The wind and rain continued through the night, and the temperature continued to drop. By the early hours of the morning, I had snuggled deep into my mummy bag, with the hood drawn tight and only my face exposed. Still the damp reached me. I slept fitfully, waking frequently to the sounds of the storm; listening to the sound of my tent and my cooking shelter for anything breaking loose. About 4 AM the rain took on the sharper, rattling sound sleet and snow: not enough to accumulate; just enough to make me question my sanity.
Eventually a dull light penetrated the tent. I pulled on my damp clothes and climbed shivering into the morning. The wind drove a stinging drizzle before it. I hunkered under my cooking shelter, drank the last of my Starbucks instant coffee and cooked a freeze-dried Mexican omelette. As I ate breakfast I pondered my next move. My bus would not pass through Kaladar until 5 PM. Should I hang around camp, hoping for the sky to clear so that I could dry out my tent and equipment before packing it up? Should I pack it up now, wet?
The wind, rain and cold made up my mind. This was hypothermia weather. I had warm food in me, had stopped shivering, and felt some energy returning. I didn't want to spend the next hour in my damp clothes trying to force a wet, dirty tent into a bag. I didn't want to carry a pack full of wet equipment 6 km back to town, with the straps wicking water through my rain jacket. On the other hand, I didn't want to hide in my tent all day. Now was the time to leave. I packed up the essentials in my day pack, and headed for town, leaving the cooking shelter and tent in place, along with my sleeping bag, sleeping pad and non-essentials tucked inside. I would drive back the next day for them.
I walked to town in the rain. At the Subway, I ordered a breakfast sandwich and then retreated to the washroom to clean up. What a sight: six days of white beard, hair plastered from a week inside a hat, smudges of dirt. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I changed my socks and underwear. The odor... well, I couldn't do much about the odor except try not to impose it on others.
The rain ended about mid-morning, and the wind dropped. A few glimpses of sky peeked through the cloud. Rather than hang about town, I walked south about 50 m along Highway 41 to the Trans-Canada Trail and headed west. I hiked for about six kilometers, finding various points of interest: an old quarry just at the edge of town; lady's slippers blooming beside the trail; stretches of mature, northern hardwood forest; a chain of beaver ponds full of painted turtles, as well as one Blanding's turtle; songbirds; more moose tracks. About 2 PM, I turned back to town, arriving around 3:30 PM. Instead of eating again at Subway, I crossed the street to the food stand and bought a fabulous burger with fresh-cut fries. I ate it lounging at a picnic table in the weak sunlight, shoes and socks off, airing my tired, blistered, damp feet.
Sometime later the bus arrived on schedule. I climbed aboard, pleased to find it almost empty, so that no-one would have to suffer sitting beside me. Back at home that evening, I groaned in a hot bath, feeling the dirt, cold and weariness soak out of me. According to Sue, though, it was a couple of days before she could not longer detect the lingering odor of my trip.
Sunday 16 June 2013
Tuesday 11 June 2013
Kaladar Jack Pine Barrens Conservation Reserve -- Day Five (May 23)
Again, it rained all night. I could not find a good sleeping position, and a whip-poor-will called throughout the night about 30 m from the tent. I never thought that I could wish for a whip-poor-will to disappear. However, I stayed warm and dry. The rain had ceased when I rose about 7 AM.
After breakfast, I judged that the rain would hold off long enough for me to fetch water and wash my clothes. It did. By 9:15 AM, however, the skies again looked threatening. I retreated to the tent and napped until about 11 AM.
When I rose for the second time, the clouds looked more patchy, with hints of blue. I decided to risk a hike, this time on the south side of the highway. I followed the highway east about 800 m to a previously-noted pull-out, then headed toward a ridge showing on the map.
The geology of the area fascinates me. I must go back again just to check out the rocks. The "ridge" turned out to be one side of an abrupt fault occupied by a chain of beaver ponds. A series of parallel outcrops intercepted the fault perpendicularly: each outcrop overlooked the ponds, while each intervening gully carried a rill or seep toward the water. In some of the gullies, small alder swamps had developed.
I followed one of the gullies down to the bottom of fault, where one beaver pond spilled into another over a charming little beaver dam.
