Life
Cycles
It used to be that the coming of fall triggered within me a depression that deepened with the colour of the leaves. The first yellows and reds signaled the end of my beloved summer, a time in which the heat of the sun mirrors the fullness of life. “Fall is the most beautiful time of year,” most people say with an affected air of romance. “And if I was Tom Thompson,” I used to think, “I would agree.”
I love the smell of my camping gear. Not that virginal smell of synthetics just purchased from MEC, but the scent of a tent, tarp, and pack after years of being buffeted by wind, soaked with rain, and baked dry in the sun. It’s the smell of strain and rest, worry and calm, hunger and satiation, cold and warmth, risk and reward. The endless cycles of trial and triumph that define the wilderness experience polarize, and therefore maximize, these sensations. The smell of my camping gear is the smell of being alive.
Walking among the gold-flecked hills and vales of Hockley Valley Provincial Nature Reserve and, more recently, hiking through the fiery highlands of Algonquin Provincial Park, I am slowly beginning to recognize a connection between the cycle of the seasons and the patterns of suffering and reward I unconsciously seek in the backcountry. For me, to embrace the renewal of change is the difference between merely existing and truly experiencing life.
Cell Phone Slavery
Like many people, I own a cell phone. And like most cell phone owners, I carry it with me wherever I go. I suspect, however, that unlike most cell phone owners, I do not necessarily answer it regardless of where I am or what I’m doing. Some moments are sacred, after all, such as those spent within the bubble of contemplative silence you find yourself in while sitting on “the throne.” There is no better justification for voice mail than to delay the interruption of an incoming call during such a private moment. Believe it or not, though, I once heard someone answer a business call — while doing his — inside the toilet stall of the bathroom at my office. It made me wonder how many others take their cell phone slavery to such an extent. Would you — or have you — ever taken a call in “the can?”
Notes from the Trail
I had promised to share my notes from the trail “over the next few days.” Yes, that was a month and a half ago, but let me remind you that this blog is titled “Procrastination.” Anyway, what follows is a raw, unrefined, and fatigue-induced narrative. Allow me to preface these ramblings, however, by sharing with you the English translation of one possible Ojibwe source phrase for the name “Agawa,” after which the bay where the trail starts was named: “I barely made it here.”
Lake Superior, Part 2
August 27, 2005
Our trip started with pouring rain which lasted nearly as long as the approximately 3 hours of hiking we did this first day. We camped at Baldhead River where there are 5 sites to choose from. Ours, closest to the river, was probably the nicest. The treacherous rock shelves, radical inland topography, and fatiguing cobble beaches were all very familiar.
Staying true to the promise we’d made to ourselves, our second trip started at Coldwater River, the place [from whence] Vicki had shuttled us up to Gargantua Bay 3 years ago. The first day’s hike took us up and over Bald Head, a tiring but rewarding endeavour, as its lookouts afford you an expansive view of the Superior coast north and south. The sun had come out by the time we’d made camp, so we dried out our wet clothes and gear.
August 28, 2005
The rain fell again overnight but cleared by morning. So far, today’s hike has been sunny. The stretch from Baldhead River to Beaty Cove is not as rugged as the stretch from Coldwater to Baldhead. There is more inland trail, particularly from the midpoint campsite onwards.
The campsite halfway [to Beaty Cove] is a mini paradise in this rugged landscape. It is situated on a triangle of beach, the point of which reaches a small rocky islet. I would make a point of camping there next time.
Beaty Cove is also beautiful. There are 5 sites situated along the curve of beach in the cove. We’re at the second one [northwards]. I took a quick swim in the shallows between the beach and a small rocky islet. The water was cool but refreshing. We’ve had sun all day so far, though dark patches roll through once in a while.
Just before reaching this site, Donny fell on his knee; it doesn’t seem too serious, despite the cursing that followed. He can walk and put pressure on it, but may be on ibuprophen for the remaining hikes.
Whenever I begin these long, challenging trips, it is always with a sense of anxiety. I know it’s because, once the shuttle driver leaves us at our entry point, we’re on our own, committed to finishing the trip. This coastline, too, is quite risky, so suffering an injury could be quite a serious occurance.
But there is someting else I always feel; it is like homesickness, but for what I don’t know. The feeling diminishes the closer we get to the finish, but it does detract from my [complete] enjoyment of the whole trip. I feel like Willard from Apocalypse Now. ["When I was here I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle."] It’s the same with me. At home, I long for the majesty and serenity of the backcountry and all the challenge and reward that experience offers. Always. I can’t stop thinking or talking about it; but once I’m out here, that homesickness plagues me anew.
