By Sylvie O’Rourke I am hiking at Landons Bay in the Thousand Islands National Park.  I know there will be much to see here. There always is.  Those in our group who have never been here are in for a treat. Let the show begin! Act One begins as we set foot on the trail. Two of us are distracted by a strident “churr” sound followed by a flutter of wings.  My companion, an experienced birder and wildlife photographer, quickly points to a Red-Bellied Woodpecker.  Excited to witness something new, I strain to locate it amidst the branches of the nearby trees.  As soon as I spot it, it flies to another tree, where I must search for it again.  I grab my camera, trying to zoom in on the zebra-backed redheaded bird that refuses to stay still, but only manage to get a partial view before it takes off again.  Its name appears to be a misnomer as its belly is not at all red, but a barely distinguishable pinkish hue. “Churr! Churr!”  How about that?  There are two of them!  We must increase our pace to catch up with the others who have disappeared down the trail.  We find them waiting for us around a bend.  The trail is covered in autumn’s decaying leaves, the forest itself adorned with protruding limestones partially covered with moss, and the occasional pop of delicate purple wildflowers known as Liverleaves. It is too soon for trilliums, but it won’t be long before they grace the woodland. We take the trail to the lookout.  From that nosebleed section, I expect to see swans in the bay because I have seen them there on past occasions, but I am not prepared for the massive flock of Mute Swans dotting the water below me.  This ensemble creates the perfect backdrop for the main performance, which is about to start. The protagonists in this play are a duo of Ospreys.  We watch them soaring in opposite directions, circling above the bay. Suddenly, one swoops down, almost skimming the water’s surface, and then quickly regains altitude.  Perhaps it is dissatisfied with its lunch prospects.  The second one, deciding to test its luck, dives diagonally, twisting midair to plunge into the water talons first.  Within seconds, it emerges, flapping its wings while grasping a doomed fish between its talons.  We watch in awe as it flies off with its prize.  A playwright couldn’t dream up a better climax for the second act.   Reluctantly, we leave our priceless front row seats and head back to the main trail, which follows the bay’s shore.  A boardwalk hugs the rockface to rejoin the trail on the other side.  From here we have a vantage point for viewing the swans.  In the tall grass on the bank, I see what appears to be a nesting area for future cygnets.  A loud commotion diverts my attention:  A fight is breaking out – two males trying to win over a female.  It is mating season, and the competition is stiff.  The loser swims away, its feathers ruffled, as the curtain lowers on the final act.  it is well past noon, and we are getting hungry.  We take a shorter, more direct route back to the parking lot.    Along the way, educational signboards describe the meaning of cavity trees and canopy gaps.  We come across an old chicken house from the land’s previous farm days and a directional sign announcing the presence of a beaver dam and an osprey nest.  At first glance, the nest appears unoccupied.  The male Osprey is detected in a nearby tree.  It soon flies off to its nest, where the female emerges from her concealed position to greet him.  It is a beautiful photographic opportunity.  Perhaps this is an encore performance to conclude our shared experience.  Immersive plays of nature are exceptionally rewarding, their storylines unpredictable and suspenseful.  The natural world’s continual evolution and the complex interaction of its animal kingdom are bursting with impromptu acts waiting to be interpreted on the stage of life.  I, for one, can’t wait for the next performance.  Bravo!  SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, June 2025, page 10

By Sylvie O’Rourke To me, nature is synonymous with ecotherapy. It soothes the soul, encourages clarity of mind, and offers harmonious settings for exercise and social interactions. Uplifting, both in company and in solitude, nature providesa sense of balance that keeps me grounded and ready to take on the world. Since my father’s passing, I have sought it even more frequently. Death is an irreversible finality. Its shock brings an influx of memories, making sleep elusive.  The whirlwind of funeral details and trying to sum up the life of a loved one in a few photographs or a ten-minute eulogy allows no downtime for truly grieving.  That happens later.  Heading out into nature on my own and practicing my newest pastime of birding has been a balm for me.  Unhurried walks, hyper-tuned to sounds and movement, have a meditative quality that always escaped me in yoga practices. This pursuit keeps me fully in the moment, providing necessary distractions. The saying, “Cardinals appear when angels are near,” may be just an old folk yarn or perhaps wishful thinking, but I swear that lately, they have appeared daily outside my kitchen window or in my travels around town.  