THE EXPLORATION PROJECT

Paleo Nutrition

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 02 Feb 2015 03:00:00 +0000

I played in a beach volleyball tournament this weekend, my first since going paleo in the summer, 2014. In the spring, I had begun to have severe stomach pain and didn't know what was up. I did an elimination diet where I got so tired from cooking, my attention drifted while making homemade mayonnaise and I blended my finger. No stitches needed, thankfully. While that wasn't pleasant, the diet did help me figure out that grains and I, we just don't mix. Enter paleo. Well, modified paleo. Because I still eat cheese. Can't give that shit up. And rice, although there is debate about that in the paleo community, from what I gather.

My daily nutrition plan has been working well for me. I eat a lot of vegetables and meat, a bit of fruit and nuts, and a little bit of cheese. Generally, I only have a starchy carb, like sweet potato, squash, or rice, at dinner. Day to day, my energy is great. But, lately, as I have picked up my hiking adventures, weight lifting, and volleyball playing, I have been bonking when I go for an hour or more. Especially this weekend, where 7 games of volleyball left me low on fuel mid-way through the tournament.

I've come up with three mistakes I made this weekend, and what I need to do to support my energy for activities where I am out for more than an hour. After all, I'm no longer sixteen (I'm 37) but magically think that I can treat my body just like when I was a teenager.

Mistake #1: Not enough carbs!

I didn't eat any starchy carbs at breakfast on the day of the tournament. I should have included a sweet potato, and perhaps an energy gel mid-way through the day. Fruit and chocolate were my fueling snacks for the day, and that didn't cut it. I also didn't have any safe carbs at night, so that was poor planning on my part.

Mistake #2: Dehydration

I was dehydrated the day before, when I should have been ensuring that my body was well hydrated. Obviously this carried into the next day, when I needed adequate hydration.

Mistake #3: Lack of Sleep

It's so hard to go to bed when there's Twitter. It's a slight addiction, along with CandyCrush, I won't pretend otherwise. But the older I get, the more I need my sleep to ensure I can do the physical activity I love.

Here's to learning from my mistakes and moving forward. I am hoping adequate nutrition, hydration, and sleep can take me to the next level of my hiking and adventure goals!

The Screaming Tunnel - Niagara Falls, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 01 Feb 2015 15:56:00 +0000

One of Ontario’s most enduring urban legends is the legend of the “Screaming Tunnel”.

The Screaming Tunnel is an abandoned rail tunnel in Niagara Falls just off of Warner Road. It was initially constructed in the early 1900’s but was abandoned after funding was restricted in the wake of World War 1. It is now the site of an urban legend that says that the tunnel is haunted by the ghost of a little girl that burned alive in the tunnel. One legend states that the little girl’s house caught on fire and that she ran into the tunnel and rolled on the tunnel floor in an attempt to extinguish the flames. Other versions of the legend state that her father became enraged after losing a custody battle over her and chased her into the tunnel, doused her with gasoline, and burned her alive. According to legend, if you light a match in the middle of the tunnel, it will blow out and you will hear the scream of the little girl. Some say you might also see the ghost of the girl’s father coming into the end of the tunnel.

Before going to the screaming tunnel, I had read information about others having been disappointed by its small size. I was not at all disappointed and found this tunnel very atmospheric. I went during the day and didn't light a match but who knows . . .

The Screaming Tunnel was also featured in the 1983 film, "The Dead Zone", and is in its trailer.

Three Things I liked best about St. John's Newfoundland: The Views, The Whales, and The Man in the Fur Bomber Cap.

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Thu, 29 Jan 2015 02:55:00 +0000

The three things I liked best about St. John's, Newfoundland: The Views, The Whales, and the Man in the Fur Bomber Cap.

The Views

It all started out very touristy. The classic climb to Signal Hill—a hill overlooking the city of St. John's, where the final battle of the Seven Years war was fought in 1762. It's also the location where the first wireless transatlantic signal was received by Guglielmo Marconi in 1901.

My travelling companion was my sister and we started out on the street, climbing up Signal Hill Road. Cab drivers had said it was "crazy" to climb the hill, it being steep and long. We thought they vastly overestimated the effort it took to climb, and veered off to scramble up the hill itself. It was July and purple thistles and other pretty underbrush were in bloom as we reflected on the views before us. St. John's harbour, with orange oil rigs and Coast Guard ships lined neatly in a semi-circle, and the Atlantic Ocean, framed by the craggy, grass-covered rock Newfoundland is known for. It was a sweet morning, taking pictures and meditating on the landscape.

St. John's Harbour—View from Signal Hill

Atlantic Ocean—View from Signal Hill

The Whales

In the afternoon, we booked a whale-watching boat tour. "Iceberg Quest" was the name of the company who promised to "sail in search of icebergs and whales on a true Newfoundland cultural adventure". With the large number of people lined up for the boat, I thought it might be a cultural adventure just boarding ship. But, we all fit, and off we went in search of whales, as the summer 2014 was too warm for icebergs.

I had heard other's tales of whale watching tours where typically none to few whales were spotted. So I was excited when the Captain directed our attention to the first whale and I took this lousy picture.

Then I put the camera away. I erred on the side of probability that I wasn't going to capture best picture award for my wildlife photography. I'm glad I did. Because soon people were gasping in awe while pointing, cheering and clapping as humpback whales dove and breached beside the boat. Two came up beside my sister and I, playfully rolling onto their backs, showing their white underbellies that looked aquamarine in the water and the knobbiness of their jaws. One went under the boat and another breached within arms reach beside us. Not even the couple fighting beside us (awkward!) could ruin the magnificence of seeing these creatures in their habitat.

The wind whipped our hair as we headed back to the harbour, passing sea caves and puffins skipping along the water, East Coast folk music blaring out a loudspeaker. It was one of those moments in time where if you died right then and there, you could say you experienced life, really lived. I was happy.