A couple of sea kayakers have just landed 2 sites north of us. While at Baldhead River, we met briefly a couple from Michigan; they plan to stay at Beaty Cove, too, but I haven’t seen them yet. On our way here we met another couple hiking south. I didn’t expect to see this many people. It would not have surprised me if we’d seen no one, actually.
We are at, roughly, the halfway point now. Two more days of hiking would bring us within arm’s reach of Garganuta bay and the peace of mind of reaching the car. I have to learn to live in this moment rather than anticipate the next ones. I’ve been able to moreso, lately, such as with that swim or as I write this now.
August 29, 2005
The 8 km stretch from Beaty Cove to Ryolite Cove is the most challenging, tiring, and harrowing hiking I’ve ever done. The rock shelves posed the greatest risk to energy and health, requiring you to traverse steep inclines or hop from outcrop to outcrop. Beaty to Ryolite is the toughest stretch of [this] coastal trail so far, no question.
The lookouts are a real treat. From the highest one, we could see all the way down the coastline to Bald Head, where we started 2 days ago, but even beyond that to the inlets we traversed dozens more km and 3 years ago.
Being here again, it doesn’t feel like three years have passed, perhaps because this place looks exactly like it did 3, 30, or even 300 years ago. The memories of our 2002 trip were restored to “just happened” status in my mind, adding to the time warping sensation.
The last 1.5 km of today’s hike were the most gruelling. I was already fatigued, but Donny was moving at a snail’s pace. I found myself waiting for him to catch up every five minutes [so that he could] cover the same ground in 15. He’d hurt his ankle, but it turned out that the slowdown was due to Donny not having eaten breakfast. I told him that I’d force feed him breakfast tomorrow morning. We had both known that today’s hike would be the toughest yet. Why he thought he could make it with only a granola bar baffles the mind. But, that’s Donny for you. Despite my annoyance, if not for his companionship and gusto, I’d not doing this trip now. This is not a trail I would dare hike solo.
Ryolite Cove is not quite as picturesque as Beaty, but it is still a welcome sight after a long hike. the stone beaches are open and inviting. I decided to pitch our tent on the beach. (Yes, my tunnel tent can be setup on open beach provided there are enough heavy boulders to anchor each end [with].)
We met a couple hiking with two large dogs (Saint Bernards?) at a river crossing. They were headed south. We exchanged info about the trail conditions in our respective directions, learning from the woman that we were in for some serious rock shelf climbing, which was true. By the time we reached Ryolite, another couple was just leaving. The guy mentioned that he’d had to pick up dog shit at that site, so I presumed it must have been occupied by the dog people. This couple were from Michigan – and on their “third date” [during] which the woman was “testing” the man. They were just leaving, heading back to Gargantua Bay, so I’m sure he passed.
The volcanic-looking beaches just before Ryolite are a stark contrast to the cobble beaches everywhere else. It looks like a Martian landscape except with trees and water on either side.
August 30, 2005
Today’s hike from Ryolite to Gargantua was nearly as tough as yesterday’s hike. The coastal rock shelf “walking” was definitely the most challenging and most dangerous, though. There were points along the coastal rock that seemed too steep or radical to actually be the trail, but rock cairns positioned strategically along the way confirmed what Donny has been ranting about from the start: “The people who blazed these trails were on crack.”
These sections of trail, in particular from Ryolite to the first lookouts towards Gargantua, must be taken slowly and very carefully. The risk of injury – and worse – high.
This trail is, by far, the most challenging, fatiguing, and dangerous one I’ve ever hiked, but damn well worth the sweat and strain. The coastline is beautiful in a way that something only viewable after a lot of effort can be.
Once you’ve passed the main lookout, the trail goes mostly inland, taking you up onto bald rockface for some awesome views of Superior in all her natural superiority. The weather today, after a night of rain, is clear and sunny, making the great lake [look] deep and blue. The last stretch of inland trail descends to sea level [or lake level, actually] down some very steep switchbacks until you come to a ruined cottage.
The trip from Ryolite to Gargantua (~ 4-5 km) took us nearly 4 hrs, due mostly to the extreme caution with which Donny crossed the boulder beaches. Still, we got out in one piece with no injuries.
This is a beautiful place, especially the remote sections between Coldwater and Gargantua. I think I’ll try it with a kayak next.