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.
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