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.