I spent the night at Violet's house, and the next morning she was kind enough to drop me back off at the pub so I could retrace my steps once again, and try to find the lost piece of paper with Gloria's phone number on it. It had rained rather heavily during the night, and I didn't hold out a lot of hope for this endeavour, so was almost ecstatic when I did find the folded piece of paper along a small pathway I'd taken from the main Trail. I unfolded it and held it out in front of me as I walked, so it wouldn't stick together as it dried.
The Trail became quite overgrown and very wet from last night's rain as I approached the Welland Canal. Grasses grew thickly on either side of the path, and I picked my way gingerly through, trying to minimize the wetness from transferring to my pantlegs. Poison ivy grew in dense clumps; I fervently hoped I wouldn't find The Shoe in the midst of one. I crossed an old train track completely choked by weeds, and was amazed to find the rails and ties still intact.
I noticed a clearing off to one side where someone had made a shelter out of tarps and old furniture. No-one was home. Rain started to fall again, so I pulled the brim of my hat further down over my eyes, then realized that if someone had found The Shoe and tied it to an overhead branch for discovery by the owner, I probably wouldn't notice it, so lifted the brim again.
The Trail crossed an active railroad track, and then ran right alongside it. I'd seen this at least once before on my hike, but it still amazes me that this is allowed.
I found The Shoe laying at the side of the Trail a short distance away from the tracks. Its colouring was muted because it was soaking wet, so I actually almost missed it. With a big grin, I picked it up and tied it securely to my backpack.
The Trail took me out to a meadow, and then to the lift bridge over the Canal. No ships were in sight, so there was no wait at the bridge. Rain had pretty much stopped, though the skies still looked upset. I hoped the meteorologist was correct with her prediction that it would clear.
The General Motors shift change was nearing, and the road was quite busy with employees arriving at work, but I managed to cross in front of the plant in one piece. Then the Trail turned alongside the old canal. Someone had trimmed the path here, making it quite wide, so it was an easy, dry walk. An engineering feat in its day, the canal itself is now crumbling, as are many of the cement bollards. I had to wonder how much longer it will last before falling in on itself.
The buzz of my cellphone alerted me to an incoming text. My friend Julie has been sending me daily motivational quotes since I'd first started out on July 4, most having to do with wilderness hiking. They had given me much food for thought; today's was no exception: "Conquer the trail, test your limits, share your experiences and don't let the opportunity to embrace nature's beauty pass by." This one was not credited, and I would amend it to read "Revere the trail", rather than "Conquer". I prefer not to conquer nature, but to live peaceably within it. The conquering was done inside of me, to my own limits.
But there was one a few days ago that still haunts me. "Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking. You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits." (Cindy Ross). I am apprehensive to see how that one will play out.
The Trail led me away from the old canal, and through a golf course. It actually runs inside a hedgerow dissecting the course and is crossed regularly by paved golf paths, so I had to exercise caution as I came out to these little roadways: the rain had stopped, and more golfers were zipping along in carts. Apples had fallen on the Trail like little land mines, lying in wait to wreak havoc with my ankles. The wind had kicked up and the sun began to peek through the cloud cover and pervade the forest canopy. I thought perhaps I was leaving the golf course, because each side of the hedgerow had become wider and thicker with trees. Fallen pears began to join their apple comrades underfoot.
Then it was over a stile to the road, past the "Beware of Flying Golfballs" sign, and into the Woodend Conservation Area. It was quiet and serene in there, despite the roar of the QEW below. Crevices and huge layered rocks dotted the forest, in typical escarpment fashion. I passed an old ruins, perhaps a lime kiln, standing ghostly in a glade below.
The Trail brought me behind the old house, which is now an educational centre, and out to the road where my stepmother and dear friend Rhonda, who lives nearby, picked me up for the night.
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