The Man in the Fur Bomber Cap

We decided to end our day by buying tickets to the George Street Festival, an annual festival where thousands of people cram onto the pedestrian-only and pub-filled George Street to see live bands, drink, and dance. We hadn't known about the festival until we checked into our hotel, but decided we didn't want to miss out on a piece of fun East Coast culture. The whole day had been like this, spontaneous and serendipitous.

Seven thousand people occupied the two-block long George Street; standing in the street, hanging out of windows, sitting on patios, and drinking in bars. People donned yellow rain hats and we were given some gaudy red flashing glasses to wear. The band Shanneyganock headlined and everyone sang along to the East Coast tunes. Thanks to my third grade teacher, I was able to join in for Drunken Sailor and Ise the Bye.

George Street Festival, 2014

Sailor Rain Hats. A George Street Tradition?

Um, what?

The man in the fur bomber hat topped the night. He was operating a hot-dog cart while wearing his fur cap and a dead-pan face. It seemed his best accessory were his tongs, which he used to rhythmically flip his hot dogs in sync with the music. His head bopped and his body jerked. He did this all at a feverish rate. I couldn't stop staring. I wish I had taken a picture.

My Saturday in St. John's was one of those days that stick in your head, a series of simple, wonderful, and funny moments. Moments that I hope will allow me to revel in nostalgia if I'm lucky enough to grow old. These memories of the views, the whales, and the man in the fur bomber cap.

If You Go:

Signal Hill National Historic Site: http://www.pc.gc.ca/eng/lhn-nhs/nl/signalhill/index.aspx

Iceberg Quest: http://icebergquest.com/

George Street Festival: http://www.georgestreetlive.ca/festivals/george-street-festival/

Also, I beg you to check out Raymond's Restaurant. The best meal I've had of my life, so far. Voted top restaurant in Canada in 2014. http://www.raymondsrestaurant.com/

Beginning my Journey. Section Hiking the Bruce Trail.

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 26 Jan 2015 02:27:00 +0000

On January 3, 2015, I began my goal of hiking the Bruce Trail. I plan to section hike the trail a few times a year, making this a long, but worthwhile, journey. I took a video at the Southern Cairn in Queenston, Niagara, to commemorate my beginning.

Failure, More Failure, and Algonquin Park. How Nature Healed Me.

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Thu, 22 Jan 2015 02:59:00 +0000

The Self-Pity Monster

August, 2011. My dog was scrambling into the rented canoe faster than Captain Schettino had jumped ship. Despite being a Golden Retriever, he had an unnatural fear of the water but was willing to brave it, as he was afraid of being left behind. My partner took the back of the canoe, wearing his typical cheerful disposition, and I settled into the front but in a foul mood. I was wallowing in self-pity ever since I found out I hadn't gotten the promotion at work. I felt like I had failed again at my career, another job I couldn't make work.

It wasn't my last lesson in failure. The weather started off serene, but soon clouds rolled in across the sky. We were in the middle of the lake when the rain came. We hadn't rain-proofed our gear, we had no life-jacket on our dog, and we still had to cross the lake to get to our site. Planning fail, right there. But, we paddled hard, and as a bonus I momentarily forgot my self-pity. I continued to focus on the tasks at hand as we set up camp, dried off, prepared our meal, and clumsily hung our bear-bag.

The next morning, my present-focused Zen-like state had vanished. I was staring woefully out at the lake, crying, in a real pitiful state. I knew it was bad when I began taking poor-me selfie shots. In black and white. It was time to take charge NOW. So, I asked my partner to take me out canoeing. I wanted to see if I could canoe on my own.

Partner and Dog. Both totally cool with canoeing.

My God. I didn't expect it to be that bad. It was like a tourist driving the Arc de Triomphe roundabout for the first time. Round and around and around we went, never getting anywhere. If it was up to me, we would have never exited the water. But, again, at least my mind was off my problems, and focused on circling.

I decided, in my present state of mind, that it would be wise to do something I was good at, like hiking. Get my confidence back up. So my partner canoed me to my location and I set off to solo-hike the Centennial Ridges Trail in Algonquin Park. I hadn't done much solo hiking before, and I was quaking in my boots. I kept imagining a human predator around every rock, behind every tree. Yet, I used to rollerblade home at 4:00 am in Toronto from work and was never afraid. Because people were around. We're so conditioned to feel safe in cities and imagine the worst in the woods. But that's another post.

No predators awaited me and I finished the trail safely. A man smoking a cigarette sidled up to me at one point when I was sitting on a rock taking a break. But, he presented no threat and we had a friendly conversation. I thought it incongruent, the smoking part, but didn't mention it. And, I was right, my confidence was back up.

Lookout on Centennial Ridges Trail

I won't say that for the remainder of the trip I was happy and cheerful all the time. But, being in nature, focusing on something other than myself (and horrid selfies), helped heal my disappointment about the promotion and grief over old wounds triggered. It helped me realize that you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both, and there you have, the facts of life . . . ? Ya, I just did that.

I am happy to say that three years later, I am in a new job that I enjoy and that I'm better suited to. I continue to hike, mostly solo, and I no longer quake in my boots. I still cannot canoe.

National Bird Project - Vote Common Loon!

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sat, 17 Jan 2015 22:27:00 +0000

Hinterland's Who's Who - Loon

Canadian Geographic has launched the National Bird Project-

http://www.canadiangeographic.ca/nationalbird/. They want you to help them designate an official bird that best represents Canada and they want to achieve this by 2017.

I voted for the Common Loon. Here's why:

When people think of Canada, most do not think of our cities and urban landscapes. They think, rightfully so, of our vast swaths of wilderness. A giant land of forests, prairies, mountains, and lakes. Ninety percent of Canada is uninhabited. How then could our geography not play a part in our selection of a national bird?

