Thursday
This has been a horribly uneven winter, with climate change extremes making it impossible to settle into a consistent winter mode. Last Thursday and Friday were cold, with daily highs just under 10 degrees Celsius. But at least they were sunny days and the trails were snow covered. It's too bad the winter sled dog races had to be cancelled a few years ago, as plentiful snowfall is no longer the norm.
On Thursday I drove my faithful sube to the end of Milk Run Road and parked at the snow plow turnaround above a steep hill. No snowmobiles or ÅTVs had ventured down the incline, and it was easier than usual clambering down the hill with the fresh snow smoothing the deep ruts.
The swamp at the bottom of the trail is frozen solid, and there was no risk crossing the final 100 yards to the intersection with the trans-Canada Trail. The trail was created when the old railroad lines were torn out many years ago. From time to time I still find lonely iron spikes which secured them.
First I headed south several hundred yards to the "shaman bridge" and then another hundred yards to "sorrow falls". I always feel sad in this area, as I have so many memories of exploring here with my little dog Chase. After reminiscing at the frozen beauty of sorrow falls I returned north to the intersection with the old milkman's path. The trail rises in a long straight path on a rail bed built to clear the swamps. Thick cedars crowd both sides like a wilderness avenue.
As I paused to plan my hike, a distant brown shape paused at the start of the incline 400 yards ahead. I remained still, and after half a minute another brown shape followed. Deer usually travel in groups, and at cautious intervals, with military precision, another five deer traversed the path.
Dr. John's pic of sorrow falls - he named the icicles 'the shaman's whiskers'
strange lone stump
limbs still, no scent
no danger
Friday
Perfect outdoor conditions continued. I decided to hike the trail to the old railroad bridge on the spur line which leads to the hamlet of Cordova Mines. When I first settled here 30 years ago I lived in Cordova in a drafty old farmhouse. Again I needed the sube to get to the trail, and I drove to Beaver Creek Road and then cut off onto Gulf Road. I haven't hiked this trail in several years, and because of its remoteness and the distance to the old bridge, it's a bit risky hiking this trail alone. But all my walking companions have grown old, or died like Chase, or are chained to bad jobs or their small screens and other addictions. As usual this would be a solo.
The start of the trail was far more rutted than in the past. The ruts were too far apart and too deep to have been made by ATVs, so I realized someone had been driving a pickup on the trail. Even with the fresh snow I slipped and slid through the ruts and progress was slow. About 20 minutes along I was crossing a swamp when a small brown shape scurried from the brush. Unlike the deer, which had been too far away to wind or see me, this little guy panicked. I couldn't immediately recognize his shape. It seemed about the size of a tiny raccoon, but his scurrying looked unfamiliar, too wild and slithering. I don't often see raccoons on my walks, and my mental image is of the brazen, junk food stuffed denizens of Toronto. Toronto raccoons remind me of their major political denizen, Doug Ford. This critter had crossed just a hundred yards ahead, and when I reached his trail I followed his prints to see if I could find him scurrying through the brush. No, the prints led directly to a tree right beside the trail. I looked up to spy a small animal curled in a crotch of branches. Mystery solved - hanging down from the terrified animal was an unmistakably ringed tail.
This was my only encounter. It took a full hour to reach the abandoned rusty bridge. The wooden side rails on the north side, where a dozen years ago I'd carved my shaman sign, had fallen far below into the beaver pond.
Chris Faiers/cricket
This has been a horribly uneven winter, with climate change extremes making it impossible to settle into a consistent winter mode. Last Thursday and Friday were cold, with daily highs just under 10 degrees Celsius. But at least they were sunny days and the trails were snow covered. It's too bad the winter sled dog races had to be cancelled a few years ago, as plentiful snowfall is no longer the norm.
On Thursday I drove my faithful sube to the end of Milk Run Road and parked at the snow plow turnaround above a steep hill. No snowmobiles or ÅTVs had ventured down the incline, and it was easier than usual clambering down the hill with the fresh snow smoothing the deep ruts.
The swamp at the bottom of the trail is frozen solid, and there was no risk crossing the final 100 yards to the intersection with the trans-Canada Trail. The trail was created when the old railroad lines were torn out many years ago. From time to time I still find lonely iron spikes which secured them.
First I headed south several hundred yards to the "shaman bridge" and then another hundred yards to "sorrow falls". I always feel sad in this area, as I have so many memories of exploring here with my little dog Chase. After reminiscing at the frozen beauty of sorrow falls I returned north to the intersection with the old milkman's path. The trail rises in a long straight path on a rail bed built to clear the swamps. Thick cedars crowd both sides like a wilderness avenue.
As I paused to plan my hike, a distant brown shape paused at the start of the incline 400 yards ahead. I remained still, and after half a minute another brown shape followed. Deer usually travel in groups, and at cautious intervals, with military precision, another five deer traversed the path.
Dr. John's pic of sorrow falls - he named the icicles 'the shaman's whiskers'
strange lone stump
limbs still, no scent
no danger
Friday
Perfect outdoor conditions continued. I decided to hike the trail to the old railroad bridge on the spur line which leads to the hamlet of Cordova Mines. When I first settled here 30 years ago I lived in Cordova in a drafty old farmhouse. Again I needed the sube to get to the trail, and I drove to Beaver Creek Road and then cut off onto Gulf Road. I haven't hiked this trail in several years, and because of its remoteness and the distance to the old bridge, it's a bit risky hiking this trail alone. But all my walking companions have grown old, or died like Chase, or are chained to bad jobs or their small screens and other addictions. As usual this would be a solo.
The start of the trail was far more rutted than in the past. The ruts were too far apart and too deep to have been made by ATVs, so I realized someone had been driving a pickup on the trail. Even with the fresh snow I slipped and slid through the ruts and progress was slow. About 20 minutes along I was crossing a swamp when a small brown shape scurried from the brush. Unlike the deer, which had been too far away to wind or see me, this little guy panicked. I couldn't immediately recognize his shape. It seemed about the size of a tiny raccoon, but his scurrying looked unfamiliar, too wild and slithering. I don't often see raccoons on my walks, and my mental image is of the brazen, junk food stuffed denizens of Toronto. Toronto raccoons remind me of their major political denizen, Doug Ford. This critter had crossed just a hundred yards ahead, and when I reached his trail I followed his prints to see if I could find him scurrying through the brush. No, the prints led directly to a tree right beside the trail. I looked up to spy a small animal curled in a crotch of branches. Mystery solved - hanging down from the terrified animal was an unmistakably ringed tail.
This was my only encounter. It took a full hour to reach the abandoned rusty bridge. The wooden side rails on the north side, where a dozen years ago I'd carved my shaman sign, had fallen far below into the beaver pond.
Chris Faiers/cricket
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