Last week I went to Manitoulin Island on vacation. I've never been, so why not. And as I went alone, I've found myself wanting to sing the island's praises to anyone who would listen. But like many vacation return experiences, most people were content to say, well that's nice, and turn me off. I can't say I blame them, I do it too. Frankly, who wants to listen to a long drawn out description of how great a time you had off in the wild blue yonder somewhere while you were stuck at work, sweating away in you cubicle, knowing full well your own vacation was months away. When I get subjected to that I suddenly want to drink heavily, not to mention find a way to shut down the person spinning such wonderful yarns about their trip.
So, instead, I'll write about it. Take that.
So without further adieu, here is the tale of Manitoulin, part one - The Bruce.
I spent the couple weeks prior to leaving making sure I was well stocked for a camping trip in Northern Ontario. In digging out my old unused camping equipment I noticed a few things missing or just plain busted. So I did what anyone would do, I bought a canoe. That of course meant buying all the stuff to go with the canoe including the straps for the roof rack. And wheels. I'm old, I ain't portaging the damn thing anymore, so yeah, I bought canoe wheels.
I also bought camp fuel, tarps, food, beer, more beer, you know, important stuff to support my canoe. Having loaded everything in the car (and on it), I set off bright and early. A long uneventful ride later I landed in Cape Croker Indian Campground on the Bruce Peninsula. I managed to get a waterfront campsite and went to work building a temporary home. Which meant throwing up a tent, tossing the canoe in the water, and cracking a beer. I was home. Across the small bay which led out to Georgian Bay, one of the highest points of the Niagara Escarpment raised itself gracefully out of the treeline, a good 200 feet sheer cliff. The Bruce Trail wound away around the bay and through the trees just yards from my site. Calm water of the bay was my swimming pool for the next couple days. I was in my glory floating there, listening to the small crests lap at the hull, listening to birds, listening to campfires on the beach, and the sound of children playing in the water. Serenity and peace. It was truly a beautiful place.
Then reality set in. Cape Croker is on a native reservation. Yeah, you know, that pesky boil water advisory. I didn't know until I saw a sign in the washroom not to drink the water. My neighbours in the next site loaned me some bottled water to hold me over until I got back to Wiarton for more supplies. They seemed like nice people, very helpful and personable. A middle-aged couple on a short getaway from Windsor.
Wait, WHAT?
Windsor? Stop following me people! I'm trying to get away from you!
Having passed the water test, as I really couldn't cook with beer, it was off to float more, and actually paddle somewhere to see where I really was. I headed off across the bay all the while realizing that the water was not getting deeper. Only two feet of crystal clear water. Rocks and fish were very visible the whole trip. So many fish I could have simply reached in and grabbed dinner with my hands. A half hour across the bay, water lilies and reeds sprang forth and slowed my advance. A cluster of marshes led to the opposite shore, and soon enough the campers of another park began to emerge from the trees. The escarpment now was in full view, a solid wall of rock rising from the narrow forest. From my vantage point I could see a large cave near it's base, I made a mental note to think about spelunking later.
I turned back to the camp, and by now it was twilight. If you've never had the chance to canoe at night, you've missed out on the most peaceful serene experiences. As you glide silently across the water the stars begin to appear almost negating twilight itself. The moon lights the way home for you as its reflection casts itself in front of the bow. Nightlife begins, birds, fish, and even bugs create a symphony of nature that must be experienced from the most remote of places. Alone on the water is all you need to truly reflect on life.
I passed a beaver dam on the way back, big enough that I could have pulled the canoe up like an island and gone exploring. However I'm sure Mom and Pop Beaver wouldn't have appreciated me calling on them that late. I carried on, using the fires of the campsites alone the shore to home in on my own, and seeing my familiar car in the driveway, pulled in for the night. Another beer, a crackling fire, and copious quantities of bugspray later, I was in my happy place.
