Kilbride, winding through the community complex and schoolyard.  Children were busy in a huge playground so unlike the ones I remember as a child.  Then through the residential section, where a realtor hammering a sign into someone's front lawn nodded to me and said, "Looks like you belong on the Bruce Trail!"  I pointed to a white blaze on a nearby hydro pole, and told him I actually was on the Bruce Trail.

On another hydro pole, this one right at a turn into the forest, a sign was posted about a missing kitten.  Lucas had somehow gotten loose in Mount Nemo the week before, and his owners were frantic with worry.  I made a mental note to keep an eye open, as my route for the day included that area.

The Trail kept me in the forest for a while, but I knew I was never far from civilization.  There were plenty of indications, from the sound of lawnmowers buzzing to the squeals of children playing.  An odd-looking steel bridge on stilts took me over a wide stream, and I puzzled over its design.  I couldn't imagine the water rising that high in the spring.

A couple of acorns fell from the tree above me, bouncing off my hat.  A tiny chipmunk, missing his tail, scurried across the path in front of me.  Then I was out to a road, which the Trail followed for much too long.  A turn, and it went alongside an old quarry.  I stopped often on this section, since it was peppered with geocaches to find and plenty of birds to watch in the adjacent meadow.

I was to meet my friends Violet and Adrian later that afternoon, and then spend the night at their campsite, but ran into them early.  They were scouting around for somewhere to ride their bikes.  I directed them to the start of the path, where they could leave their van and ride their bikes into Mount Nemo.

A stile brought me from this path into the road, and then onto the laneway into Mount Nemo.  A small group of people were gathered on the other side of the street; a young woman called to me from the group.  "Are you Layna's sister?" she asked.  "No," I said, puzzled.  "Oh," she replied.  "We have a friend whose sister is hiking the Bruce, end-to-end.  I thought you might be her."  And then a discussion ensued about my hike.  She told me about theirs:  they are also hiking the Bruce end-to-end, but doing "the ten-year plan", as she called it.

The overlooks in Mount Nemo were magnificent, serving up views of land and water that stretched for miles.  I gazed over the escarpment I'd travelled in the last few days, and found I could pick out Rattlesnake and Kelso.  It was so peaceful walking along the edge up there that I completely missed the turn that would take me down the escarpment.  There were still faded blazes showing on some trees (the Trail must have been rerouted here at one time) so I didn't realize my mistake until the path fizzled out about a kilometre past my turn.  Oops!  That was good for a couple of extra kilometres on the day.

Down to the bottom, and it was a long haul along busy roads to my rendezvous point with Violet and Adrian.  And then it was time for a nice cold beer.

Day Thirty-Seven, August 10: "Whispering Ravens and Downpours." Kelso to Kilbride, 22.3 km., 6.5 hours.

The sky was thick with grey clouds and humidity hung heavy in the air.  Rain held off until the afternoon, though, allowing me to enjoy the hike through Kelso and Rattlesnake Point.

All was quiet in Kelso when I started out.  I looked up at the rocky cliffs where I assumed I was headed.  There were many interesting interpretive signs to read as I passed through the museum area with its old farm buildings: the blacksmith shop, the bellcote, the driveshed.  Then the Trail, for the first time on my journey, actually went inside a building - the one that houses stairs and walkway over traintracks to the escarpment.

I noticed two ravens on an overhead wire, crouched closely together.  Curious, I aimed my binoculars at them.  It actually looked like they were whispering to each other.

The Trail took me past a lime kiln which was totally fenced off, unlike the overgrown ruins I'd seen alongside the Trail in Mulmur.  Then it led upwards along bluffs, past the ski hills and to lookouts over the 401 and Kelso's small lake. Plenty was happening down below now, perhaps a relay or a race, with many teens participating.

I shared the Trail here with many mountain bikes.  A couple of ATVs passed me as well, though I think they may have been Parks employees.  Then the Trail turned onto a busy road for a while, and took me into Rattlesnake Point.  I noticed the smell of pancakes drifting down to me from the camping area, which prompting me to stop and retrieve some of the lunch Mandy had packed for me from my backpack.