While a more likely explanation might be that I have become more attuned to them since the start of my avian studies, I won’t rule out the possibility, especially if it provides a degree of comfort. As much as I enjoy my independent treks, I also crave company because laughter is as valuable as sunshine. Today, I am at the Gray’s Creek Conservation Area to find both as I snowshoe with a dozen friends from the outdoor club. Captivated by the stories of those around me, I remove my reclusive birder hat and don my social toque. A jumble of concurrent dialogues fills the air as we file down the trail, two by two.  In my vicinity, the topics include grandchildren, photography, travel, politics, and Mama Sue’s menu, where we have reservations for lunch afterward. Amidst the buzz of conversations and the crunch of our snowshoes, we do not notice much wildlife.  Only the more gregarious birds, such as the bold black-capped chickadees, dare to emerge.  Much to our delight, they flutter around us gratefully as we refill their empty feeders with peanuts and black oil sunflower seeds.  Some of them even pursue us for a while.  They know we come bearing treats.  The more introverted nuthatches also linger nearby, eager to get in on the action. Today’s event is bittersweet as winter nears its final days.  Spring will soon erase the last vestiges of the snow we now tread upon. As much as I love Canada’s four seasons and the variety of activities each provides, I am always slightly dismayed to see the current season end.  Life, as in seasons, is short, and I feel I am forever running out of time.  Too many interests equal too few hours in a day or days in a month. I suppose that is not a bad thing, as problems go.  It will just mean transitioning from my snowshoes to my hiking boots. The forest will still be there waiting for me. In my musings, I fall behind a little.  I am soon mesmerized by woodland riches such as intricate patterns in tree bark, different types and hues of moss, and delicate critter footprints in the snow.  I can’t help it; I see art everywhere!   A movement in my peripheral vision diverts my already wavering attention. The culprits, a trio of chipmunks in hot pursuit of each other, have left the confinement of their underground burrows for the freedom of the forest.  They seem to know that a milder climate is imminent. Removed from the chatter of my companions, I perceive the distinctive “purdy-purdy-purdy” refrain of a Northern Cardinal.   I pause to scan the treetops for its vibrant plumage. Perhaps it is the female I hear, not quite as discernible with its muted colors. Though I fail to see either, I know it is here with me, and that is enough.  I smile and pick up the pace to rejoin the others. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, May 2025, page 10

By Sylvie O’Rourke It is the calm between storms, and we are taking full advantage of it.  Blessedly, we’ve had no shortage of deep fluffy snow this winter.  Snowshoes are a necessity rather than merely an option for added traction. We are stoked to be at the Mer Bleue Trails in Gloucester, Ontario. It is a much-needed respite from all the political unrest seeping across our southern border.  Fresh air is such a balm for the soul! There is no time to waste standing around.  It is much too cold for that.  Starting on a shared trail, we strive to avoid marring the classic ski tracks.  The fresh snow and ungroomed trails are challenging for the skiers determined to venture out in these conditions.  Obliterated by the recent snow dump, the next trail is a bit of a slog. I am lucky to be at the back of the line where many pairs of snowshoes have already trampled it down. The appearance of another snowshoer coming from the opposite direction is a welcomed sight.  It means the snow ahead has been packed somewhat and will help decrease our efforts.   A waypoint marker at the next junction displays a trail map allowing us to confirm our location and choose our remaining route.  A few meters down a narrower path, chirping sounds alert us of the approaching trailhead.  A village of feeders populating the nearby trees clarifies the influx of chickadees crowding around us.  The black-capped cuties are bold and excited to see us, quite likely assuming we come bearing snacks.  We erupt in laughter as they land on our shoulders and heads.  While photographing one on a nearby fencepost, another lands on my phone.  It is a great distraction, but we are only partway around our loop and must resume our trek. Another trail, only navigable on the coldest winter days, takes us through the bog.  We snowshoe through an expansive vista of cattails and deserted nests in winter-bared trees.  A high-rise building emerges in the distance like a fictional bog monster.  It seems out of place and is a stark reminder that this spacious conservation area is in a suburb of Ottawa.  It is easy to forget this when surrounded by nature.  To my left, a massive wall of invasive grass known as phragmites towers over us threatening to damage the bog’s biodiversity.  