For is not the call of the Common Loon the epitome of what one thinks of when considering the wilderness of Canada? Its lonely call haunts us as much as our own rugged landscape of rock and snow. There too, is mystery in its voice, echoing over our clear still waters at dusk and dawn; as elusive as our national identity. And, there is beauty. Beauty in the Loon's black and white mottled wings, the grace of their swim, in the silence and solitude of their habitat.

Our land and our water are our national treasures. It is fitting that the Common Loon, who best represents this, be our national bird.

Do you hike to live forever? I do.

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Fri, 16 Jan 2015 19:56:00 +0000

I've pondered many times why I hike. I have many reasons. But recently, one I hadn't considered came to me after reading the book, "Goldfinch" by Donna Tartt. In the book, she describes how one man's love of art is a way for him to have a piece of immortality through something that "death doesn't touch". That by loving something immortal, preserving it, and caring for it just as those did before him, he passes a piece of himself onto the next generation of art lovers. In this way, he is eternal.

Perhaps it's this same human need that fuels my desire (which seems innate, not something chosen) to hike and experience the natural world. For when I look up at what I call the "big sky", I see immortality. I know that everything dies eventually, but it seems so large, so eternal in the moment. It's that feeling of looking up at the stars and comprehending our smallness. These are the times when I feel most alive and when I think, maybe, just maybe, I am a part of something bigger than me, bigger than humans, bigger than planet earth. And I feel that piece of immortality, if only for a second. And perhaps, I too, arrogantly and humanly, am seeking to pass a part of myself onto the next generation of hikers/nature-lovers through my love and preservation of the natural world.

So, do you hike to live forever? I do.

Four Surprising Things about Arizona

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 13 Jan 2015 03:36:00 +0000

In 2010, I vacationed in Sedona, Arizona and in 2014, I hiked the Grand Canyon. Here's four surprising things I learned about Arizona along the way:

1. PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY IS KING

Motorcycle helmets? Nah. Drinking on a bus? Sure. Barriers at the Grand Canyon--no way! The latter of which, I'm incredibly grateful for. Arizona seems to embrace the law of personal responsibility--i.e. if you get hurt, it's you're own damn fault. Different from liable-conscious Ontario where some towns are banning tobogganing. Yes, tobogganing. Sigh.

2. WATER IS SCARCE, DUH.

Hello, it's a desert. But, still, I was surprised when we were hiking how far we had to hike to get water and how little water (puddle-size!) there was. In Ontario, water is everywhere, and we take it for granted.

3. THE LANDSCAPE IS VARIED

Landing in Phoenix, you see what you assume is the typical Arizona landscape. Palm trees, saguaro and a multitude of other cacti, rock gardens in place of lawns. But travel 2 hours north and it looks like you've driven to Northern Ontario with all that rock and pine. Not to mention the beauty of red rock Sedona, multi-coloured striated Grand Canyon, and the surreal hues of the painted desert. What a state!

4. HOMELESS PEOPLE LIVE IN THE WOODS

I suppose we get the occasional person who lives in the woods here in Ontario, but certainly not at the level my bus driver explained occurs in Flagstaff. Our homeless live on the streets, close to city services. Perhaps there are more vagrancy laws in Arizona?

Hiking the Grandview Trail - Grand Canyon, Arizona

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 12 Jan 2015 04:09:00 +0000

I shouldn't have looked at Trip Advisor. That was a mistake. I had just booked a hiking trip with the Wildland Trekking Company—a tour company that takes people on backpacking trips, day hikes, etc. I was signed up to hike the Grandview trail in the Grand Canyon, an old mining trail that drops 2400 feet in elevation to Horseshoe Mesa, our camping destination. Given that there are no canyons in southern Ontario where I live, I really wasn't sure what to expect or what 2400 feet even meant. Trip Advisor reviewers let me know. They said:

"The hike is very steep and precarious near the top where you have narrow paths and a guaranteed nasty ending if you're not careful".

And:

"We found out two days after surviving this dangerous hike that an older woman had fallen from the trail on the Thursday prior to our hike. She fell some 100 feet and was killed instantly".

Seriously? Greeat.

*****

The hardest hiking I'd done prior to my Grand Canyon trip were multi-day hikes in the near north of Ontario—Algonquin Park, Bruce Peninsula National Park. Challenging but certainly not deadly as a common occurrence. But, I had wanted to get out of my comfort zone and hike more difficult terrain.

I met my tour group after arriving in Flagstaff, Arizona. There had been an incident on the shuttle from Phoenix to Flagstaff where a man in a ratty suit shouted randomly at no one after chugging six beers (it's legal in Arizona to drink on a bus, totally wild west for me), but we all arrived safely.

Our guide's name was Betsy. She was a mid-western American woman in her late twenties, tanned, lean but muscular. She had a square face and was pretty, she was kind but reserved, which I liked. We also had two Swedes, a man and a woman, who were on their honeymoon touring the U.S. and two brother-in-laws, one a Republican lawyer from Long-Island New York, and the other a Democrat entrepreneur from Florida. These last two made for some interesting conversations. Especially the Democrat, he was full of jokes.

We took a Wildland Trekking tour bus to the Grand Canyon and although I'd been before, it was fun seeing other's reactions. Their awe. The Grand Canyon is so vast and to say it is beautiful is trite and an understatement. There are far more poetic people than I who have described it, so I will refer you to them. But, I don't think I would ever tire of seeing it.

After getting off the bus, we all took the obligated photos that tourists tend to take from the rim. You know, the ones with you in them to show you've been there. Then, Betsy and the bus driver another guide) helped us fit and load up our packs. Betsy's pack was an abomination. I don't know even how she carried it. I forget how heavy she said it was, but it held all the cooking supplies and most of our food. We only had to carry about 30 pounds, a weight I was used to hiking with. But the Florida Democrat threatened he may topple over, or blow out his knees, or otherwise succumb to some horrid fate, greatly and humorously exaggerated.

