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.