Our passage through the open bog is colder, the clouded sky and biting wind reminding us of the upcoming storm.  My numbing face finds relief as we exit the bog onto the more sheltered trail through the woods. Movement up ahead makes me suspect the presence of more feeders.  Someone says they see a Blue Jay but all I spy are chickadees and downy woodpeckers.  Then, in my peripheral vision, I catch a flutter of wings.   My heart skips a beat as, at eye level, I observe a raptor on the prowl heading straight for me.  Much to my amazement, I realize it is an owl in full pursuit of its lunch.  The owl, just as startled by my presence, abandons its chase making a beeline for the safety of a nearby tree.  A chickadee’s life has been spared, at least for now. As none of my companions have witnessed the action, I alert them to the presence of the Barred Owl.  We stand below it, mesmerized at its nearness as it stares back at us curiously.  It seems unruffled by our presence, but I am not fooled.  Behind its poker face, it must surely be seething after losing its meal.  For me, selfishly, it is a hoot to observe.  As an amateur wildlife photographer, I mourn the absence of my zoom-lens camera, but I must acknowledge that I likely would not have toted it on a 9-kilometer snowshoe trek.   We take a last glimpse at the skilled hunter and leave so as not to stress it further.  Besides, my stomach is growling, and I too am ready for lunch. I know it is the cycle of nature, but I pray that this opportunistic predator finds a furry rodent to strike with its talons rather than one of my beloved avian friends. This distraction from politics and headline news is just what I needed today.  I feel restored and ready to shovel my way out of the next storm.  And who knows what surprise awaits me on my next excursion? SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, April 2025, page 9

By Sylvie O’Rourke I am standing at the base of what might be the most understated little mountain in New York. Owls Head Mountain is well-known by the locals, but a bit of a secret to the rest of the world.  Signs to announce the presence of a hiking trail are notably absent.  Years ago, we learned of its existence from a friend who once owned a cottage in the area. We are forever grateful to him as this is one of the most charming places to snowshoe in the winter. A string of snowmobilers zooms by waving to us in acknowledgment.  Gingerly, we step onto their hardened tracks listening for latecomers behind us, ready to sidestep if another should materialize. We must share their path for a few meters before finding the opening into the forest.  At the trailhead on a large tree, someone has strategically screwed a crafty depiction of an owl’s head. No words are needed to let us know we have arrived. Instantly, I walk into what looks like an immense ballroom decked out for a winter carnival.  Everywhere, ornamental clumps of sticky snow of varying sizes sit on boughs of evergreens, cling to stumps, and overhang precariously above us in the canopy.  Thin immature trees pierce massive frozen balls, miraculously supporting them.  This snowball effect is a magical display of nature at its finest.  Try as they might, the world’s top decorators could not achieve the same impact on this colossal scale. I am overwhelmed with wonder. Soon we are slowed by a fallen tree, and we must clamber over it to resume our way.  I tackle the obstacle by swinging one leg over and then the other, reminiscent of the scissor high jump technique I learned in Junior High gym class but without the jump or the agility of youth.  Ahead the hemlocks beckon, a tight-knit group of evergreens laden with snow, parted ever so slightly to allow us passage.  I appreciate the contrast of the green needles poking through the pristine whiteness of the snow.  It is an aesthetic scene waiting to be painted onto a canvas, or in my case to be photographed. We emerge from the evergreens into a continuation of the snowball theme.  The creek that snakes across the trail is barely visible under the snow but we must watch out for the buried rocks that run alongside it.  I can feel my heartbeat accelerating as we begin a gradual climb.  It’s been seven months since I’ve climbed a mountain, and I am a little out of practice.  Fortunately, this is a great beginner-size mountain to warm up underused muscles. A slight extension takes us to an abandoned ore mine, a place I enjoy visiting, especially in the winter when its entrance, below a cliff, is partially veiled behind a magnificent curtain of ice.  The others humor me as I photograph it from different angles, attempting to capture its true essence.  I would love to spend more time here and try creative shots, but the community Fire Department’s noon siren is blaring.  This startling sound, quite possibly the daily testing of an emergency alerting system, no longer fazes me, but it reminds me that I am hungry and that the steepest part of the hike is yet to come. Now I must work twice as hard to reach my picturesque lunch spot.  