View from the rim. In the middle, the mesa, still so far away!

Despite any publicly stated or privately thought misgivings, we got on the trail and began our slow descent down to the Horseshoe Mesa. And, I say slow because the first part of the Grandview trail is very steep. And narrow. Do not do this trail if have a thing with heights. And use hiking poles—they're essential to keep you steady. When the Florida Democrat mentioned that people could easily die on this trail, I failed to mention the Trip Advisor reviews. I thought it best.

About halfway, on the Coconino Saddle

As we neared the mesa, we came upon a sign with a nuclear symbol on it that warned, "Radiation. Keep Out". I thought this was very cool, very cool indeed. I think it helped that I knew the sign was there because of a nearby copper mine that had a uranium thread running through it. This, rather than say, the sign announcing the onset of an old nuclear test site. That would be uncool. My mind was so at ease, that I unwittingly went pee in the "radiated" area. I suppose it was a good of time as any to ponder the mine's name—Last Chance Mine.

Finally, the mesa. We'd done it! I'd done it! I felt accomplished, and very proud. Maybe too much so, because when Betsy asked if anyone wanted to hike to get water with her I said, "Sure! Glad to help". Apparently, I was on hikers high or something when I agreed to this. The two Swedes said yes too, while the brother-in-laws wisely stayed behind.

Nearing the mesa, sign for Cottonwood Creek

Horseshoe Mesa, up close

Coming from Ontario, getting water is never a big deal. You go to the nearest massive lake. Or the other nearest lake, a stream, a spring flowing from a rock. Whatever, it's there, always, everywhere. Obviously, not so in the desert. But, I am ashamed to admit that I was still shocked to learn that to get water near Horseshoe Mesa we had to hike another 0.7 miles to Page Springs where a trickle of water coming from a rock face made a pool of water the size of a puddle on the rock below. That's it. And we had to hike another 500 feet down to get it.

I had laughed at the Florida Democrat's jokes about dying on the Grandview Trail, because I never felt too at risk. But the trail to Page Springs, my God. Narrowness, loose rocks, setting sun, fatigue. This was not hiking, it was anxiety walking. I resorted to counting to cope, "One, two, three, four steps", repeat. One foot slowly in front of the other. Pole, step, pole, step. Rock scramble at the bottom to get to the spring. I chugged a ton of water and downed a few granola bars. I was concerned about my weariness, but of course climbed back up, counting all the way, mindful of the dusk sky. Ah level ground, and rest. Sweet rest.

*****

The rest of the trip was blissful really. Well, except that I got over-hydrated. Like, really? In the desert? But, yes, at Page Springs, I chugged too much water and my excessive thirst was the key to my diagnosis. Excessive thirst for being over-hydrated will forever be an evolutionary mystery to me. But, an electrolyte tablet cleared me up within four hours or so. And, I guess the toilets weren't blissful. They were in the open and adjacent to a path that led to another campsite. The Florida Democrat was naïvely friendly to a passer-by whilst sitting on the toilet and got himself into an uncomfortable conversation that occurred entirely with his pants down. I am rarely friendly to passer-by's so I had no issues with this.

But, back to the blissful part. The sunset, the moonrise. Just watching, being. Stillness. The knowledge that I'd done what I'd set out to do. The Swedish honeymooner told a story about his time in the military. How his superiors had said that when you felt like you could no more training, you had gone through 50% of your potential. When your superior thought you were done, you were still only at 80%. I suppose he is right—we can all do more than we think we can. Especially women, we've been conditioned to underestimate ourselves.

As we hiked out of the canyon as a group, we met a bunch of kids. One looked at us, pulled on his mom's coat sleeve, and said, "Mom, those are real hikers". The Florida Democrat and the New York Republican split a gut on that one, elbowing each other in humility and asking the rest of us, "Did you hear that?! We're real hikers." Yes we were.

Ominous Hike on the Elgin Trail

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 01 Dec 2014 03:40:00 +0000

Elgin Trail - Southdale Line to JohnWise Road. 2.69 km.

Blair-witch type woods, and after watching True Detective, I was spooked. Downed trees were all along the trail, making navigation difficult for my dog Charlie. The trail blazes were poorly marked and nearby shot gun blasts shook my nerves. "Should be wearing orange", I thought.

Solo-hiking. I love it, but I get nervous. Especially on new trails. Perhaps it's like anything else, the more you do it, the more comfortable it becomes. When I hike alone, my mind drifts and frets, filling itself with thoughts of rapists or murderers. Or over-eager hunters who don't site properly. Up north, I worry about bears, and snakes, and mountain lions. I find the woods have a way of surrounding you, making you feel alone and vulnerable, even if you're only 500 metres away from a farm house, or a road. I wonder if those raised in the true country feel this way about the city?

Bill Bryson had this to say: "What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die of course. Literally shit myself lifeless". Exactly. Bears, ruthless humans, etc. Perhaps that's why I hike though - to face my fears, overcome, gain courage.

Ominous trees, lots of dead wood.

Ominous skies above a cornfield.