That's when the skies began to open, and the rain started teeming down.  I waited for a bit under the umbrella of a huge cedar, but the downpour wasn't slowing; if anything, it was worsening, with rumbles of distant thunder.  Resignedly, I ventured out into the pouring rain, and was soon soaked to the skin.  I inched my way along the Trail with its treacherous, slippery rocks, through the Crawford Lake area, right to Mandy's doorstep for the night.

Days Thirty-Five and Thirty-Six, August 8 and 9: "Thimbleberries and Big Bridges." Scotsdale to Kelso, 28.6 km.

My friend Violet joined me for the hike the first day.  The beginning was lined with boardwalk, just like the day before, and was an easy walk.  Violet was ahead of me when we flushed out some ruffed grouse from the bushes.  I couldn't help but laugh when she screeched and jumped at the sudden movement.

The Trail took us over a couple of stiles.   We stopped to find a geocache, then came upon a group of 33 hikers having their lunch at the side of the Trail - the largest group I'd come across yet.  They were being led by a guide from the Toronto club, and everyone looked like they were having a fantastic time.  After chatting with them for a few minutes we continued on to Limehouse, spending some time at its restored bunker and lime kilns.  Then to the Hole in the Wall, with its extremely tall ladder and rock corridor.

That evening was scheduled for my weekly supply drop, so we found Dan at the end of the Trail waiting for us.

The next morning he dropped me off at the same spot, where I continued southward along the Trail.  For a time it ran through hedgerows in between farmers' fields.  I found myself trying to avoid stepping on fallen apples and hopping toads.  Making my way through a meadow overgrown with wildflowers,  the Trail then turned into a cool forest where I discovered the remains of an old stile laying at the side of the path. Birdsong floated in the air from the tangle of applewood above my head.  I found myself wishing I knew the birds by their sound better than I do:  something to work on.

Then I ran into a bit of a problem.  I came out onto a road, but the blazes didn't show a right or left turn, and there didn't appear to be anything straight ahead.  I checked the map - it showed a left turn for only a few metres, then into the bush.  So I turned left, and found a Bruce Trail sign a few metres up, and an overgrown path.  I started down the path but it quickly fizzled out, with much deadfall blocking the way and no blazes to be seen.  After stumbling and bushwhacking through thick stuff for a few minutes, I finally came out to the well-worn Bruce Trail.  Curious, I backtracked on the Trail to see where I'd gone wrong.  Turns out it started to the right, not the left - the map must not have been updated, and the old sign not removed.  Found it in the end, though.

It was in Speyside that I began to hear the sounds of the big city:  at first, the sound of jets taking off from the airport, and then the roar of the 401.  The Trail runs along the edge of the escarpment here, allowing for many cityscape views.  I could pick out the CN Tower on the horizon.  Turkey vultures soared across my field of vision.

The walk was lovely.  I noticed quite a few maples tinged with red:  the season was progressing.  A baby garter snake slithered across the path in front of me, and I noted many tiny toads the size of my fingernail. Then the Trail took me across the Dufferin Quarry Bridge - a truly impressive structure.  Apparently it can even be seen from the 401.

I found a patch of thimbleberries on the other side of the bridge and stopped to savour a few.  Then it was down to a road and past a golf club, and through a passage under the 401 where my friend Mandy picked me up for the night.

Day Thirty-Four, August 7: "Wild Roses and Streakers." Cheltenham to Scotsdale Farm, 20.8 km., 7 hours.

I left around nine in the morning, after enjoying a lovely breakfast at the b&b in Cheltenham.  It was an interesting stay; the house is the oldest in Cheltenham, dating back to the early 1800s, with a descendant of the original owner/builder still living there.

The Trail took me along a street at first, where I was lucky enough to sight yet another indigo bunting.  It went past a cidery, which unfortunately (or fortunately) wasn't open at that hour.  I made a quick stop at the next corner to grab a geocache. Then, as the Trail made a turn into the forest, I ran into Hugh.

The hosts at the b&b had told me about an older man in the room next to me, who was also hiking the Bruce.  He was doing it in installments, with the b&b shuttling him to the trailheads each day while he stayed with them.  I hadn't run into him there, but when the hiker I spoke to on the Trail introduced himself, I knew it must be the same fellow.