My calf muscles strain from the effort of the vertical ascent, and while my mountaineering snowshoes are equipped with heel lifts, I don’t bother to use them for such a short incline.  I use my poles for leverage and stamp my snowshoes’ metal teeth into the snow to prevent sliding back.  Every few minutes I look up to check my progress and catch my breath.  At last, the summit is in sight. Seated on a picnic blanket in the snow, munching sandwiches and sipping hot apple cider, we gaze at the panorama of mountains before us.  We have stood on some of those summits too.  I appreciated every step I took to get here: the walk through the snowball art, the forest of evergreens, the detour to the mine with its frozen waterfall, and finally the exquisite view here at the top.  There is a clear progression, each scene more beautiful than the previous one, and finally culminating here at the peak.  It’s almost as if I were describing a snowball effect using its proper definition.   SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, March 2025, page 10

By Sylvie O’Rourke This month marks my 10th year of publishing Cornwall Outdoor Club stories in The SDG & A Cornwall Seeker. Over one hundred stories already!  How time flies! I’ve read some past articles and noted how my writing style has evolved.  I am so grateful to Julia and Mai-Liis for welcoming me, an unknown wannabe writer, and allowing me to hone my skills.  Then, I didn’t know that writing for The Seeker would become a long-term engagement.  I remember wondering how I would generate a new story every month. It hasn’t always been easy and sometimes I’ve had to think outside the box to make it happen. Without a doubt, the most difficult time was during the pandemic chaos.  How could I write about activities that couldn’t take place?  I resorted to creating virtual events, interviewing club members, or reminiscing.  There was no way to anticipate how long this situation would last, but truthfully, I enjoyed the challenge. Writing about outdoor club activities has also pushed me to try things I may not have tried normally so that I could write from a fresh perspective.  Among the most memorable outings were a winter tent-camping event in January, an overnight backpacking hike up a mountain, and ice skating, something I’ve never excelled at, using a skating aid. I haven’t done any of those things since, but I haven’t ruled them out.  Who knows when I will need another dose of inspiration?  Other first-time experiences that were originally undertaken for the sake of a story had more staying power.  The biggest one, paddleboarding, has since become one of my passions. Camping in lean-to shelters and fat-biking have made several reoccurrences as well.  Other events like indoor rock climbing, ziplining, and downhill skiing remain on the sidelines.  I am not that desperate …yet, especially when it comes to the latter. Often when I plan to write a story, I have a preconceived idea of what I think my story will be about, and then something unexpected happens to take it in a completely different direction. One such event had us snowshoeing on a member’s private land in deep snow where, not unlike a game of Russian roulette, we would take turns post-holing, at times up to our waists.  The side-splitting laughter that ensued made us helpless to assist the latest victim to get up.  One surprising storyline was borne of a long weekend trip to Sherbrooke, Quebec, where two out of three vehicles broke down on the way to our destination. That was a not-so-welcomed plot twist!  Never would I have foreseen that while on a mountain hike in the Adirondacks, I would trip and break both wrists.    A story ensued from this experience, but certainly not the one I envisioned which would have included the vibrant fall panorama from the summit, a summit I was not destined to reach that day. This accident kept me from participating in most activities for three months and modified my way of writing from typing to voice-to-text technology.    Sometimes, creativity needs a little nudge, especially when visiting a location for the umpteenth time. Creating a fresh account might require digging deeper, perhaps by focusing on an individual, a feeling, a specific occurrence, or an extreme weather situation.  Finding the extraordinary in the ordinary can be daunting, like trying to light a fire without a match, difficult but not impossible.  With a little perseverance, a flicker of an idea might emerge, perhaps enough to trigger a small flame.  The trick is to keep that flame from dying by fanning it into a full-fledged bonfire.  Writing for The Seeker has taught me to be sensitive to my surroundings and to collect observations that may be useful for storytelling. I’ve noticed that my narratives have gradually become more introspective and personal. Throughout this journey, I have learned to sort through the jumble of words in my head to unearth those that most accurately convey my experience, making the images in my mind more vivid.  Being a part of the Seeker family has introduced me to a group of talented contributors versed in various disciplines.  Although we differ in interests, we all come together monthly to spread positive community-focused news.  I am so lucky my husband believed in me enough to give me a little nudge into that Seeker Chicks building all those years ago. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, February 2025, page 33