After breakfast, I judged that the rain would hold off long enough for me to fetch water and wash my clothes. It did. By 9:15 AM, however, the skies again looked threatening. I retreated to the tent and napped until about 11 AM.
When I rose for the second time, the clouds looked more patchy, with hints of blue. I decided to risk a hike, this time on the south side of the highway. I followed the highway east about 800 m to a previously-noted pull-out, then headed toward a ridge showing on the map.
The geology of the area fascinates me. I must go back again just to check out the rocks. The "ridge" turned out to be one side of an abrupt fault occupied by a chain of beaver ponds. A series of parallel outcrops intercepted the fault perpendicularly: each outcrop overlooked the ponds, while each intervening gully carried a rill or seep toward the water. In some of the gullies, small alder swamps had developed.
I followed one of the gullies down to the bottom of fault, where one beaver pond spilled into another over a charming little beaver dam.
Gradually I made my way back to the third, largest beaver pond. The sun broke through entirely for a few minutes. I sat in a comfortable fold of stone, took off my shoes and socks to air my poor feet, and snacked on Cliff Bars. Several painted turtles crawled out on to a log across the pond to bask. For about twenty minutes, all seemed idyllic.
Then the sky closed over again. A long black bank of cloud appeared behind the dreary, grey clouds. Ahead of it, a cold breeze picked up. I pulled on my raincoat and rain pants and began hiking back to camp. The wind continued to rise in gusts. Rain began to fall. In the space of a few minutes, I felt the temperature drop at least five degrees.
Back at camp, I cooked and ate supper in the shelter of my tarp. The rain thinned to a dreary drizzle, but band after band of cloud rolled through from the north -- cold and blustery. I retreated to the tent with plans to remain until morning or until the sun returned, whichever came first. I set a candle in my lantern and burned it for light, warmth and cheer.
To my surprise, the wind blew harder as the night wore on. At the beginning of the week, the weather forecast had called for clearing late on the 23rd, with sunshine predicted for Friday the 24th -- my last day. I kept expecting the wind to blow itself out -- surely a pressure gradient this steep had to be equally narrow. But it continued unabated, shaking the tent fly and dodging under it to sweep in through the vents. The night sounds changed: the shivering and slapping of my cooking tarp, twigs and branches snapping in the forest, mysterious patterings in the grass like footsteps. I burned the candle until I could stay awake no longer, then snuffed its comforting, yellow glow and snugged as deeply as possible in my sleeping bag.
Monday 10 June 2013
Kaladar Jack Pine Barrens Conservation Reserve - Day Four (May 22)
A good day. albeit not without mishap. The rain stopped during the night, but the mists remained. I slept later, not rising until 7:30 AM. After breakfast, I pulled all of my damp things together and went off for a hike.
I walked west along the highway and then followed a track north into the barrens. It didn't go far before crossing a small, pretty brook and then splitting in two directions. One branch continued to climb up a densely forested ridge toward a pocket of private land. The second slanted down the side of the ridge toward a stream.
I followed the upward track first, curious to see what lay at the end. Fresh moose tracks cut sharp into the damp earth. The track ended after a couple of hundred metres at a large, well-built cottage: obviously a private hunt camp. After confirming with the GPS and map that the cottage lay just over the boundary on private property, I turned back and followed the lower track toward the stream.
I crossed the stream by stepping stones. The water danced by, clear and sparkling. Trees overhung the shallow channel, forming a shady tunnel. I climbed the rocky slope on the north side of the stream. It opened up on to a circular, flat outcrop with a well-used camp circle of stones set in the middle. Another short length of track led through more trees to the prettiest beaver pond that I'd yet seen in the rock barrens -- perhaps the prettiest that I've seen anywhere.
When I arrived at the beaver pond, the sky had cleared a bit, providing welcome stretches of sunshine. I stayed by the lake for two hours, drying my jacket, pack and small items on the warm stone. Alas, that's also where I dropped my camera in the lake. I recovered it quickly, but it was out of commission for the remainder of the trip.
In the afternoon, I hiked west and north around the beaver pond, crossing it at one end by a well-established beaver dam. I then followed the low ridge east along the north side of the chain of ponds, checking the rocks in each clearing as I came to them. Just about the time that I'd decided to pick up my pace, with the threat of more rain hovering in the air, one more rock caught my attention: a little more orange than the other rocks.