The next morning I headed out for water to replace what I had borrowed. Wiarton was about twenty minutes down the road. It was about that time I noticed my shoes were now shit, and falling apart. So that would have to be rectified. The drive to Wiarton is gorgeous. Past farm fields full of rock piles that were never cleared, down more laneways than highways. Unmarked roads with trees overhanging them, right to the edge, no shoulders. Occasionally I passed a mailbox. People lived out here, sporadically, and mostly alone, and nowhere could I see a house through the trees.
When I got to Wiarton I realized I'd have to keep going. No shoe stores. The next place to get anything was Wal-Mart in Owen Sound (shudder). As I drove back down the Bruce I assembled a shopping list so I wouldn't have to do this again. 45 minutes one way, ran in, bought a new air pump, water and shoes, and ran out. 45 minutes back to Cape Croker.
It took me an hour and a half on the highway to buy shoes that didn't fit.
You see, I'm the guy that never tries anything on. I know my size of shoe, I know my jean size, I know my shirt size. I grab and go. This time however, grabbing and going cost me. My mismarked size 9 shoes are still sitting here, waiting for a new home. Yeah. Slipping on my old shit shoes I made myself some dinner, cracked yet another beer, and found my campfire. I believe that night was spicy chicken breasts and garlic asparagus cooked on the coleman stove.
More canoeing, more talking to neighbours, more bird watching, then I hit the Bruce Trail. I walked a few kilometres of the trail, with my trusty walking stick, and small pack with water, first aid kit, and my bush knife. Basics for this kind of trek, but of course, shitty shoes. I never did find the mouth of the cave. The Bruce Trail is well maintained and marked, but that doesn't mean you can't lose your way sometimes. Once off it, you're done. Backtrack or find another way. I found a road that eventually brought me to my site. Enough for the day. Sore feet, sore back, sore arms, happy heart. I was in my element once again.
The next day was ferry day. I packed up, paid up, thanked my hosts and my neighbours, tied down the canoe and headed up the Bruce. I took the scenic route of course, through tiny villages like Lion's Head and Dyers Bay, and Ferndale. Past lakeside cottages and fishing boats, past local coffee shops and picturesque parks. The Bruce ends in a trap called Tobermory. Sorry, I mean town. Not trap, that would denote pandering to tourists. Oh, wait. Okay, trap.
The saying goes the Bruce beckons. And it does. It's gorgeous. Wiarton is known as the basecamp for the Bruce, and the large billboard outside of town welcomes you to The Bruce Peninsula - A UNESCO World Heritage Biosphere. Simply put one must go here. At some point in your lives you must experience the beauty of this place. It's not my first time here and certainly won't be my last.
And I haven't even gotten on the ferry yet.
More later.
Cheers.
So, instead, I'll write about it. Take that.
So without further adieu, here is the tale of Manitoulin, part one - The Bruce.
 |
| Paradise Found |
I also bought camp fuel, tarps, food, beer, more beer, you know, important stuff to support my canoe. Having loaded everything in the car (and on it), I set off bright and early. A long uneventful ride later I landed in Cape Croker Indian Campground on the Bruce Peninsula. I managed to get a waterfront campsite and went to work building a temporary home. Which meant throwing up a tent, tossing the canoe in the water, and cracking a beer. I was home. Across the small bay which led out to Georgian Bay, one of the highest points of the Niagara Escarpment raised itself gracefully out of the treeline, a good 200 feet sheer cliff. The Bruce Trail wound away around the bay and through the trees just yards from my site. Calm water of the bay was my swimming pool for the next couple days. I was in my glory floating there, listening to the small crests lap at the hull, listening to birds, listening to campfires on the beach, and the sound of children playing in the water. Serenity and peace. It was truly a beautiful place.
Then reality set in. Cape Croker is on a native reservation. Yeah, you know, that pesky boil water advisory. I didn't know until I saw a sign in the washroom not to drink the water. My neighbours in the next site loaned me some bottled water to hold me over until I got back to Wiarton for more supplies. They seemed like nice people, very helpful and personable. A middle-aged couple on a short getaway from Windsor.