By Sylvie O’Rourke Saint-Lazare, Quebec is very much a horse community. Properties graced with stables and fenced-in equines are the norm here rather than the exception. It is of little wonder that the trails we are walking today at Parc Nature Les Forestiers are shared not with fat bikes but with horses for the members of the local equestrian club. This means two things, one that we will likely encounter a few on the trail, and two that we must watch where we step.  Also of note is the abundance of sand, a trail surface I do not often come across when hiking.  Saint-Lazare is a beach created by the Champlain Sea more than ten thousand years ago.  Its granular soil is a key factor in making horse-related activities popular; So much so that the areas surrounding the park have been zoned equestrian. Being around horses is uplifting even for the uninitiated.  Whether deep-rooted in childhood fairy tales, sentimental films, or romanticized notions, horses embody spirit and strength.  A community built from a common interest, such as equestrianism, most certainly weaves strong bonds and old-fashioned camaraderie.  I am eager to see what this forest has to offer. It is early November and most of the foliage has fallen from the trees, but some still hangs on for dear life. Our feet crunch through dried-up oak leaves and over the occasional unclaimed acorn. Dragging my feet through the leaves makes me feel playful and youthful.  Oh, the simple joys in life that can so effortlessly put a smile on my face!  The sandy soil along our path expresses itself in different textures, at times packed down hard, and at others thick and granular shifting under our shoes and causing us to expend more energy.  In this softer version I spot the first hoofprint with its distinctive u-shaped horseshoe, clear evidence of a horse’s recent jaunt through the forest. The anticipation of a sighting spurs me on as we descend to the bottom of the Pilon Ravine, cross the bridge, and then climb back out. Soon we become conscious of movement to our left and realize that a private property backs onto the forest just a short distance away.  Behind a fence stand three magnificent horses, one chestnut with a long blond mane, the others a mixture of black and white.  We pause to observe them munching on hay paying us little heed.  How fortunate for these horses to have these beautiful trails just a stone’s throw away from their home!   We are pleased to have spotted our first equines but yearning for a more meaningful trail encounter.   I strain to hear neighing or clip-clopping sounds, but my efforts go unrewarded. As we continue, I detect what seems to be snow to the left of the trail and must investigate.  I soon realize that the abundant light-green moss covering the ground is catching the sunlight in such a way as to appear white.  My curiosity satisfied I return to the trail.  This temporary distraction is enough to cause me to miss registering that, in the distance, a tall four-legged creature is approaching. Sure enough, a young woman on horseback is heading our way. I tell my friend to get her camera ready and when the equestrian is within earshot, I ask her if she would mind posing with her horse for us as we have a photography assignment due in a few days for a class we are taking. She graciously obliges by steering her mare in our direction.  Our hoofed model flips her mane in our direction and poses, eying us curiously.  She is docile and a natural.  We thank the horsewoman for her time, then watch the duo canter away until they become a speck in the distance. Satiated from this woodland meeting at the tail-end of our hike, I neglect watching out for road apples.  A quick sidestep maneuver and I am in the clear.  Whew!  It would not have been good to mar the ending of such a remarkable hike.  In relief, I kick at the sand below my feet erasing one of the mare’s hoofprints. There will be more tomorrow when saddled visitors trot through this equine sanctuary again.   SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, January 2025, page 33