It lay just as Dave Seburn had predicted: at the bottom of a rock outcrop, just where the soil began, on a south facing slope, surrounded by oak - maple forest. I caught only a brief glimpse of the skink as I turned over the rock. But there was no mistake: the size, the speed, the shape, even the blue streak of the tail (a juvenile trait). It dashed in an eyeblink under an adjacent rock and out of sight. I left without disturbing it any further. Big, big thrill.
I finished the hike by completing the circle along the ridges back to camp, skirting beaver ponds and wetlands the whole way, and crossing between ridges on beaver dams. The threatening rain held off, and the sun came out again between 5 PM and 7:30 PM. I walked to the edge of the nearby beaver pond after supper. With my camera out of service, I resorted to my pencils and pocket sketch book to capture some sense of the evening. Unfortunately, my limited skills were not up to the task, and it is difficult to tell from the sketch if one is looking at a marsh or a field.
As I settled into my tent in the darkness, the rumble of approaching thunderstorms crept closer.
I walked west along the highway and then followed a track north into the barrens. It didn't go far before crossing a small, pretty brook and then splitting in two directions. One branch continued to climb up a densely forested ridge toward a pocket of private land. The second slanted down the side of the ridge toward a stream.
I followed the upward track first, curious to see what lay at the end. Fresh moose tracks cut sharp into the damp earth. The track ended after a couple of hundred metres at a large, well-built cottage: obviously a private hunt camp. After confirming with the GPS and map that the cottage lay just over the boundary on private property, I turned back and followed the lower track toward the stream.
I crossed the stream by stepping stones. The water danced by, clear and sparkling. Trees overhung the shallow channel, forming a shady tunnel. I climbed the rocky slope on the north side of the stream. It opened up on to a circular, flat outcrop with a well-used camp circle of stones set in the middle. Another short length of track led through more trees to the prettiest beaver pond that I'd yet seen in the rock barrens -- perhaps the prettiest that I've seen anywhere.
When I arrived at the beaver pond, the sky had cleared a bit, providing welcome stretches of sunshine. I stayed by the lake for two hours, drying my jacket, pack and small items on the warm stone. Alas, that's also where I dropped my camera in the lake. I recovered it quickly, but it was out of commission for the remainder of the trip.
In the afternoon, I hiked west and north around the beaver pond, crossing it at one end by a well-established beaver dam. I then followed the low ridge east along the north side of the chain of ponds, checking the rocks in each clearing as I came to them. Just about the time that I'd decided to pick up my pace, with the threat of more rain hovering in the air, one more rock caught my attention: a little more orange than the other rocks.
It lay just as Dave Seburn had predicted: at the bottom of a rock outcrop, just where the soil began, on a south facing slope, surrounded by oak - maple forest. I caught only a brief glimpse of the skink as I turned over the rock. But there was no mistake: the size, the speed, the shape, even the blue streak of the tail (a juvenile trait). It dashed in an eyeblink under an adjacent rock and out of sight. I left without disturbing it any further. Big, big thrill.
I finished the hike by completing the circle along the ridges back to camp, skirting beaver ponds and wetlands the whole way, and crossing between ridges on beaver dams. The threatening rain held off, and the sun came out again between 5 PM and 7:30 PM. I walked to the edge of the nearby beaver pond after supper. With my camera out of service, I resorted to my pencils and pocket sketch book to capture some sense of the evening. Unfortunately, my limited skills were not up to the task, and it is difficult to tell from the sketch if one is looking at a marsh or a field.
As I settled into my tent in the darkness, the rumble of approaching thunderstorms crept closer.
Kaladar Jack Pine Barren Conservation Reserve Day Three (May 21)
It rained hard during the night: an impressive thunderstorm that passed just to the north. I woke to a heavy mist.
After breakfast, with the damp still clinging everywhere, I walked back along the trail looking for a way to the north side of the beaver pond. No luck. What I thought from my map were flattish rock barrens turned out, in fact, to be wetlands. My map simply didn't have the vertical resolution to show anything but the most prominent ridges and valleys. The ridges ran parallel to each other. I could move along them easily. But I had more trouble passing between them or traversing any breaks. Wherever the rock dipped, the beavers had been active. Beaver ponds trailed out into alder swamps thick with mosquitoes.
