Humber summer numbers

I actually did a fair amount of exploring on the Humber the latter half of the summer, but I never bothered to blog about it. I suppose now that the summer's over and it can all be more or less consolidated, it might make sense to do so.

The first place was a gap I noticed in the road grid where it seemed to me a road might once have crossed by no longer does. Such places are endlessly fascinating to me; the idea that people could once travel somewhere we no longer can always makes me a little wistful. I like to go to places like that and look for hints of bridges — or much better yet, bridges that still exist but are now closed to vehicle traffic — and try to picture it as it once was. The gap in question was where one of concession lines meets the West Humber River.

I went out there on a rainy morning towards the end of July. The closed part of the concession there is not very long... it only takes about five minutes to reach the river, if that, at least on the north bank. Where the road meets the river, there was no hint of its south leg on the opposite shore. The was certainly no hint of a bridge, though with such lightly-travelled roads, it's always possible that modest wooden structure was utterly erased by the floodwaters of Hurricane Hazel in October, 1954, and simply never replaced. I decided to take a little time and wander the river itself, so I stepped into the water and headed a little east. I found this beautiful little spot, a kind of a pool created by forest debris, possibly accumulated on an old beaver dam, and I found a fallen tree to settle down on. I guess I spent about a half an hour there before I started wondering about the road at the other side, and I headed back to the car to make my way over. Funny how it goes... the far side I wanted to explore was probably not 150 feet from where I first came down, but I probably had to drive two or three miles to get back to the heights on the other side.

 

The roadway down on the south side was a lot more substantial. It made a long, sweeping curve down to the river, and took about ten minutes to follow down. Despite the fact that on either side, the road came clear down to the river bank, there was no hint anywhere that there'd ever been a way to cross in a car. The two parts didn't seem to meet up.  There must have been a gap of something like 50 to 100 feet between them... not impossible to bridge, but possibly more than people wanted to be bothered with. Still... if you weren't going to cross the river... why build roads right down to it in the first place? I can't make up my mind if there were ever a bridge there or not. Anyway, the principal discovery of the trip was that tranquil pool further east. I came back to it with P-Doug the following weekend and we explored. In the middle of the water a bit further east we found something that was like a natural pagoda, a sort of little sitting area made up of towering old trees, open at the top. The warm sunlight streaming down made it a wonderful place to sit and soak; the water was three to four feet deep but traveled through it so slowly it was nearly becalmed. It was a perfect place in nature and I'll never forget it.

 

The next spot was quite a bit closer to town; a conservation area up in the northwest end. The valley walls there are short, but steep, and that made it a real challenge for us to get to the river. Once P-Doug and I were at the river, the only way to get around, at least initially, was via the river itself. But, as before, it was several feet deep, so we stripped below the waist and followed the river along till we could trek across the forest floor, taking shortcuts from one bend in the river to the next. After a while we came to a fantastic sandy landing opposite a steep bank. We spent an hour or more in the sunny water before retiring to the shady bank. Again, it was a sweet slice of nature. The only note detracting from it was the faint but ever-present sound of the nearby highway traffic, not quite a mile off.

 

 

 

The final spot was back to a place on the river we've been a dozen times before, except we travelled beyond it to a new location through the woods. We went nude hiking into the hills there a few years ago and decided to do it again, this time making our way through the woods to the river on the far side of the bend. The hills in question are on a peninsula that's practically rendered an island as the river bends back upon itself. We carried our clothes across the river and stowed them on the peninsular side, then started the climb. I'd actually done this by myself a few weeks earlier when we'd been there but he had elected to stay and soak in the river on the near side. Retracing my route, we reached the place we got to the first time, at the heights, and travelled beyond it. On our way down on the far side, we came across this strange landing in the woods make up of trash and abandoned furniture. It looked for all the world like a long-abandoned spot for teenage make-out parties. We looked around it for a few minutes in curiosity before moving on to make our way down to the river. I showed him the bleached fallen log on the opposite bank that I'd forded to and sat upon in the sun. This time, it was his turn to cross over and to wander the river there; for myself, I reclined in the sun amid the long grass. He satisfied his curiosity for the river and joined me in the sunbathing spot after about half an hour or so, and we just whiled away the early afternoon there. Eventually we wandered back into the forest and up the hill, down the other side to find our stowed clothes (funny how different landmarks look from the forest instead of the river...), and headed into the nearby town to liberate a few beers from imprisonment in cold, dark kegs. It more or less represented the end of the summer, but a summer spent enjoying nature while in a matching  state is one well-spent in my opinion. :)