By Sylvie O’Rourke A pool-closing party is a good choice when September offers a heat wave. But why have just a party when it can be turned into a sporting event?  We should work up a sweat before we cool down.  Accordingly, this Cornwall-Outdoor-Club-style party will start with a classic bike ride combining country roads with the popular waterfront trail.  Better still, our route is infused with historical landmarks. Our group meets near the Lost Villages Brewery on County Road 36 in Long Sault.  Heading west towards Ingleside, we cycle leisurely, enjoying our surroundings. As we enter the village of Long Sault, we pass an old seaway home relocated from Mille Roches in the 1950s. There are many such homes in this neighborhood.   If you look closely, you might spot them.  How surreal it must have been for displaced residents to open their doors to a strange landscape, virtually a twilight-zone moment.  Cruising down Manning Road, a quieter alternative to the parallel County Road 2, we are treated to an eclectic mix of new and old homes. An 1800s farmhouse painted Flamingo Pink and decorated with porcelain dinnerware stands out like a single sunflower in a field of daisies. It wasn’t always so whimsical, but age and disrepair have rendered it unlivable.  Someone has gone to great lengths to create this bittersweet memory before the building’s demolition.  Our cycle through time takes us to County Road 2 and across the Hoople Creek bridge.  We veer away from the heavier traffic towards Colonial Drive. Much like Manning Road, it has diverse home types. I am particularly attracted to a stone farmhouse which I estimate to be about two hundred years old. While its overgrown landscape gives it an air of abandonment, it retains an undeniable character.  An old home with an unfamiliar past has charm and a certain air of mystery.  I try to imagine how it once was.  What life might have breathed within its walls?  There is a treasure-trove of untold stories real or imagined aching to be written. At the western entrance of the Long Sault Parkway, we pause for a rest and hydration.  We return by the parkway, a recreational route unique to our region, and borne of the St. Lawrence Seaway construction.  After the land was inundated, farmland hills rising above the flood line became a chain of islands.  Strategically linked by bridges and causeways it became the scenic parkland we know today.   Immersed in history, traces of former villages can still be detected by land or water along the way.  This 10-kilometer Saint-Lawrence playground is one of my favorite places to explore. It educates me in ways that history books never could. For a while, I become Nancy Drew unearthing clues, remnants of the past to be assembled, bit by bit, like an intricate jigsaw puzzle.  Nearing the final stretch of our tour, we see a group of divers near the pavilion at Lock 21.  They are likely exploring the submerged canal constructed in the Victorian era.  How eerie must it be to swim into the shadows of manmade ruins from another century?  The underwater world holds so many secrets concealed from the land above. I would rather content myself with living vicariously through the tales of the others than plunge into the sinister depths of the St-Lawrence River.   I may be curious, but I have my limits!   We are nearing the end of our loop, and the vision of a refreshing pool spurs me on like a carrot dangling before a donkey. With a new burst of energy, I pick up the pace and reach our destination.  We quickly exchange our bicycles for ginger beers and Glengarry Fine Cheese.  The long-awaited pool dip soon follows.  As my knotted muscles unwind, I reflect on our tour.  The history we have traveled through is but an echo of a time that was never mine yet resonates within me.  With life constantly evolving, I can’t help but wonder what home will look like a century from now.  What remnants will there be for others to piece together the puzzle of our lives? SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, December 2024, page 25

by Sylvie O’Rourke The great outdoors and the weather are often at odds.   There is an unknown factor that can easily throw off an envisioned vacation.  One can choose to either bail or embrace whatever may come. Our five-day tent camping reservation was made long ago without a crystal ball to guide us.  The prediction is a mix of sunshine and rain. Since the first two days are expected to be sunny, we leave early to paddle on the St Regis River.  It is peaceful but for the rhythmic splashing of our paddles.  To my left, a large turtle lies basking on a white birch log in full view.  Nearby two adult loons carry silverfish in their beaks for their young ones.  They are quite vocal, perhaps warning them of our presence.  Saint Regis Mountain rises just before us, its fire tower barely visible on the summit.  The area we paddle through, once known as the vacation hotspot for the wealthy, is steeped in history.  It boasts the largest number of Great Camps in the region.  We emerge onto Spitfire Lake to view large traditional Adirondack-style cottages. One of them stands out with its large four-door boathouse stocked with antique wooden boats. We return to the river and our waiting vehicles, feeling relaxed from our outing. Our Day Two paddle takes us through marshy channels linking several ponds. It is fun to zigzag through the narrow waterway and wonder what lies beyond the next curve.  Although we don’t see any loons, we are visited by several American Black Ducks. It is hot out today and we are eager to jump into the ice-cold pond to enjoy a swim. The following morning, we awaken to a relentless downpour.   Restless, we pull on our rainbow of fuchsia, canary yellow, and Irish green raincoats to walk to the end of the campground, an area we have yet to explore.    