Finally, in late morning, I gave up. I returned the bridge, filled my water bottles, washed some clothes and gave myself a bird bath. Cleanliness felt good. I was just putting my water bottles away in my pack, quietly bent over with my back to the creek, when a loud snort startled me. I turned quickly, ready for anything: a deer, a moose, a bear. Instead, I saw a equally startled otter staring at me from twenty feet away in the creek. Then, in a tumble and flash, a entire "romp" of otters scrambled out of the creek, up and over the beaver dam, and into the pond beyond: seven of them in total. Sleek and glistening, bounding and tumbling behind each other, they followed a short, but well-worn slide -- one that I'd attributed to beavers. I rooted desperately for my camera, hoping to catch them before they'd swum too far from the pond. Unfortunately, they had already moved off more than a hundred feet before I worked my way back to the pond. Despite my best attempt to call them back in with grunts and coughs -- a tactic that I've used successfully before -- they chose to watch me from a safe distance.
By midday, the morning damp had lifted into an oppressive humidity. After lunch, I lay down for a nap. I woke to the sound of more rain and lingered in the tent until it ended about 3 PM. After considering my options, I decided to walk into Kaladar to call Sue and let her know that I'd survived the previous night's storms. It took an hour and half to get to town. I ate supper at the local Subway, spoke with Sue, picked up a few treats, and then started back to camp.
The heavy rain began on the walk back: a steady rain punctuated by rolling thundershowers. It continued well into the night, long after I'd stripped out of my wet clothes and settled into my sleeping bag.
After breakfast, with the damp still clinging everywhere, I walked back along the trail looking for a way to the north side of the beaver pond. No luck. What I thought from my map were flattish rock barrens turned out, in fact, to be wetlands. My map simply didn't have the vertical resolution to show anything but the most prominent ridges and valleys. The ridges ran parallel to each other. I could move along them easily. But I had more trouble passing between them or traversing any breaks. Wherever the rock dipped, the beavers had been active. Beaver ponds trailed out into alder swamps thick with mosquitoes.
Finally, in late morning, I gave up. I returned the bridge, filled my water bottles, washed some clothes and gave myself a bird bath. Cleanliness felt good. I was just putting my water bottles away in my pack, quietly bent over with my back to the creek, when a loud snort startled me. I turned quickly, ready for anything: a deer, a moose, a bear. Instead, I saw a equally startled otter staring at me from twenty feet away in the creek. Then, in a tumble and flash, a entire "romp" of otters scrambled out of the creek, up and over the beaver dam, and into the pond beyond: seven of them in total. Sleek and glistening, bounding and tumbling behind each other, they followed a short, but well-worn slide -- one that I'd attributed to beavers. I rooted desperately for my camera, hoping to catch them before they'd swum too far from the pond. Unfortunately, they had already moved off more than a hundred feet before I worked my way back to the pond. Despite my best attempt to call them back in with grunts and coughs -- a tactic that I've used successfully before -- they chose to watch me from a safe distance.
By midday, the morning damp had lifted into an oppressive humidity. After lunch, I lay down for a nap. I woke to the sound of more rain and lingered in the tent until it ended about 3 PM. After considering my options, I decided to walk into Kaladar to call Sue and let her know that I'd survived the previous night's storms. It took an hour and half to get to town. I ate supper at the local Subway, spoke with Sue, picked up a few treats, and then started back to camp.
The heavy rain began on the walk back: a steady rain punctuated by rolling thundershowers. It continued well into the night, long after I'd stripped out of my wet clothes and settled into my sleeping bag.
Sunday 9 June 2013
Kaladar Jack Pine Barren Conservation Reserve - Day Two (May 20th)
The second day began badly. I slept restlessly, wishing for the ibuprofen that I'd foolishly left behind. The whip-poor-wills called incessantly, along with the frogs back in the wetland. But they didn't keep me awake. My poor, old body kept me awake. Pain in my neck, hips and thighs. No position felt comfortable, and I groaned with each turn. When morning finally came, dressing in the low tent felt agonizing. Every muscle complained. My knees felt like rusted hinges.