A study in contrasts

In the past week, P-Doug and I have been back twice to a nice place on the Humber we had kind of forgotten about since last summer. Even though only three days separated the two visits, the difference in conditions was astounding.

Saturday we arrived around noon. The river was shallower than it had been the previous time I'd visited (a couple of weekends earlier, by myself), and the riverbed was clear and visible. When we stepped in and wandered down the river to our bathing spot, it barely even wet the hems of my shorts. When we arrived, we undressed and sat under the overhanging shade tree. The day was hot and humid, the water was quite warm for this early in the summer, and the sun was blazing. Even in the shade, you could feel its might.

A couple of summers ago, we had gone nude hiking into the hills there. That side of the river is on a large isthmus that is very nearly an island, and will be soon, I think. P-Doug wasn't game for it this time, fearing the bugs, but I set off on my own and climbed the hill, made my way down the far side, and crossed the river. A climbed the far bank and sat for a while on a bleached white log left in the grass by some long-ago flood, and watched the river. After I bit I crossed back over to the isthmus side and settled back in the grass to lie in the sun. Eventually I made my way back up into the forest and down to where he was still enjoying the water. The bugs had never bothered me. We both got a bit of a burn that day, though; his worse than mine because I spent about an hour of it in the forest.

Wednesday was Canada Day so we decided to go back. It was overcast and only warm, rather than hot. When we got to the river, it was the colour of hot chocolate, and obviously far deeper, even to look at. It had rained quite a bit in the previous two days and we had to undress before even stepping in. The current was surprisingly fast, and it was deeper than we'd even guessed, not to mention somewhat cooler. I was still wearing my shirt and eventually even the bottom of that was soaked. By the time we got to our usual spot and I could take it off, we were at parts that were armpit deep. I've never seen the river as deep as that at that spot. It was anytime we turned to work against the current that we realized just how strong it was; it was hard even to take a step against it. I decided to be prudent with my backpack and put it on road side of the river rather than the isthmus side so I wouldn't have to carry it back across. We spotted a flat, muddy landing on the isthmus side and struggled to reach it, and ended up spending most of our time there, half in and half out of the river. There was really no place shallow enough to actually sit down in the river itself this time. We spent some time there before fighting our way back to the road side where our clothes and food were, and ate sandwiches and oranges on the grassy side of the bank. We sat briefly under the tarp I carry on hikes when it started raining, just enough to give the day another interesting detail.

Eventually we decided to drift off. I prevailed upon P-Doug not to attempt wading back to the initial landing against the current on this day, but suggested instead climbing the steep valley wall behind us back to the old road. He was eventually persuaded, and I spotted what looked like a deer trail and made my way towards it. He gathered his things and followed, and ended up doing a few minutes of nude hiking in spite of things. When we reached the top, we dressed, checked out the trail a bit, and headed back. It was the nicest way to spend Canada Day and really celebrate the great outdoors of this country that I could think of. :)

Conquering Richardson Road

This Saturday, P-Doug and I made our way to the other Nottawasaga River access we were interested in, Richardson Road. Actually, it was the one I spotted first and brought to his attention. He suggested McKinnon (where we went three weeks ago) as an alternate. But this weekend, we made our way to the river down the first road.

Seen from above, the road looks very open. Even with the trees crowding in, there's a definite space between them. And the road was, indeed, unmistakable nearly all the way down. But it wasn't really what I expected.

It was a bit after noon when we arrived. We parked at the end of the maintained road. We probably could have driven further, but first all, we came for the hike, and secondly, I really didn't want to bust an axel or something just to save ten minutes of walking. The road continued on down between two fields, till it came at last to a thick forest. It was overcast, so I wasn't all that concerned about the sun, but given that we were heading into wetlands, we got well set-up with bug repellent as we set out.


