journey east: day 19

june 20, 2006


Me, writing in my journal at the end of the day.

Another day comes to a close, but before getting into today's events a note about last night. Usually the last thing I do before sleeping is read. Last night, as is generally the case, I was only able to get through a couple of pages before my eyes began to lose focus. When I turned off my lamp all was black.

The night was darkest of dark in my tent. The kind where I couldn't even see my hand held in front of my face. I couldn't even make out its silhouette. The only hint of life beyond the faric of my tent walls were the sounds of the woods.. Even at that it was fairly limited sound, mainly of the human kind coming from campsites in the vicinity. Like that of Ryan and Jillian.

Ryan and Jillian are at the park to celebrate Jillian's birthday. Both live in Barrie, where I'll be tomorrow night, both work in bars and both are in their early 20's. They did the same thing last year for Jillian's birthday. Ryan said one of the first things they found in common with each other when they met was their love for this area of Ontario and it brings them to the Bruce often.

(A raccoon just jumped up on the picnic table - I have spent the last ten minutes or so totally engrossed in the campfire. What a wonder. Campfires like this, the hissing of still damp wood, the light crackling sound, flames licking into the air, the smell of smoke on the air, on my clothes, touch me deep down inside. From the depths rises a nostalgic longing for times past, for my childhood, and for times not so long left behind. While hiking the West Coast Trail the best part of the day was the end of the day gathered around a fire on the beach, playing yahtzee, drinking tea and scotch, and watching the sky grow dark and eventually fill with stars. Nothing beats it.)

This morning I immediately struck out on a hike around Cyprus Lake. Following my experiences in the Rockies it seemed too easy to hike along such level terrain. The trail wasn't very well maintained and exposed roots and rocks made for careful walking. I saw more of the ground than of scenery, but the scenery I did see made the hike worthwhile. At the western end of the Lake I crossed a short bridge spanning the sleepy creek which feeds the lake. Bull rushes grew in abundance and white lilies were just starting to bud on lily pads. The sound of bullfrogs periodically thudded through the air.


Lilies grow along the creek that feeds Cyprus Lake.

Although today's temperature didn't get up much higher than 20c it was hot in the sun. Walking among the firs and hardwoods of the trail left me refreshed for most of the hike and made for pleasant walking. It also brought a soft quality to the woods I walked through; sun and shade intermingled in a pleasant balance.

It took an hour to round the western point of the lake and return along the opposite shoreline to where the trail hooked back up with the campground. Here the path diverged: back to camp or onward to Marr Lake. I headed to Marr Lake which, according to the map, is nestled just a stone's throw from Georgian Bay.

This area, the Bruce Peninsula, is the northern point of the Niagara Escarpment. Soft limestone dolomite was laid down 400-million years ago during the paleozoic era. At the time the area was covered by an ocean, now the stone sticks up through the soil throughout the region and creates the jagged profile of the eastern shoreline along Georgian Bay. Along the trails, the soft stone is worn smooth by countless footsteps and the wear of time.

As I drew closer to Marr Lake I thought I could hear waves crashing on a beach. It was a sound that reminded me of Cape Breton. It was the sound of waves crashing not on a beach of sand, but on a beach of rounded stones or pebbles. It was a sound I hadn't been expecting. I emerged from the shaded protection of the forest and found myself at Marr Lake. Again, I had visions of Cape Breton.

A five-metre high stone bar, like a sand bar, was all that separated Marr Lake from Georgian Bay. I got my first teasing glimpse of Georgian Bay, a streak of deep ocean blue to the horizon. What a thrill it was as a cool wind blew in and I was instantly transported to Wreck Cove, Nova Scotia.

I stood at a sign post pointing travellers in a variety of directions: Bruce Trail, north or south; Georgian Trail, south; Marr Lake Trail, west (from whence I came.) I was joined by a tourist from Holland whose English was limited. He seemed to appreciate my use of the word amazing so I repeated it many times. Really, it was the only word that did justice to the place we both, each from a different land, stood on. A bar of ash coloured stones, ranging in size from a walnut to a man, stretched from headland to headland and at the shore waves came rolling in under a cloudless blue sky. What a joy. Amazing.


Three of the dozen or so hikers I passed during my hike.

I went south toward the Grotto. Beyond the beach the stones grew large, eventually giving way to bedrock. Great steps of striated stone, tiers, leading eventually to a cave worn out of the side of the escarpment I was climbing. Five metres high and a little less wide, the grotto sits at the edge the Grotto sits just above the level of the lake, but dips down beneath the water once inside. I didn't go down. For foolish and not-so-foolish reasons I didn't go down to it. I wasn't sure I was allowed into the Grotto in the first place, and considering I had to climb down to it I didn't think it was wise to make the trip alone. But more foolishly, I wasn't sure what direction the tide was going. I would hate to have been trapped down there. It wasn't until later I remembered there are no tides on the great lakes.


Looking back at the cove near Marr Lake. Georgian Bay water is a wonder.

The immensity of the Great Lakes kept messing with my head. They look like oceans, therefore they must have tides. But they don't. Additionally, the notion of dipping a cup into the ocean to quench one's thirst is absurd. But the lakes are lakes, fresh water. Drink all you want. I didn't test this latter observation. Back at the campsite I made a connection with events on east coast.

Every year, hundreds of thousands of people are drawn to Peggy's Cove just outside Halifax. They go to see the lighthouse and the quaint fishing village it's built around. Once there many go for walks along the bare, smooth, granite rocks at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. It's a spectacular place for storm watching. But every once in a while someone gets too close to all the action and ends up in the churning foam of monster waves. It's usually a rogue wave, one larger than the rest, that tricks the hapless tourist and flushes him out to see. And it seems, quite often, the poor sap is from Ontario. Is the foolishness born out of the same misunderstanding I had with the waters of Lake Superior and the Georgian Bay? Do they not understand the reach and power of an ocean?

I continued on past the Grotto to Indian Head Cove. Indian Head Cove would be a great place to take a girl on a date. Sheltered and barely 100 metres wide, the cove is framed by cliffs 20 metres high on two sides with a small pebble beach set slightly off the middle. A ledge set next to the beach was occupied by a family having a picnic. Waves periodically smashed against its leading edge and launched great plumes of water into the sky.


It was at Indian Head Cove that I realized the stone of the area was a gentle off-white, not grey as the ledgestone in the photo would indicate.

It was on the beach at Indian Head Cove where I finally clued in to the true colour of the rocks of the Bruce Peninsula. The beach was a pebble beach and the stones on its shore were worn smooth by the action of countless years of pounding surf and waves. A rolling stone gathers no moss, nor does it gain the patina of age. All through out the area were stones coloured not grey, but a subtle off-white. The beach was almost too bright to look at.

From hidden cove it was a short walk through the woods and back to the campground. It was nice to get back into the shade of the trees.


Kayakers at sunset on Cyprus Lake.

I am tired and soon will head to bed. I just walked down to the beach at Cyprus Lake and spent some time lying on my back watching the stars above. There wasn't a hint of breeze and the silence, though interrupted by the throaty cough of frogs in the distance and the odd haunting call of a wayward loon, was sorely needed.