We chatted for a while about our experiences on the Trail.  He is 75 years old, and is hoping to complete the entire Trail by late next year. Hiking from late April to early October, he generally hikes for four days a week, going home to rest for the other three.

We wished each other luck and went our separate ways down the Trail.  Mine brought me from forest onto a road, then down a railtrail.  I found six geocaches on that trail but they turned out to be challenge caches, and I'm not sure if I qualify.  Will have to check when I eventually get home.

Terra Cotta Conservation Area was leafy, green, and teeming with life.  A red squirrel scolded me as I made my way down the path - his path, apparently.  The skeeters were a bit thick in there, and I was busy swatting them away from my face when my left foot went down into a hole caused by an uprooted tree at the side of the Trail.  Down went my right knee, hard onto the ground. Didn't tear my pants at all, but did actually scrape the knee.

I crossed an interesting old bridge that forded a stream.  The floor was made of very thin slats, almost like the lath once used in plaster walls. On one side of the bridge was a small waterfall created by a beaverdam, and on the other was an equally small waterfall, this one the result of a rock ledge in the stream.

Crossing a road brought me into Silver Creek Conservation Area.  A youth group was hard at work in here, cutting deadwood.  Wild rose bushes lined the rock-studded Trail, and crevices began to show themselves again after being absent for a few days.

I had walked for about an hour without seeing any other hikers, when in mid-afternoon I was taken by surprise by a man who was approaching the white-blazed Trail from a side trail.  Normally you would greet each other and continue on your way, but this man was different.  It seems he had forgotten to put clothes on that morning. We saw each other at the same time, and both of us stopped short. He was devoid of backpack, shoes, everything - not a stitch on his body - and quickly turned on his heel to retreat back down the side trail.  A naturist, perhaps? Was there a nudist camp nearby? In any case, I carried on down the trail, marvelling at how I never knew what I would see next on the Bruce.

After crossing another road, the Trail turned into a series of rickety old boardwalks. I'm sure they must be originals that date back from when the Trail was first built.  Then I found myself out on Highway 7, where the day's hike ended.

Day Thirty-Three, August 6: "Tunnels and Hammocks." Caledon Mountain to Cheltenham, 20.7 km., 7.5 hours.

I started today's hike in the cool darkness of the tunnel that takes the Trail safely across Highway 10.  Upon emerging, I managed to startle about fifteen Angus cows in an adjacent field.  The huge black beasts fled en masse to the other side of their pasture: the movement reminded me of a stampede.

The first trailhead was outfitted with a stationary wooden gate, the narrowest I'd seen thus far.  Eyeing it, I anticipated problems, and I was right - there was no way I was going through it with the pack on.  Have I mentioned before that the Bruce Trail is not really through-hiker friendly? Off came the pack, and a few awkward moments later we were both on the other side.

After a short hike through woods I was back out on dirt road again.  A posted notice informed me that there were no white blazes from that point to the Forks of the Credit park boundary, due to circumstances beyond the Conservancy's control.   If I were coming from the opposite direction I wouldn't have had a problem finding my way, but travelling west along that road without blazes to follow proved to be a challenge.  It had forks, and I was always second-guessing myself, not wanting to make a mistake because of all the property-owners' forbidding 'No Trespassing' signs.  I felt extremely unwelcome and was very glad to finally reach the park gate and see the familiar friendly white blazes again.

The woods were dark and quiet and the birds seemed to have all disappeared, but I found them again when I reached open meadow. It was filled with sunshine and birdsong.  I stood there for awhile, taking in the sounds, the scent of the wildflowers, the warm feel of sun on my skin.

I reached a sign indicating that the viewing platform by the Falls was temporarily closed due to safety concerns, and that through-hikers should detour along the Quarrymen's Side Trail instead.  (The Bruce actually routes along the closed platform). Doing this would cut 2 km. off my day, and it didn't sit well with me because my goal is to hike the entire Bruce Trail.  So I walked to the closed platform and back, then took the detour across, then walked up the other side to the platform and back.  It actually added about 3 km. to the day but I did get to see the Falls.