Behind Frozen Waterfalls – St. Catharines, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 16 Mar 2014 00:44:00 +0000

I have good memories of Decew Falls. My husband and I took some of our wedding photos there and they turned out beautifully. That was in the fall, some years back, but this time I saw Decew Falls in the winter and it was magnificent. This winter’s been the coldest winter of my lifetime and while that has generally been unpleasant, it did lead to totally frozen over waterfalls. It also led to me and hiking group being able to hike behind Decew Falls where the cave-like lighting and vibrant blue colours led to some interesting shots. I love nature!
Terrace Falls
Smaller (First Set) Decew Falls
First Glimpse – Decew Falls

Hiking Companions near the falls

A wall of icicles

After climbing through a narrow passageway – the first sight behind the falls

The Solo Hike

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 26 Jan 2014 18:35:00 +0000

Centennial Ridges Trail, Algonquin Provincial Park
Yesterday I downloaded Cheryl Strayed’s, “Wild”, onto my Kindle. I’ve been wanting to read this book for awhile, wondering what it was like for a woman to walk the Pacific Coast Trail alone.
In 2011, I did my first solo hike. It was small – just a day hike in Algonquin Provincial Park, as pictured above. No big deal for some, but a big deal for me -http://explorationproject.blogspot.ca/search/label/Algonquin%20Provincial%20Park. From that point on, when I haven’t been able to find a companion, I’ve been hiking alone.
But, I still fear. Every time I’m alone I think, “Will it be this time? Will what they warn me of come true?” Then, I feel guilty. Guilty for putting myself at “unnecessary risk”. Then I feel angry. Angry that, although male and female hikers both need to worry about the risk of injury while alone, it is women who primarily have to worry about safety from men and who are discouraged to go anywhere or do anything alone. This is true, I believe, even when the risk is small and can largely be mitigated through preparation.
This is why I love this quote from Cheryl Strayed, “Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me.”
How much of our fear is reasonable? If it is, prepare and mitigate the risk. But, how much of our fear is a story that society has thrust upon us? A story, that especially for women, is oppressive? If this is the case, perhaps Cheryl’s strategy could allow us to fear less and live more.

Empty Tracks

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 21 Jan 2014 02:41:00 +0000

“The restlessness and the longing, like the longing that is in the whistle of a faraway train. Except that the longing isn't really in the whistle—it is in you.”― Meindert DeJong, The Little Cow and the Turtle

I love the quote above. I think the longing for me is wanderlust. I wished we’d come across a train the day I took this picture, but we were ten minutes too early. By the time we heard the haunting whistle, we’d gone too far in the snow and ice to turn back. But, every time I hear a train in the woods, I feel that pull, that longing to go, just go. Just walk.

I’ve booked my flight!

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 14 Jan 2014 02:21:00 +0000

Three years ago, I went to Sedona, Arizona and saw the Grand Canyon for the first time. I vowed to see it again – but from within, as a hiker. Last week, I booked my flight to return and hike the canyon. I’m finally doing the things I’ve always wanted to do, and it’s a wonderful feeling.

After the Ice Storm . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Wed, 08 Jan 2014 03:12:00 +0000

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found? ~J.B. Priestley

After the Ice Storm, 2013. Hiking the Bruce Trail, Map 9, Highway 6 to Waterdown Road.

New Focus

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Fri, 27 Dec 2013 03:20:00 +0000

Change is inevitable. What interested me in the past - ghost stories, eerie abandonments - no longer hold an allure. I'm in a different place in my life, perhaps lighter, where I am drawn to the unabashed beauty of nature, the simple pleasure of hiking, and the excitement of travelling. I was going to start a new blog, but I have a fondness for the Exploration Project. So, I'll keep this blog and it will evolve with me as I move along the path of my life. Enjoy!

Abandoned Volkswagen Beetle Yard – Courtland, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 00:50:00 +0000

I came across this graveyard for VW Beetles on my way to Simcoe, when my partner and I biked the Simcoe to Dover rail trail in the summer. I could have spent about an hour here, but only had time for a few shots. This yard has more than just VW’s too, a true vehicle cemetery.

Location: On highway 3, just outside of Courtland, towards Delhi.
Update: I've been informed that the cars have been auctioned off and nothing remains today.

Abandoned House – Wiarton, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 02:07:00 +0000

I recently travelled to Tobermory (I love that town) to visit the Grotto. In town, there is an old abandoned ship docked ashore. I noticed it right away because “Port Dover” was written on its hull, which is a small town near my birthplace.

On the way home from Tobermory, on one of the main streets of Wiarton, I saw this house and just had to stop:

[Thought I would use an old-school horror effect here – Da da dahhh]
This house was amazing, even in its deterioration. I didn’t go inside, but I imagine the main staircase would have been awesome to photograph.

I loved the grassy stairs leading to the road . . .

. . . and the slight part of the curtain.

Even the back had character, with its creepy oculus window that had me wondering who might be peering out at me. Mrs. Bates come to mind?

I also wondered what might be in this shed, but I didn’t look inside.

Given the door in the picture, there must have been a second floor balcony on this side of the house at one point. No longer. When I was little, there was a house down the street from where I lived with a door like this, without a balcony. My friends and I theorized that a witch lived there because, logically, she could fly out of the door with her broomstick. How handy!

The weathervane added to the “eerily beautiful” factor of the ruined home.

Imagine this on Hallowe’en? Trick or treat . . .

New York City

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 02:48:00 +0000

[View from Ellis Island Ferry]
I’m not really a city person. I prefer the stillness and silence of deserted places, vast landscapes, and open skies. But, I like people and the creativity one finds in cities so I sometimes verge away from exploring places of solitude and wander into more populous areas.
This summer, my sister and I went to New York City for a weekend – my first time. Although I didn’t buy the “I heart New York” shirt, I could have. I loved New York City more than any city I’ve been to.
First off, I had the best grilled cheese I have ever had while in NYC. That pretty much sealed the deal. It got it in some cheesy deli (no pun intended) at 11:00 pm. A natural nighthawk, I love the open-late phenomenon. Plus, I ate it outside Central Park while watching dog owners try to restrain there frisky and aggressive dogs while a police van veered wildly into the park lane for no apparent reason. Free entertainment at its best.
Second – Central Park. I know I said I went to a city to get away from solitude, but I could not resist the urge to visit a very large piece of land in the middle of a densely populated city. Central Park was gorgeous. New York has done a fine job of balancing nature with the needs of park goers such as food vendors, bathrooms, water fountains, etc. Sales vendors were limited to an area called, “The Mall”, and no one was pushy or aggressive with their sales. Actually, the whole stereotype of New Yorkers being pushy, aggressive, or even rude was blown out of the water. I found New Yorkers, on the whole, to be friendly (much more than Southern Ontario residents), helpful, and funny. In the picture below, we had the honour of seeing this little girl learn how to ride her bike for the first time. We cheered along with her mother. It was a nice moment to walk into.