Wait, WHAT?
Windsor? Stop following me people! I'm trying to get away from you!
Having passed the water test, as I really couldn't cook with beer, it was off to float more, and actually paddle somewhere to see where I really was. I headed off across the bay all the while realizing that the water was not getting deeper. Only two feet of crystal clear water. Rocks and fish were very visible the whole trip. So many fish I could have simply reached in and grabbed dinner with my hands. A half hour across the bay, water lilies and reeds sprang forth and slowed my advance. A cluster of marshes led to the opposite shore, and soon enough the campers of another park began to emerge from the trees. The escarpment now was in full view, a solid wall of rock rising from the narrow forest. From my vantage point I could see a large cave near it's base, I made a mental note to think about spelunking later.
I turned back to the camp, and by now it was twilight. If you've never had the chance to canoe at night, you've missed out on the most peaceful serene experiences. As you glide silently across the water the stars begin to appear almost negating twilight itself. The moon lights the way home for you as its reflection casts itself in front of the bow. Nightlife begins, birds, fish, and even bugs create a symphony of nature that must be experienced from the most remote of places. Alone on the water is all you need to truly reflect on life.
I passed a beaver dam on the way back, big enough that I could have pulled the canoe up like an island and gone exploring. However I'm sure Mom and Pop Beaver wouldn't have appreciated me calling on them that late. I carried on, using the fires of the campsites alone the shore to home in on my own, and seeing my familiar car in the driveway, pulled in for the night. Another beer, a crackling fire, and copious quantities of bugspray later, I was in my happy place.
The next morning I headed out for water to replace what I had borrowed. Wiarton was about twenty minutes down the road. It was about that time I noticed my shoes were now shit, and falling apart. So that would have to be rectified. The drive to Wiarton is gorgeous. Past farm fields full of rock piles that were never cleared, down more laneways than highways. Unmarked roads with trees overhanging them, right to the edge, no shoulders. Occasionally I passed a mailbox. People lived out here, sporadically, and mostly alone, and nowhere could I see a house through the trees.
When I got to Wiarton I realized I'd have to keep going. No shoe stores. The next place to get anything was Wal-Mart in Owen Sound (shudder). As I drove back down the Bruce I assembled a shopping list so I wouldn't have to do this again. 45 minutes one way, ran in, bought a new air pump, water and shoes, and ran out. 45 minutes back to Cape Croker.
It took me an hour and a half on the highway to buy shoes that didn't fit.
You see, I'm the guy that never tries anything on. I know my size of shoe, I know my jean size, I know my shirt size. I grab and go. This time however, grabbing and going cost me. My mismarked size 9 shoes are still sitting here, waiting for a new home. Yeah. Slipping on my old shit shoes I made myself some dinner, cracked yet another beer, and found my campfire. I believe that night was spicy chicken breasts and garlic asparagus cooked on the coleman stove.
 |
| The Bruce Trail. Notice the trail marker on the tree. Sometimes, trees fall down. The trail is 717kms long, starting in Niagara and ending in Tobermory. |
The next day was ferry day. I packed up, paid up, thanked my hosts and my neighbours, tied down the canoe and headed up the Bruce. I took the scenic route of course, through tiny villages like Lion's Head and Dyers Bay, and Ferndale. Past lakeside cottages and fishing boats, past local coffee shops and picturesque parks. The Bruce ends in a trap called Tobermory. Sorry, I mean town. Not trap, that would denote pandering to tourists. Oh, wait. Okay, trap.
The saying goes the Bruce beckons. And it does. It's gorgeous. Wiarton is known as the basecamp for the Bruce, and the large billboard outside of town welcomes you to The Bruce Peninsula - A UNESCO World Heritage Biosphere. Simply put one must go here. At some point in your lives you must experience the beauty of this place. It's not my first time here and certainly won't be my last.
And I haven't even gotten on the ferry yet.
More later.
Cheers.
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