Poison ivy was rampant along here, and seemed also more advanced in its growing cycle, showing plenty of yellows and reds.  I walked through the historic hamlet of Brimstone and watched many fly fishermen in the river, most wearing hipwaders though the water was only about a foot deep.

Then came a challenging climb up the escarpment, complete with ropes.  It took me a while to reach the top with the pack on my back.  The Trail levelled out and brought me past a remote lake, where frogs eyed me warily.

Out to another dirt road, where I came across a hiker carrying a full-sized pack. Bas is headed along the Trail to Tobermory from the Guelph area.  We had a good chat about our experiences to date, and the equipment we prefer.  He actually uses a hammock for stealth camping, his thinking being that it leaves less of an impact on the land than a tent does.  It has netting and a rain fly, and its weight is negligible.  I have a geocaching friend who swears by his, as well.

I stopped to look for a quick geocache, and then it was time to find my digs for the night.

Days Thirty, Thirty-One and Thirty-Two, August 3, 4 and 5: "Close Calls and a Familiar Skyline". Mono Cliffs to Caledon Mountain, 60.1 km.

I had an early start the first morning, aided by the owner of the motel who gave me a lift to the Trail on her way in to town.  It was still drizzling lightly but soon cleared up.  The day stayed cool, though, which helped to keep the bugs at bay.

The Trail started out through long grasses, soaking me from my knees down.  I was hoping this might help loosen some of the ground-in dirt on my pantlegs.  Again my socks acted like wicks, drenching the insides of my boots, but my feet rather enjoyed the soaking.

With its spent flowers and partially-formed pods, the milkweed through here seemed much more advanced than I'd seen recently; was the climate more temperate here, or had I been on the Trail throughout its growing season, not noticing the changes?  In any event, it always pleases me to come across milkweed, for the sake of the monarchs.

The mist hung in patches through the escarpment, and as I walked into it, I could feel the heaviness of the air on my skin.  What should have been a quick scramble up some rocks turned into about a fifteen minute balancing act, due to the slippery rocks and weight of the backpack.

I had the backpack with me during this time, having had no opportunity to send it on ahead. It fits me better than the old one did, though, and is actually quite comfortable to wear.  And, I find I am getting more used to the weight as the days go by, and am better able to keep my balance over the escarpment rocks.

In the end it wasn't the slippery rocks that got me, but a cedar root laying inconspicuously across the Trail.  It caught the toe of my right boot.  Instantly I was down, both my forearms slamming against another root.  The weight of the pack made the fall that much harder; I was quite fortunate I didn't break both forearms.  I escaped with only scrapes, having left a good layer of skin on the root.

There were few overlooks along this section of the Trail.  The ma-a-a-a-a-a of lambs calling to their mothers drifted up to me, though, so I knew I was close to a farm.  Then out to a road where I was greeted by the woolly creatures, and a quick turn back into the woods.  Trees had been planted here in the year 2001; in the plantation stood a sign describing the reforestation project.  "Today - 2001, Tomorrow - 2015" it proclaimed, with a sketch of small trees, and then much larger ones.  It was right. The Scotch Pine seedlings had turned into magnificent trees.

Upon entering the Hockley Valley Nature Preserve I saw my third Indigo Bunting of the trip.  I always get a thrill when I see these birds, with their deep blue hues accented in black.  The wide path through the Preserve finally gave my pantlegs a chance to dry out.  Many trees had fallen in the storm, some right across the Trail, which made for a good amount of scrambling.  Someone would have a bit of chainsaw work to do.  I noticed that the trees that had fallen were mostly beech:  these trees were huge and quite old, many with hollowed out centres, which would have aided in their demise.

The creeks and streams through here were forded by bridges almost too narrow for my pack.  I discovered I had to walk exactly in the centre of the bridges in order to fit through.

After my stay at a delightful bed and breakfast near the Trail, I started the next day under drier but still cloudy skies.  The section around Blount was mostly privately owned and full of interesting paraphernalia: ancient lime kilns, pieces of old machinery, car and truck parts, old cement tower platforms. Many trees were down over the Trail here, as well.  It was quiet in the forest, the silence broken only by the tapping of a woodpecker and the occasional hum of cicadas.  I eventually came out to the busy Airport Road and managed to cross it safely.  Then it was back into the forest, this time into a maple syrup enterprise.  Miles of blue piping hung from tree to tree on both sides of the Trail, even crossing from side to side above my head.  A gazebo containing a picnic table was placed invitingly in its midst, but I did not linger there.