[Unique entrepreneur - The Mall]
Third – efficiency. Damn, New York has an efficient transit system. You buy a card instead of tokens as you would in Toronto if you don’t have a pass. This is hardly a modern concept, but it made travelling easier. Plus, all ticket machines in both the subway and at Grand Central Station worked. This sounds silly, but I often find that machines either don’t take your money or take your money without giving you a ticket. It’s likely that I was just lucky, and I will even admit to perhaps noticing positives that I wouldn’t notice in Ontario just because I was a little in love with the city! Nonetheless, travelling was smooth sailing.
But perhaps what most endeared me to New York City was its public and cheap spaces. They were amazing and plentiful. From the ease of finding a table and even an outdoor bar at Bryant Park to roof top patios with amazing views and no cover, New York spaces made it easy to rejuvenate and relax.

[View from Bryant Park at night]

[View of Empire State Building – from the rooftop Patio, “Up on the Strand”]

[An almost completed World Trade Center Memorial Building]

[Art installation on the dock of the Ellis and Staten Island Ferries]

[Statue of Liberty as viewed from Ellis Island Ferry]

[NYC Skyline]
Really, my only dislikes were that Times Square was awful, but an expected awful, and that the library wasn’t open on Sunday. What’s up with that?

[New York Public Library]

[It’s me!]

Abandoned Train Station – Monkton, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 08 Jul 2012 00:17:00 +0000

My husband and I were driving home from Collingwood, Ontario, when he spotted this abandoned train station like an eagle spots its prey. Okay, that may be a bit dramatic and somewhat trite, but he did stop quickly and threw it into reverse for my photographic benefit. Although the sign in the station says Arthur, this station is actually in Monkton, Ontario, on one of the main streets.

Osler Castle – Collingwood, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 00:25:00 +0000

In February, I ended up in Collingwood for a week’s vacation. My family and I went skiing and I’m proud to say that I safely skied the largest bunny hill, after a few falls. Back at the hotel, I asked the front desk staff if they knew of any cool abandoned places, explaining that I wrote a blog about such things. The man was super friendly and he told me about Osler Castle. Except, he didn’t call it that, he forgot the name, but he told me about the ruins where he had once thought he might store his canoe. He said it was technically private property but that no one cared if you went to see the castle, as long as your intentions were sound.
My partner and I had a bit of difficulty finding the castle, as it is set back about a 15 minute walk from the road. But, the path is wide and flat and the surrounding woods are nice. A subdivision sits to your right as you are heading towards the castle.
The castle itself is fenced off, as a local group is trying to preserve it. I appreciate attempts at historical preservation, so I did not go inside the fence although the photographer in me wanted to.
As for the history of the castle, I knew nothing about it until I got back home and googled it. I found an article written by Andrew Armitage for the The Sun Times that I have reprinted below with the link to the website I found it on.
As always, if anyone reading knows of any urban legends associated with Osler Castle, I would love to hear from you.

