Adventures on The Bruce Peninsula, Georgian Bay Ontario

A triptych of essays set in — or on the road to — Ontario’s “sweetwater sea”

georgianbay

Part One: Day-Tripping Flowerpot Island, the Bruce Trail, The Grotto, and Overhanging Point on southern Ontario’s Bruce Peninsula

The Bruce Peninsula in southern Ontario separates the cooler waters of Georgian Bay from the rest of Lake Huron’s “sweetwater sea,” and makes of the Bay an unofficial, sixth Great Lake. It’s the kind of iconic Canadian landscape that drove artists such as Arthur Lismer and the other Group of Seven painters wild.

The rugged, 100-kilometre finger of pine-studded shale and limestone, set amidst the granite and precambrian rock of Shield country, points northward from the rolling hills of southwest Ontario’s farm country, all head-high corn and sulphur-bright canola, through Boreal Shield country and towns with names like Kapuskaping. North north north, to Moosonee and the wetland plains of Hudson Bay and, somewhere way up there, the beluga-backed Arctic Ocean…

Continue reading Adventures on The Bruce Peninsula, Georgian Bay Ontario

Advertisements

Georgian Bay Sea Kayak Odyssey 2006

A week with Outward Bound

Also read Georgian Bay Odyssey on Exit Booted 2.0

 

Georgian Bay Drift: the Bruce Peninsula

LakeHuron-2

Day-Tripping Flowerpot Island, the Bruce Trail, The Grotto, and Overhanging Point on southern Ontario’s Bruce Peninsula

The Bruce Peninsula in southern Ontario separates the cooler waters of Georgian Bay from the rest of Lake Huron’s “sweetwater sea,” and makes of the Bay an unofficial, sixth Great Lake. It’s the kind of iconic Canadian landscape that drove artists such as Arthur Lismer and the other Group of Seven painters wild.

The rugged, 100-kilometre finger of pine-studded shale and limestone, set amidst the granite and precambrian rock of Shield country, points northward from the rolling hills of southwest Ontario’s farm country, all head-high corn and sulphur-bright canola, through Boreal Shield country and towns with names like Kapuskaping. North north north, to Moosonee and the wetland plains of Hudson Bay and, somewhere way up there, the beluga-backed Arctic Ocean…

Leastways, that’s how it seemed to me some 25 years ago, when my buddy D. and I spent a week on the Bruce Trail, from Tobermory to Lion’s Head. During the day, we hiked the little-used trail, looking down from the rocky limestone escarpment through cold clear water which faded from yellow and emerald to the deep, dark blue of open water. At night we slept wild, pitching our tent in ruts and gullys off-trail, never an open fire and always breaking camp by dawn. Not that there were many people to stumble upon us. We had the rocky beaches and scenic overlooks such as Overhanging Point and the Grotto almost to ourselves. We starved on the thin gruel of freeze-dried “mountain stew.” D. froze at night, wrapped only in a blanket, and stepped on a massasauga rattlesnake.

It was, is, one of the best trips I’ve ever taken.

I’ve returned to Georgian Bay over the years, mostly in canoe and kayak.

Each time, I love the blue depth of sky and water, the seal-smooth rocky islets, those solitary pines, and the squalls that blow along the horizon.

But things have changed. Overhanging Point and the Grotto are still there, of course, but the trickle of visitors from nearby Cyprus Lake Provincial Park has turned into a flood of families and weekend partiers, city kids blasting their boomboxes on the trail from the camp to the water. Two new national parks, Fathom Five and Bruce Peninsula, have brought improved access and facilities, which in turn has lured a new breed of visitor to the area. Visitors from China and India and the rest of Canada arrive in honeymoon couples, in triads, in nuclear and extended families.

And the natives are restless, though for different reasons. When R. and I visited this summer, “For Sale” signs flagged a gas station, a bakery, and a waterfront home. “This might be a paradise for you,” one local, a student from nearby Owen Sound, told me, but winters are really long. “Things… happen,” she said. Fair enough. As Jim and Doug, owner/operators of Bear Cove B&B explained, a severe winter storm can leave the people around the town of Tobermory, and the peninsula’s tip, snowbound, completely cut off, for a week at a time.

Fair enough. “Been there, wouldn’t want to live there,” as they say.

Still, the Bruce Peninsula a scenic, rugged piece of landscape, as you can tell from the pictures below. But Canada wild and woolly it ain’t, not really. Debriefing back in Tokyo, R. tells me she enjoyed driving the “endless” countryside of southern Ontario on the way to the Peninsula, but wouldn’t put the landscape along the west shore of Georgian Bay in the same category as the Rocky Mountains, say. As for me, I’d love to do some more kayaking, or perhaps sailing, among the pine-studded islets of this sweetwater sea, but as for the Peninsula section of the Bruce Trail, that trip best works as a memory of a younger, fitter, more ambitious iteration of me, still at the start of my adventures.