I came across a sign offering a lovely tribute to Philip Gosling, one of the founders of the Bruce Trail. In the forest named for him was an overlook that gave me my first view of the Toronto skyline.  It looked miniscule compared to the wide expanse of trees that stretched across my field of vision, a full 180 degrees.  Still, my heart skipped a beat when I saw it:  had I really come this far?  Was I really this close to home?

The next day afforded many similar views, which helped ease the excessive amount of road walking. Hopefully someday the Conservancy can make more acquisitions through this area.

Day Twenty-Nine, August 2: "Inuksuks and Wild Storms". Whitfield to Mono Cliffs, 23.6 km., 7 hours.

Spiders had been exceptionally busy last night, stringing their webs across the Trail, so I spent much of the morning swinging my hiking stick ahead of me to clear the way.  I started to actually feel guilty about dismantling all their hard work, and then began to wonder how they manage to string those webs across a five-foot chasm like that.  Do they weave a ball of web and then jump across, unravelling it?  Do they climb down to the ground and then back up the other side of the Trail and then pull the first string tight?  Something to Google later.

A toad as big as my palm hopped out in front of me, but thankfully I missed stepping on him.  It would have been a squishy situation.  Shortly after, I came across a ghostly Indian Pipe plant growing near the side of the path, the first I'd seen. 

A huge beech had fallen across the Trail, which I had to scramble over, and then it was downhill to a bridge over a small creek.  On one end of the bridge was a pile of mahogany-tipped scales from a pinecone, evidence that a chipmunk had been here.  I've watched them descale these pinecones to get at the delectable white core, something like what we would do to an artichoke. 

The Trail followed well-worn forest paths for a time.  I crossed paths with another woman hiker, laden down with a huge pack.  She had two dogs with her.  We talked for a bit; she had started at the Forks of the Credit a few days ago, and was stealth camping along the way. 

I stopped at an old cedar rail fenceline to look for a geocache.  While I was searching, a middle-aged couple came along, looking for a side trail.  Between the map and the GPSr I was able to help them out.  Back on the Trail and I ran across a cheery fellow with two Labrador Retrievers.  They had just finished rolling in a muddy puddle and had morphed from yellow to chocolate-coloured.

The Trail exited that huge wooded area and brought me out to the meadows of Boyne, atop the escarpment.  The path folded over on itself with the rises of the land, allowing me to see the route ahead of me as it snaked through the grasses.  I reached a farmer's field with its massive bales of hay waiting to be picked up; someone had built a small inuksuk at the side of the Trail to help mark the way through.

I stopped to look for another cache, and was startled by movement.  A very young fawn walked right in front of me, not seeing me.  At first I thought it was another yellow Lab, and then blinked when I saw the white spots.  No sign of mama, though I imagine she couldn't have been too far away.

Into another wooded area which was more like a glen, with huge cedars, ferns, and a meandering stream that the Trail crossed three times.  The sky grew fairly dark when I was in there, which began to worry me as the weather report was forecasting significant rainfall for later on in the afternoon.  I was hoping it would hold off until I was out to the campground that I had slated for the night, and my tent was set up.

I came out to the road, took one look at the sky, and made a beeline to the motel that I knew was just around the corner from the campground.  Many times that evening I thanked the inner voice that had told me to do that; at one point the sheets of rain were actually horizontal with the wind. Apparently a tornado had touched down in Shelburne, just down the road.  Whew!

Day Twenty-Eight, August 1: "Ravens and Stiles". Lavender to Whitfield, 24.8 km., 7 hours.

I looked up to see five ravens in flight, but pretty much at a standstill in the wind. Another perched high atop a tree crying "Mwok!  Mwok!  Mwok!".  I fancied he was telling me to " Walk!  Walk! Walk!", and I willingly obliged him.