Besides a lone fisherman standing in the pond, few campers are out.  The lack of vehicles is proof of desertion for dryer options, perhaps a visit to a nearby museum, a quaint café, or a laundromat.  When the rain finally does clear, I set out my water-logged shoes and socks to dry and we go paddling on another pond.  As it is windy we stick mostly to the sheltered shore. After passing the campground and long stretches of bushland, we come across a few private paddle-in cottages without electrical services.  There is no sign of life at any of them. On Day Four under the threat of more rain, we go for a shorter paddle in the choppy water.  By lunchtime, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped.  Convinced that rain is imminent, we remain at our site to relax with a book. By mid-afternoon, the sun peeks out and we enjoy a swim at the beach.  Even our evening campfire is pleasantly uninterrupted. The raindrops delay their fall until we are tucked into our sleeping bags for the night. But on our final day what I have dreaded has come to fruition:  There will be no opportunity to dry our gear before we leave.  Once again, the sky is crying profusely, its sobs becoming more articulated with time. Miserably, we pack up our wet and sand-encrusted tent along with all our soaked possessions. We will have a mess to clean up tomorrow, but we will soon appreciate our brick-and-mortar home. While no one ever dreams of a vacation with anything but perfect weather, camping is not camping without some degree of hardship.  After all, the root of the word “camp” stems from the Old English word “battlefield”.  It only seems fair that, as campers, we should come prepared to battle the elements.  The rain will be forgotten with time, but the campfire stories, the cool swims, the paddling excursions, and especially the company we shared them with will live on. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, November 2024, page 26

By Sylvie O’Rourke I have heard that life is a journey, not a destination. Hikers will tell you as much about a mountain trail. Heck! Even Miley Cirus sings that it’s about the climb. If so, why is it that as I prepare for my second hike to Fish Hawk Cliffs, all I can recall from my initial visit is the beginning and the ending? If you ask me about it, I will describe the long walk to the trailhead, the outstanding summit view at the top, and the excruciating walk back. Everything in between is a blur. One might say that in my case, it was entirely about the destination. This memory void puzzles me, and I hope to discover its reason today. I am standing with the others at the start of the easement through private property where only members of the Adirondack Mountain Reserve are authorized to drive. Although we have the privilege of enjoying the trails, as visitors we must reach them on foot. The road to the trailhead is as long as the trail itself; This I remember all too well. As we trek along the road, I observe small cascades and clusters of white admiral butterflies warming their wings in the sun. Spiritually these magnificent creatures symbolize hope and inspiration. I take this as a good sign. The wild foliage is thriving in this mountainous setting and the mosquitoes are minimal. Our group is quite chatty, and our voices and laughter fill the air. It is not until we reach the Gill Brook trailhead that the real hiking begins. Roots and rock hazards are everywhere, and we must tread with care, but the trail is aesthetically delightful, zigzagging along the brook to the soothing sound of running water. It is worth maneuvering through slippery moss-covered stones and mud to admire all the waterfalls along our path. Due to steepness, we sometimes need to climb stairs or wooden ladders to attain the next level. Although the trail is picturesque, I am languishing in the heat and eager to reach the summit. The closer we get to it, the rockier the terrain becomes, but my spirits are high from the certainty of what awaits at the top. Of this, my memory could not be clearer:  The massive rockface looking down at the Ausable River in the valley below and the mountain peaks towering above us. It is a stunning location for dining and resting our weary feet. It is very windy here and we must hang on to our hats for fear of losing them in the abyss. But after our exertion in the heat, the airflow is a blessing. We are in no hurry to head back down the trail. Reluctantly we must eventually leave this beautiful setting. The walk down the mountain is difficult, and I am hyper-conscious that tired feet tend to drag. With effort, I redouble my concentration to avoid an injury. So intent am I at looking at my toes that I occasionally lose the trail markers and must pause to get my bearings. Nearing the end of the rough trail, I glimpse the river below through a gap in the trees and daydream of a cool dip. Instead, I persevere, and to my relief, finally emerge onto the flatter road where I can relax my guard. We walk to a stream to dip our hats to cool ourselves down. It is so cold! It is like receiving a boost of energy. Overheating again after a couple more kilometers, we stop on a rock ledge by the brook to fill one of our empty bottles with chilled water, not to drink but to splash ourselves. It feels luxurious! The finish line is within reach, and I feel more weary than sore, an improvement from my last visit.  