The forest trail was blocked off by a steel gate to keep out ATVs (thank you!!), but the way was also strewn with fallen trees every so often that would have made the trip impossible for them... some of them were troublesome even on foot. And they would have had to stay scrupulously on the trail. The nature of the road was unlike any I'd seen before. It was cut through a swamp reminiscent of things I've seen of the Everglades or the bayou in Louisiana. It had obviously been artificially raised above the swamp, with culverts cut into it that the swamp itself had seen fit to supersede with its own methods of transference over time. P-Doug was particularly impressed with what he called the high water marks on the trunks of the trees; they were at eye-height for us, even standing on the road.


As I said, there were a number of places where the swamp had taken it upon itself to balance the water on either side of the road. There were so many fords of water, streaming northeasterly, that I lost count of them. Six, maybe seven, and every one of them different in some aspect. Some were simply one foot in, one foot out; others were fifty feet wide. Some were deep with slippery clay bottoms; others were rafts of plants where I barely got my ankles wet. They were all a challenge, and one I would have delighted in wholly if it were not for the fact that I was carrying two of my cameras with me... and one of them had already been expensively repaired last fall after getting soaked in the Grand River. Otherwise I wouldn't have cared much at all about falling in. But as it was, I was concerned about the cameras, so I put them in the backpack for what little protection that would offer; at least they wouldn't be out, swinging around to potentially put me off-balance.


The road surface changed enormously as we went. It started off as dry gravel, became soft grass, and then in the forest, cool clay and earth. There were places where it was running wet. Mosquitoes were around, but they didn't seem really pronounced until we came to the strangest part of the road of all – completely overgrown with grasses, and ones that grew taller and thicker the further we went. In these places, great swarms of mosquitoes emerged to challenge us for our blood. Most were dissuaded by the bug spray, and those that weren't were often martyred to a quick slap. Even though they largely left us alone, the whining in the ears was highly disconcerting.

The grass on the road was so thick and full that I started wondering if we'd even know the river when we saw it, or would just fall in! Finally I could sunlit trees beyond the gloomy ones, and I knew we'd reached the river. But nature wasn't done with making it tricky yet. We encountered our big nemesis of the past couple of summers there as we approached the water's edge – stinging nettles. These saw-edged, stinging plants that are sheer torture. The slightest contact with them is like having a sharp blade run against your skin, combined with an itch. They really seem to concentrate near the edge of rivers, so for us, the last minute or two of getting to the Nottawasga was an ordeal that the mosquitoes couldn't hold a tiny candle to. They were raking my feet, my shins, my hands when I'd try to brush them aside. And just as we reached the river, we realized we were at the edge of a steep bank... with a very nice broad bank about fifty feet away to our right... through more of the forest. What could we do? We fought on through the nettles and finally reached the bank... where we stood on the clay, panting and cursing and waiting for the pain to subside.

This part of the river was strewn with old fallen trees and logs. There were plenty of places to sit down, so we did. We could finally look around. For all the trouble it took to get to it, it was glorious, and I got to see all the things I really love to see on these hikes. Everything natural. We had the river, places to sit, the bank to wander, the trees all around, and a sky that was first sheltering and then opened up the sun to us when we were ready to receive it.


We decided to try out the river, even though we knew it was too cool yet to really get far. Upper thigh depth seemed to be the prudent place to stop. P-Doug did find a fallen tree that was just exactly positioned to allow him to sit but not get too immersed in the cool water; I reclined on the bank. The bank itself was clay that would support us in some places, but swallow us to the knees in others. I developed a habit of crawling, which seemed to work far better than having to step, sink, haul myself out, and repeat over and over. We covered the place in footprints before we settled back to just enjoy the place.