This was the first day of the August long weekend, and the Trail reflected that.  At least two cars were parked at every access point.  I expected to be running into hikers all day.

I began the day on a shaded snowmobile trail.  It soon crossed a bridge at the bottom of what promised to be a gorgeous waterfall in the spring, but was now merely a trickle. A turnoff onto a narrow path brought me through a huge wild raspberry patch, the thorns catching my clothes; I stopped and ate my fill.  On a hunch, I pulled out my GPSr to discover there was a geocache 24 metres away.  A quick moment to sign the log, and I was continuing along the Trail once more; now through a grove of cedars planted in furrows.  Then out to a mixed hardwood forest containing many mature trees, their barren limbs reaching to the heavens.  I always stop to look up into these trees, hoping to catch sight of a sleeping raccoon or porcupine.

A dragonfly landed on the brim of my hat, right in front of my eyes, and hitched a ride for a few minutes.  

At the top of a hill an old metal bucket hung from a cedar limb, its bottom rusted out.  I couldn't help but wonder if I might find Jack's broken crown nearby.

The Trail descended to Black Bank Creek, a lovely, rushing stream sparkling in the sunlight.  I passed a large group of five hikers, and then four more groups of two in quick succession.  Across another sideroad and into a woodlot where I came across a small wooden box nailed to a tree at the side of the Trail.  The landowner had placed a guestbook inside, for hikers to sign and leave comments.

Then came a long series of farmers' pastures.  I climbed up and over so many stiles that I began rating them for sturdiness.   The next woodlot also had a guestbook to sign, and then it was out to a road made of fine white sand, which was a bit like trying to walk on a beach in shoes.

I came across a fellow of about my own age who was resting at the side of a stream.  His backpack lay beside him on the ground.  We struck up a conversation, and he told me he was practising with the pack every weekend so he would be ready to do an end-to-end hike of the Bruce next spring. He was planning on stealth camping the entire way, hiking 30 km. per day for 30 days.  We wished each other luck and went off in our separate directions.

The Trail took me past the Pine River Fishing Pond and then along the magnificent Pine River to the hamlet of Kilgorie.  The area is filled with these old ghost towns steeped in history.  I ended the day in Whitfield, another such town, where Dan and the boys picked me up for the weekly supply drop.

Day Twenty-Seven, July 31: "Gratitude". Devil's Glen to Lavender, 24.5 km., 7.5 hours.

There was nary a cloud in the sky.  The Trail started out running alongside fields of wheat, shining golden in the sun.  Once again I was reminded of how grateful I am to our farmers who allow access to the escarpment through their land, thereby helping to create a continuous trail.

I entered the forest, where the Trail hugged a rock crevice that sliced through the land. Ancient boulders of coral bordered the path. Listening to the wind rustle through the maple leaves high above me, I realized at that moment there was simply nowhere else in the world I'd rather be.  Even the bugs were co-operative, making themselves scarce.

The Trail turned rougher and rockier for a short time, more like the terrain I'd experienced in the Peninsula section, but it reverted quickly back into grassland.  Vast marshes and scrub topped the escarpment here, dipping into valleys between two rocky rises.  Quite often the Trail would take the form of rickery boardwalks choked with wildflowers.  It passed a beaver pond with numerous lodges; the residents were nowhere in sight.  A catbird called from a nearby shrub, her cries reminiscent of a kitten vying for attention.  I stopped to watch the antics of a pair of northern flickers in an abandoned orchard.  When I continued on my way, I startled a doe who had been resting in the tall grass.  

I think it was in these vast meadows high atop the escarpment that I first felt I could hike forever, one step after another in a hypnotic rhythm.  Not to have a goal of finishing, but to just hike in the wild and never stop.  Regretfully I had to leave Nottawasaga Bluffs when the Trail arrived at a dirt road heading south.  It soon swung back along farmland, though, and came to a beautiful overlook, meadow and pasture stretching for miles.  I don't often stop for lunch but I had to, here.  Someone had thoughtfully placed a picnic table at just the right angle, very near a plaque thanking the Richard Ivey Foundation for securing the site for the Bruce Trail Conservancy.  Ivey is a name well-known and highly regarded in my home locale, particularly for philanthropy.