Curiously, It is a journey I will remember. What has changed? I believe that the first time my anxiety about the length of the hike combined with my lack of confidence in my ability resulted in my focus being on the hike’s completion. Today, I came armed with experience and realistic expectations, which allowed me to enjoy the details of the journey. Walking this road to discovery leads me to conclude that sometimes it is about the journey and other times it is about the destination. It all depends on your state of mind. I wonder what will happen if I return. I have heard that the third time is the charm. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, September 2024, page 11

By Sylvie O’Rourke Today I am embarking on a marathon of sorts.  We are undertaking the Northern Ice Cream Trail in the Adirondacks. Our itinerary is set; We will drive to Saranac Lake, enjoy some ice cream, work it off with a small mountain hike, have ice cream again, enjoy a hike in the woods, and top it off with, you guessed it, more ice cream.  As a rule, I don’t keep this sinful treat in my home.  I must walk or cycle to it.  This forces me to assess the intensity of my craving.  This adventure, therefore, seems custom-made for me.  Before we arrive at our first destination, we notice a sign imploring us: “Don’t be a meanie, buy a weenie.”  The hot dog cart in front of Paul Smith College beckons.  We don’t need much encouragement as the glazier hot dogs served here, are locally made and amazing.  It is almost lunchtime after all!  While munching on our meal we discover a new trail behind the parking lot and memorise its location for another day.  We are soon back on the road and heading to Mountain Mist, a small stand on the shore of Lake Flower where we enjoy a sweet dish of Graham Canyon ice cream on a covered patio.  Several canoes drift by, adding to the peaceful scene.   I notice a small sailboat moored to the dock next to a pair of sandals and wonder where the shoeless sailor has gone. In anticipation of the blackfly season, I come prepared with my battalion uniform:  long pants to be tucked into hiking socks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a bug net.  Only my hands will be exposed to the blood-seeking foes. We are ready for our mountain hike!  At least that is our honest intention; However, our poor sense of direction leads us five miles past our target.  Our extended route brings us to a parking lot for the new Adirondack Rail Trail.  Excited by our discovery, we abandon our plan to go to the mountain.   I am more than happy to dispense with my battalion outfit to walk this trail which will likely be less infested with blackflies.  This recreational trail runs from Saranac Lake to Lake Placid and will eventually reach Tupper Lake.  We walk a scenic section through pine forests and bogs with mountain views, then discover an unknown trailhead at a road crossing.  Perhaps another future hike?  The next crossing reveals a sign for a museum which we follow out of curiosity.  There will be more to discover when we return to cycle here next month! Perspiring from our exertion, we feel entitled to a frozen dessert.  We drive to Donnelly’s, a small stand by the road in Harrietstown with an unobstructed view of the McKenzie range.  Established in 1953, this seasonal business still uses the original machine to produce its famous two-flavor ice cream.   What is unique about this stand is the lack of choice.  There is one varying flavor per day almost always twisted with vanilla. Sunday’s flavor is chocolate/vanilla, and the line-up is long, but we know it will be worth the wait.  It always is.  We are not disappointed. Our itinerary lists a hike in Brighton next, but the dozen blackfly bites behind my neck and the heat make me less than enthused to enter the woods.  Without much debate, we ditch the itinerary and head straight to Bokie’s Drive-In in Malone, a 1950s-style diner that serves four types of homemade ice cream.  Here, we indulge in a final guilty pleasure, a baby-size dish of Maple Pralines and Pecans ice cream.  It is difficult but not impossible to justify a reward without effort, but, as with most things in life, it is important to persevere to reach our goal, in this case, the completion of the Northern Ice Cream Trail.  It’s a sweet ending to a cool adventure. By a twist of fate, our journey has led us to new trails and sites inspiring us to plan several more outings.  Perhaps it was meant to be.  I hope these day trips will lead us back to Donnelly’s twisted cones, my favorite of the day, but not too soon or I will be rolling down the mountains instead of climbing them. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, August 2024, page 24