And, then, disaster struck -- or so it seemed. When I slid my glasses on to my head, I couldn't see for mist on the lenses. So I wiped them off... along with much of the anti-reflective coating. Somehow, despite my best efforts, I had managed to get DEET (bug repellent) on them -- a very effective solvent, well known for its ability to melt plastic. Worse still, the coating didn't just strip off, but smeared across the lenses like a cloud. Water had no effect on it. The film obscured my vision so much that I feared that I would need to abandon the trip and go home. But in a moment of inspiration, I decided on a counter-intuitive course; I sprayed on more DEET, soaking the lenses. Then I scrubbed hard. After two or three applications, I had removed most of the film from the center of my vision. I found myself continually glancing over or under a few bad spots, but I could see well enough to continue with the trip, use my binoculars and spot wildlife.
Before breakfast, I went birdwatching in the thicket behind my camp. The combination of oak savannah, deciduous forest, alder swamp, old field and wetland edge attracted a delightful variety of songbirds: pairs of catbirds, brown thrashers, yellow warblers, alder flycatchers, two different vireos (I always forget which is which), a black and white warbler, rose-breasted grosbeaks, yellow-rumped warblers, a northern oriole. As I walked, the stiffness and pain of my joints began to ebb. I began to regain my good humour.
After a late, hot breakfast, I explored the ridge across the bridge, stopping en route to fill my water bottles. I concentrated my search on skinks, looking for large, flat stones near the bottom of south-facing slopes -- as suggested by an acquaintance, Dave Seburn, who wrote the COSEWIC status report on skinks. I had no luck with the elusive reptile, although I did find a green snake, a garter snake and a northern water snake. I also spotted a white-tailed deer, many beavers, moose tracks, a bear track, abundant coyote scat and the track of a wolf (I think). Down in a thicket near a beaver dam, I found a nodding trillium -- which I hadn't found in many years.
I ate my lunch late, sitting beside a large beaver pond in the middle of the rock barrens, enjoying the afternoon sun and the bug-free air. I even stretched out on the warm stone and napped.
By suppertime, fatigue began to set in. I went for a short walk after dinner and retired to my tent at nightfall.
And, then, disaster struck -- or so it seemed. When I slid my glasses on to my head, I couldn't see for mist on the lenses. So I wiped them off... along with much of the anti-reflective coating. Somehow, despite my best efforts, I had managed to get DEET (bug repellent) on them -- a very effective solvent, well known for its ability to melt plastic. Worse still, the coating didn't just strip off, but smeared across the lenses like a cloud. Water had no effect on it. The film obscured my vision so much that I feared that I would need to abandon the trip and go home. But in a moment of inspiration, I decided on a counter-intuitive course; I sprayed on more DEET, soaking the lenses. Then I scrubbed hard. After two or three applications, I had removed most of the film from the center of my vision. I found myself continually glancing over or under a few bad spots, but I could see well enough to continue with the trip, use my binoculars and spot wildlife.
Before breakfast, I went birdwatching in the thicket behind my camp. The combination of oak savannah, deciduous forest, alder swamp, old field and wetland edge attracted a delightful variety of songbirds: pairs of catbirds, brown thrashers, yellow warblers, alder flycatchers, two different vireos (I always forget which is which), a black and white warbler, rose-breasted grosbeaks, yellow-rumped warblers, a northern oriole. As I walked, the stiffness and pain of my joints began to ebb. I began to regain my good humour.
After a late, hot breakfast, I explored the ridge across the bridge, stopping en route to fill my water bottles. I concentrated my search on skinks, looking for large, flat stones near the bottom of south-facing slopes -- as suggested by an acquaintance, Dave Seburn, who wrote the COSEWIC status report on skinks. I had no luck with the elusive reptile, although I did find a green snake, a garter snake and a northern water snake. I also spotted a white-tailed deer, many beavers, moose tracks, a bear track, abundant coyote scat and the track of a wolf (I think). Down in a thicket near a beaver dam, I found a nodding trillium -- which I hadn't found in many years.
I ate my lunch late, sitting beside a large beaver pond in the middle of the rock barrens, enjoying the afternoon sun and the bug-free air. I even stretched out on the warm stone and napped.
By suppertime, fatigue began to set in. I went for a short walk after dinner and retired to my tent at nightfall.
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