After a while, we got hungry and wandered back to where we'd left all our stuff and took on the tuna and cracker snack packs he'd brought with him, and the navel oranges. P-Doug had seen evidence of a previous visitor, probably a local fisherman, and he told the sort of tale Tonto might have told the Lone Ranger as he interpreted the missteps, falls, and foibles he read in the clay. After we'd been there an hour and a half or so, we washed in the river, suited up, and prepared ourselves to run the gauntlet of stinging nettles, smothering grasses, tripping hazards, mosquito clouds, and camera-eating fords again. He picked a course that was mercifully sparse of stinging nettles, and off we went.


The trip back seemed considerably shorter to me than the trip down. I think I enjoyed it more. I measured it all out this morning and it was about two-and-a-quarter miles, about half of it the most challenging course I think we've undertaken. But it's exactly what I miss whenever the weather gets cold. So here's to summer.

McKinnon at last

P-Doug and I have been intending to make a trek up a closed road called McKinnon Road since early this spring. It’s a bit west of Barrie and runs alongside the Nottawasaga River. We actually undertook the trip early in April, but the weather was against us. By the time we got there, it was actually snowing! Pretty much every weekend since then that it’s been proposed, the weather’s been cold and wet. Finally, this weekend past, we got decent weather and gave it a shot on Sunday.

P-Doug picked me up a little after 10 in the morning, and we were at the end of the driveable road a bit before noon. That in and of itself is further than we got last time, when the road just beyond the pavement was flooded and closed to cars.

It wasn’t a promising start. Immediately after the closure of the road was a huge, swampy puddle, and visible beyond that was another. Much as I enjoy wet, soft soil underfoot on our explorations, even I thought that a mile or more of that would be slow going and not very enjoyable. Nevertheless, we decided to give it a go. I was on the point of tucking my sandals into the cargo pocket of my shorts, but at the last moment I elected to leave them in the car and undertake the trek without recourse to them, come what may.


The further we went, the more amenable the path became. We emerged from the swampiness after about twenty minutes. We saw some interesting things… a patch of trees standing in water that reminded us of the Louisiana bayou, where P-Doug spotted a raccoon washing some grub and then swimming away… snowmobile paths marked off with tall orange stakes… a couple of guys speaking French as they sat beside the river, possibly fishing (they were the only other people we actually saw that day, though there were plenty of boot prints on the path)...

We took out time, but after about an hour, we saw one of the things we’d really come to see. It was a bridge we’d seen in the Google Maps shots of the river. In those pictures, it seemed to both of us, we were looking at a crude wooden structure… something so rudimentary it seemed certain to me to be something private and long abandoned. Imagine our amazement when we found, instead, an elaborate and gorgeous steel bridge! Still in fine condition, with an intact concrete roadbed and aluminum paint, it seemed almost hilariously out of place, serving a road that by now is barely discernible even in aerial photos.


When we stood on it, P-Doug noticed that it had a rare feature: in the concrete along the north side was written the name of the bridge, the date of its construction (September, 1927), and the names of the men responsible for its construction. It was a rare, precise, personal connection with the past. Why it was built to serve a road in such a place with such hopeless drainage and unlikely future, we can only guess. But it was, and it seems a real shame it stands there alone, essentially useless.


We walked a little beyond it. We saw what looked like the remnants of the pillars of someone’s driveway gate. We shot the beautiful bend of the river, and then began our way back. Just east of the river, I broke off from P-Doug for a moment to try to reach the sandy banks. Stinging nettles finally defeated me and I came back to my friend on the bridge. We lingered for a bit, and then retraced our course.


I hope we go back. It really was a lovely, variable place, full of interesting sights and possibilities. Furthermore, for me, it was a fantastic hike, three hours and at least as many miles over just about every imaginable surface: swamp, mud, rocky streams, clay, sand, grass, forest floor, ferns, concrete… In Germany and Austria, they have the institution of “barefoot parks”. The idea behind them is related to reflexology, and in practical terms, they give people a chance to explore nature and its textures by walking barefoot over and through it. They seem a bit contrived to me. McKinnon Road, on the other hand, I think would serve that purpose magnificently, and naturally, without any sort of embellishment. If you’re amenable to that sort of hiking, and I know there are others who are, I’d encourage you to give McKinnon Road a try on some warm day.