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.
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