Our History - by Andrew Armitage

Osler Castle an enchanting place briefly Column appeared in The Sun Times, Friday, August 22, 2008
High among the Blue Mountains is a secluded spot of land. The view is spectacular from there with broad vistas of Georgian Bay. It is a perfect place for a summer cottage.
Britton Bath Osler agreed. In 1894, he built a handsome 15-room vacation home for his wife, Caroline. But Caroline Osler would never spend a summer in the “Castle,” as it became known. And Britton Bath Osler himself would know few happy moments in his sumptuous estate. Today, only a few crumbling walls of fieldstone remain as reminders of a romantic and yet tragic footnote in the history of Grey County.
Britton Bath Osler was a man of success from one of the most prominent families Ontario ever produced. He was born close to the wilderness in 1839, the son of Featherstone Lake Osler and Ellen Free Picton Osler of Bond Head Parsonage, Tecumseth Township, Upper Canada.
Featherstone Osler was from Cornwall. He had joined the Royal Navy but left the sea to attend theological college before answering the call of Canada and West Gwillimbury. The Oslers were to have many more children after Britton Bath. Each, in his own way, would become famous.
There was Featherstone Osler Jr., Justice of the Court of Appeals for Ontario. Then came Sir Edmund Boyd Osler, a financier, President of the Dominion Bank, Director of the Canadian Pacific Railroad, and member of the boards of companies nearly too numerous to count. Finally, Britton Bath had another brother. His name was William Osler and before his death in 1919, he had become Sir William, Regium Professor of Medicine at Oxford, and probably the best-loved man in the world of medicine.
In a family of brilliant men, Britton Bath, Queen’s Counsel, was considered the brightest of the bright. As Crown Counsel in Canada, he was an outstanding lawyer, a great orator, and a man of charismatic personality. The Ontario government utilized Britton Bath as prosecuting attorney for many of its most important cases.
Osler had a close working relationship with the flamboyant Provincial Detective of Ontario, John Wilson Murray. Murray, one of the first “scientific” detectives, apprehended and Osler prosecuted. Britton Bath claimed he could tell the guilt or innocence of a defendant the minute he entered the courtroom.
He was described by contemporaries as a striking figure, a man with high cheek bones, deep dark eyes, and as a raconteur with great wit and a generous sense of humour. But others found B. B. Osler to be an austere, somber figure. By the time of his death in 1901, Osler was known as the foremost legal mind of his day.
His wife, Caroline Osler, was a member of the East India Company Smiths, a naval family famous in the days of Great Britain’s colonial empire. Unfortunately, she was also frail, a victim of chronic arthritis. In her later years, Caroline was confined to a wheelchair and in rapidly failing health.
B. B. Osler sought for his wife a summer home, one with a high elevation that might help relieve her arthritic suffering. His search led him to Grey County where, in 1893, he found the exact place he had been looking for – a hideaway with healthful air and a view unsurpassed anywhere in Ontario.
The choice Osler made was a parcel of land not many kilometres southwest of Collingwood in the Blue Mountains. Here, he found 330 acres of mountain top. Silver Creek has its source on the site before it flows down the hills into Georgian Bay. B. B. Osler bought his vacation property, well-treed, rustic and far removed from urban living. And he began to build.
The last decade of the 19th century in Ontario was a time of palatial summer estates. The wealthy, leaders of business, law, and medicine, had turned to rural, more inaccessible reaches of the province in Muskoka, the Haliburtons, and around Georgian Bay. There they built large rambling mansions that would today, dwarf the typical summer retreat.
Osler gathered a team of architects, contractors, decorators, stone masons, and other workmen from Toronto, Barrie and Collingwood. No expense would be spared in building the “Castle”. Before he was finished, several hundreds of thousand dollars had been invested. The “cottage” that emerged from the construction had 15 rooms within a stone shell of huge granite hard heads that had been gathered from the surrounding hills.
It was a fanciful structure of massive cut rock with turret-like chimneys, an arched entryway, and large bright windows. It was built to last an eternity. Constructing the mansion was a difficult task. Teams of horses were needed to haul the huge loads of building equipment up into the hills. Construction took over a year, stretching from 1893 to late in the following year.
The grand opening of the Osler’s mansion was held in September, 1894. Osler chartered a special parlour car from the Grand Trunk Railway and hosted a gala excursion of family, friends, and business confidants. It was a spectacular outing. The Blue Mountains were just turning to yellow and gold. The view of the valley below was breathtaking.
Caroline Osler fell in live with her new summer home, the natural beauty of the setting, and the prospect of happy summer days that lay ahead. She named the cottage Kionontio, a First Nations name meaning “Top of the Hill.”
And well pleased Caroline should have been. The many bedrooms of the Castle were richly furnished in mahogany, walnut, quarter cut oak (white and red), bird’s eye maple, and butternut. The huge living room, dining room, and parlour were similarly endowed with woodwork while stained glass graced the windows.
There was a large wine cellar, elevators to the upper floors designed to accommodate Mrs. Osler’s wheelchair, and massive fireplaces to take the chill off cool summer evenings. The furnishings were mostly from England as were the dishes, silverware and crystal. They had arrived, packed in large cases that had been shipped across the Atlantic and hauled up the narrow roadway.
Caroline Osler would never enjoy a summer at Kionontio. On May 3, 1895, she died in Toronto. Britton Bath Osler never recovered from the death of Caroline. While he would continue to visit his summer home over the next five years, much of the joy of Kionontio passed with his wife.
But visit he did. Local residents would often catch a glimpse of his four-in-hand carriage with a coachman suitably attired with plug hat and tails. He would wait at the train station to meet Mr. Osler and his friends and then convey them up the mountain.
The attraction in those late years of the century was fishing. Osler built two dams on his estate, stocking the water with speckled trout. He also partly enclosed his acreage with sturdy fences for the containment of a resident herd of white-tailed deer. Konontio came to be known as Deer Park by many who lived in the area. The estate was finally finished when a huge barn, a gatekeeper’s house, and caretaker’s resident were built.
And then it began to disintegrate. In the last year of his life, Britton Bath’s health kept him from taking a great interest in Kionontio. After his death in 1901, things began to fall apart. How rapidly the mansion ran down is a matter of conjecture. One report states that the estate was kept in good repair for some decades. Anther account claims that both nature’s elements and vandals struck hard and fast.
No matter. The property drifted into the hands of the township and through non-payment of taxes, was soon reduced from the original 330 acres to a baker’s dozen. Rumours, mysterious tales and dark legends began to circulate. The Castle was said to be haunted. Strange lights could be seen winking on and off while horrible noises were reported to be heard, emanating from the ruined mansion.
Like its counterpart north of Wiarton, both the Corran, built by Alexander McNeill, and Osler’s Kionontio were left with many of the original furnishings intact – until vandals arrived. One by one they vanished, the furniture, mirrors and small items reported to be “too numerous to mention.” The windows and doors were smashed. Even the large beams in the living room were removed by souvenir hunters.
Eventually, only a shell was left. The romantic days of Osler’s mansion were over. Only the rubble remained. Kiononto was, for a few brief summers, a place of enchantment. And then it was gone.
See: http://www.owensound.library.on.ca/page.php?PageID=222.

The above picture was copied from - http://www.ontarioabandonedplaces.com/osler/oslercastle.asp. I’m not sure if the man in the picture is Britton Bath Osler.

Directions: You can either park on Northmount Crescent and there are entry ways into the woods (via small roads) where the castle lies at the end of the trail (past the lake to the West, across the land bridge, and east up the hill) or you can park at the beginning of the tractor trail on the North side of Mountain Road/Highway 19. The beginning of the trail is marked with a chain and small grassy area.

Abandoned Houses – Perth and Grey Counties, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 19:28:00 +0000

On my way to Collingwood, Ontario, I drove past two abandoned homes. The first was covered in vines and sat lonely in a field. The second was hidden behind trees and had a tub falling through the floor that had completely rotted out. Maps are below, respectively.

The first house is located just south of Mitchell on Highway 23:

The second house is harder to find. It’s address is 6366 Highway 89. It’s just east of Pike Lake Road, west of Mount Forest.

Abandoned Houses – Norfolk County, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 03:34:00 +0000

I pulled over to stop for this house . . .

Dusk was settling and I was losing light quickly

The neighbour’s house was just as abandoned

But much more creepy

The darkness beckoned

And I had to look inside

I hoped a face wouldn’t be staring back at me as I blindly took pictures. I was alone.