Increasing cloud cover made for a shadow-filled walk through the Noisy River area. Boulders loomed ominously, and rocky crevices were dark and forbidding.  I was glad to get out in the open again, where I headed for the hamlet of Lavender and my rendezvous point with Martin, my British host.

Days Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six, July 29 and 30: Ukuleles and Big Trucks". Pretty River Valley to Devil's Glen, 20.9 km., 9.5 hours.

These were two short days of hiking, which suited me fine, as I was once more shouldering my backpack.  The cedar-rail access point on the first morning was so narrow that I was barely able to squeeze through with the pack; I was beginning to think I might have to take it off, when I finally made it through.

It actually felt good to be wearing the pack again, and to be working the muscles in my legs a bit differently.  It was a long arduous climb up the escarpment, though, taking me about two hours to finally reach a plateau at the top.  I was surprised to find the forest up there thick with healthy birch - a bit unusual, since they have been on the decline for many years.

Around mid-morning, I happened upon two men.  One was considerably older than the other (father and son?), and they had two small girls with them (daughters/granddaughters?), all picnicking at the side of the Trail.  As always, my backpack attracted attention.  The older man asked me if I was a through-hiker, and a conversation about my hike ensued.  The younger man piped in that when the girls grew older, he wanted to do the same with them.  When I described the problems I'd had figuring out accommodations along the way, he replied that they would just camp wherever.  I tried to explain to him the ramifications of stealth camping, but he just didn't seem to 'get' it, so I said goodbye and carried on.

A few minutes later I could hear the sweet notes of a ukulele drifting on the breeze.  I was about to follow the sound, when I heard rushed footsteps behind me.  A woman about my own age said, "Hi! I've heard you're hiking the Bruce Trail, end-to-end!  We are, too, and we started on July 4, as well!" I looked at her; she was alone, with no backpack, or even a daypack.  I expressed surprise that I hadn't run into her before; surely I should've seen her at StormHaven the first night?  Turns out they'd stayed in Lion's Head the first week, shuttling back and forth to the Trail with their vehicle.

I drew her attention to the music that still floated in the air, but she waved it away and asked me the same question Annette and so many others had:  "Why?"  I wryly answered that I was still working on the answer to that question.  She replied, "Well, we have a purpose.  We are walking for my sister who has ALS, and my nephew with a brain injury.  We are walking the Bruce Trail for those who can't."  And then she presented me with a card listing a website for donations, and told me the others were waiting for her in the next parking lot.  "But congratulations to you for doing the end-to-end for yourself!" she said, and hurried on down the Trail, leaving me standing there.

I refocused on the music and went in search of the source, which I found a few feet off the trail.  A bald head protruded above several rocks on the side of the escarpment. He sat alone, the music flowing effortlessly from his fingers.  I stood and watched for awhile, enchanted.  When he finally noticed me, I told him it sounded lovely, thanked him for sharing, and left.

The second morning began with the most unpleasant stretch of the trip thus far.  For about four km. the Trail followed what would normally have been a quiet country lane, but road construction at nearby Duntroon had turned it into a nightmare. Big heavy trucks carrying excavated dirt away from the site roared past me every few minutes.  The road was narrow with little room on the shoulder, and nowhere for me to jump out of the way. Although some of the drivers were courteous, slowing down and even moving into the opposing lane to give me space, most of them blasted right through, mere feet away from me.  My hat almost blew off my head when they went by.

I was grateful when the Trail turned to follow the edge of a beanfield and then entered the forest. Rock crevices greeted me like old friends.  Back out to another farmer's field, this one planted with corn, the stalks towering over my head.  On my opposite side was marsh choked with equally tall cattails, dwarfing me.

When my route took me in to the ski hill at Devil's Glen, I began to wonder if all ski hills have a chronic shortage of white paint. Here, too, I had trouble following the Trail through the maze that is a ski operation.  I took it slow, though, and managed not to have to retrace too many steps.

I spent the evening in the company of a British man and his wife who were putting me up for the next two nights.  They took one look at my dehydrated food, pooh-poohed it, and invited me to their supper table.  We had a fabulous feast of roast chicken and vegetables on their back terrace.  I savoured every bite.