It’s still a scenic, rugged piece of landscape, as you can tell from the pictures below. But Canada wild and woolly it ain’t, not really. Debriefing back in Tokyo, R. tells me she enjoyed driving the “endless” rolling countryside of southern Ontario on the way to the Peninsula, but wouldn’t put the landscape along the west shore of Georgian Bay in the same category as the Rocky Mountains, say. As for me, I’d love to do some more kayaking, or perhaps sailing, among the pine-studded islets of this sweetwater sea, but as for the Peninsula section of the Bruce Trail, that trip best works as a memory of a younger, fitter, more ambitious iteration of me, still at the start of my adventures.

Lake Huron

LakeHuron-3

Lake Huron Shoreline
Lake Huron Shoreline

Flowerpot Island

FlowerpotIsland-2  FlowerpotIsland-4   FlowerpotIsland-7   FlowerpotIsland-10 FlowerpotIsland

Bruce Trail: The Grotto and Overhanging Point

Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail
Bruce Trail

Georgian Bay Odyssey Rewrite

 

Georgian Bay Odyssey

Kayaking the timeless “sweetwater sea”

Around me a pod of kayakers lies beached in their sleeping bags as the drama of moon and stars and clouds plays out overhead, and I wonder what this ever-changing weather has in store for us. Part-way into a week-long trip hopping among Georgian Bay’s 30000 islands, lying on an exposed piece of pink granite, water to the horizon in front and behind, I can’t for the life of me think what day it is.

Kayaks carry us into a world measured in geologic time as we pass rocks older than dinosaurs. We wake with the sun and linger over breakfast. When the wind whistles in the trees or lightning flashes along the waterlogged horizon, we dash for shore and squat on our life jackets. When the sun shines, we play in the water like kevlar-skin seals.

We invented time to describe experience. Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end. In class, my students read Robert Frost’s poem “Nature’s First Green Is Gold” as an allegory of the seasons as stages in life: spring is childhood, the shortest and best. Summer and autumn follow, and all too soon so do the short, dark days of winter.

We measure everything this way: holidays, careers, relationships, lifespans. This sense of inevitability makes it hard to get older, with summer over just as we start to enjoy it. All we have to look forward to, we imagine, is the long, hard winter lying in wait for us. But the flux of weather under the stars and on the water reminds me that the world constantly changes, and so do we. There is no real beginning or end. Rain gives way to sun; wind and clouds are replaced with a preternatural calm — followed by a line squall blowing in from somewhere else, over the horizon.

Georgian Bay Odyssey: Outward Bound

Around me a pod of kayakers lies beached in their sleeping bags as the drama of moon and stars and clouds play out overhead, and I wonder what this ever-changing weather will have in store for us tomorrow. Part-way into this week-long trip hopping among Georgian Bay’s 30000 islands, I’ve reached an important milestone: lying on an exposed piece of pink granite, water to the horizon in front and behind, I can’t for the life of me think what day it is.

Can’t sleep, either. The muscle memory of paddling a kayak through jade water, under scudding clouds, past islands of stunted pines have messed with my nerves — still wired to the city’s neon heart. Now here I am, vulnerable on a speck of rock as smooth and bare as whalebone in a sweetwater sea. The places I have come from seem a lifetime away.

The next morning, and for all the days left in the trip, our kayaks carry us into a world measured in geologic time as we pass rocks older than dinosaurs. We wake with the sun and linger over breakfast. Instead of a daily commute, we load our boats and travel just as far as conditions allow, with no To Do lists or timetable to rule our days. When the wind whistles in the trees or lightning flashes along the waterlogged horizon, we dash for shore and squat on our life jackets. When the sun shines, we play in the water like kevlar-skin seals.

It can’t last, of course. Sometime around the coffee running out, thoughts turn to the conveniences of city life: a Starbucks on every corner; toilet paper instead of pine cones; no leeches in the bottom of your boat.

We invented time to describe experience. Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end. In class, my students read Robert Frost’s poem “Nature’s First Green Is Gold” as an allegory of the seasons and the stages of life: spring is childhood, the shortest and best; followed by summer and autumn, and all too soon the short, dark days of winter. We measure everything this way: holidays, careers, relationships, lifespans. This sense of inevitability, the relentlessness of time, makes it hard to get older, with summer over just as we start to enjoy it. All we have to look forward to, we imagine, is the long, hard winter lying in wait for us. But watching the flux of weather under the stars and on the water reminds me that the world constantly changes, and so do we. There is no real beginning or end. Rain gives way to sun; wind and clouds are replaced with a preternatural calm — followed by a line squall blowing in from somewhere else, over the horizon.