                                                      I moved around to the side
   And then to the back where a big, black doorway hid amongst vines
   Again, I was drawn to look – as the sky grew darker
   A single discarded cowboy boot lay on the rotting floor and I thought I heard footfalls and hoped it was just the groaning wind
   Freaked out, I moved to the final side of the building. This was my last picture with my camera before moving to my car. But, in an untimely fashion, I desperately needed to go to the washroom. I went behind the garage as sheet metal slammed loudly in the field in front of me from the wind.
   As I rounded the house once more, the once closed door now stood ajar. I figured it was just the wind that had blown the door open, but I didn’t go in to see what or who might be in there . . .

On Lakeshore Road, close to West Quarter Line Road

Union Hotel – Normandale, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 03:55:00 +0000

THE HISTORY
Normandale, Ontario, was founded in the early 1800’s and became a boom town due to local iron supply. The Union Hotel was built in 1835 to house local workers but closed in about 1860 when the iron supply dwindled. The hotel sat abandoned for over 100 years until restoration began in the 1970’s. In 1989, the hotel was re-opened as a bed and breakfast, which has been active ever since.
THE HAUNTING
This story was submitted to the Toronto and Ontario Ghosts and Hauntings Research Society (I must say that is a rather long name):
"On our first anniversary, My wife decided to find us a quaint, out of the way place to book in. We had come across a very beautiful and picturesque old hotel in a hamlet called Normandale. This is right on the shore of Lake Erie, in Haldimand-Norfolk. Apparently the inn was built c. 1835, and was one of the original Talbot Trail Inns. We had a tour of it, and all I can say is that it was so beautifully kept that a meal could've been served off the floor...it just sparkled!!!
We made our arrangements, and in Sept. 1996, we set out to spend our anniversary there. The weather had been threatening-looking all day, and as we got to Spooky Hollow, the sky erupted. It was just like The Rocky Horror Picture Show! It took no imagination at all to conjure things that "Go Bump in the night"...
We arrived at our destination, and our Hostess met us at the door. We unloaded our bags and settled in-the hotel was a safe, warm haven on an extremely wild, cold night! My wife and I sat down in the parlour for a game of crokinole, and the Hostess made us each a pot of herbal tea. As we sat and chatted, she pulled out a photo album and recounted the restoration of the property to us. Apparently, the hotel had gained a reputation at one point as being haunted, and had settled into a ruined state. It was, in fact, empty for over 100 years! Everyone gave the place a WIDE berth... The hotel was lovingly restored, stud by stud, stone by stone, until today it is a showpiece. I asked the hostess, "Now, what about this haunted business?" She replied, "Oh yes, we still have a ghost with us...we know it is a female spirit. My husband saw it recently at the top of the stairs!" "Ohhhhhhhh, GREAT", I thought...I was hoping for a romantic getaway, not a nerve-wracking side-swipe with the supernatural.......! We had chosen a room at the front of the hotel, on the second floor. Because the place was used under a Bed-and-Breakfast arrangement, there was no real push at that point to install ensuite bathrooms. We had to leave our room, walk down the hall, past the top of the staircase RIGHT where the husband said he had last seen the ghost, and then into the bathroom. All night long, the thunder cracked, the lightning flashed, the trees scratched the windows, and eaves. I laid there positively bug-eyed. I suppose it also goes without saying that the herbal tea we drank before bed was converted into at least eight trips down the hallway to the bathroom! My wife and I eventually got up together and held on to each other as we tiptoed fearfully down that long hall... About 3 or 4 A.M., we both finally drifted off to sleep.
The place is set up so that the living quarters of the family are at the back of the establishment, and they don't regularly use the Hotel-proper for a home. It's essentially just for guests, as I understand it. The numbers are still on the doors of the rooms, can you believe it!!!
Whether you see their resident spirit or not, you will have a good time at their place! Just the building itself is worth picking over...it was one of the rare "American" styled Hotels of the time, meaning that they had a ball-room in the upstairs. When we stayed there, I took the liberty of checking over the ball-room. It was just undergoing restoration at the time, and if the rest of the place is any indication, it should now be spectacular!"
Apparently, the rooms at Union Hotel are quite reasonable, if you wanted to check out a local, or maybe not so local, haunt. The address: 5 VanNorman Street, Normandale, Ontario. See - http://www.torontoghosts.org/index.php?/20080820312/South-Western-Ontario/Normandale-Union-Hotel.html.

Spooky Hollow Road – Normandale, Ontario

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 04:37:00 +0000

Travelling down Spooky Hollow Road, you can see it’s been a mecca for legend-trippers. Remnants of smashed pumpkins line the road, pop bottles sit against tree trunks, and an animal skull sits carefully placed at the trail gate. I can see why so many people come here to get spooked. A narrow and windy road where daunting trees appear around corners, a creaking boardwalk that leads to blair-witch type wood piles, and a creepy culvert with a dark opening that makes you wonder what’s beyond all contribute to the atmosphere.

One legend has it that Spooky Hollow is haunted by the ghosts of booze runners. Apparently in the 1920’s, booze runners would import alcohol from the States into the hamlet of Normandale. When needed, the runners would hide themselves and the alcohol in Spooky Hollow. One night, the police raided the site, killing all of the runners. The runners’ spirits now haunt the hollow as they walk up and down Spooky Hollow Road when the moon is full. See - http://www.torontoghosts.org/index.php?/20080820312/South-Western-Ontario/Normandale-Union-Hotel.html

Another legend has it that a peddler was passing through Spooky Hollow and asked a local to stay the night. His request was granted but he was never seen again. For days after, black soot was said to be seen coming from the local’s chimney. See - http://www.torontoghosts.org/index.php?/20080820309/South-Western-Ontario/Vittoria-Spooky-Hollow.html.
I love urban legends, especially combined with a creepy atmosphere. Spooky Hollow fits the bill.

Spooky Hollow Road intersects with the village of Normandale, Ontario.