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

By Sylvie O’Rourke Let it Ride By Sylvie O’Rourke I am sitting on my narrow wooden seat, my right hip against the gunwale, my arms extended in the A-frame position grasping my paddle just above the water’s surface and waiting for the coach to shout “Take it Away!”  This memory comes flooding back to me as if it were yesterday.  It’s been years since I joined the Dragon Hearts team with the Cornwall Outdoor Club at the first-ever Cornwall Waterfest event, but since then I’ve returned annually either on a team or as a volunteer.  It’s so much fun! If you’re unfamiliar with this sport, here is the scoop:  A dragon boat has twenty paddlers sitting in pairs, a steersperson standing at the tail, and a drummer at the head.  The steersperson navigates while commanding its crew.  The latter sits facing the paddlers with a drum between the legs, a drumstick in one hand, and the other hand holding on for dear life as if on a bucking bronco.  The drummer’s role is to beat a rhythm to keep the paddlers in unison and to shout out encouragement.  If you’ve been a spectator, you know that a race lasts but a few seconds.  You might not know that the successful teams paddling together like well-oiled machines have received training before the race.  They are less likely to lose focus leading to the clickety-clack of paddles hitting each other.  To learn techniques and synchronicity, community practices are key. Without that, it matters little how strong your paddlers are.  Dragon boat practices are intense workouts.  Unlike a typical canoe stroke, you must reach forward, and bury the paddle in the water while pulling with your entire body and pushing with your legs.  You then draw your paddle out at your hip and repeat without breaking the rhythm until you hear the command “Let it Ride!” During practices, you paddle ten times more than on race day. Make believe for a moment that you are in a boat with me and eighteen other paddlers.  A coach and an experienced steersperson are here to guide you.  Get ready for drills!  The coach instructs you to reverse your paddle so that the handle is in the water, and you feel like you are paddling in butter.  As strange as this directive may sound, it is a bona fide learning tactic to train paddlers to work as a team without the force of the paddle pulling water. The coach teaches us the start, the most critical part of the race.  He explains that a dragon boat is like a barge.  At first, it is low in the water and difficult to move.  At the blow of the horn, we take five deep long strokes.  The steersperson yells “Up!”.  We take five faster strokes.  We hear “Up” again and take five much faster strokes lifting the boat higher on the water, approaching racing speed.  We practice these fifteen strokes several times in a row.  It’s like doing a series of sprints – going from zero to a gallop.  We are pumped, our adrenaline flowing, our hearts nearly beating out of our chests. We slow down the pace and are told to “Let it Ride!”  We sigh in relief thinking our exertion is over, but we are mistaken.   “Hold the boat” barks the coach.  “Now we are ready to practice a full race.”  At the imaginary starter line, we hold the boat as directed.  “Paddles Up!” We lean forward with our paddles tipped just above the water’s edge.  “Take it Away!”, we dig into the first five long strokes.  “Up!”  The strokes speed up, and the boat lifts. “Up!” We are at full speed paddling to the drummer’s beat. We must keep up the pace for at least thirty more seconds, interminable seconds.  “Go! Go! Go!” screams the drummer.  We paddle as if our lives depend on it.   The coach yells “Finish now!  Only ten more strokes to go.  Our muscles scream with the effort, as we finally cross the finish line.  Phew!  Our bodies slump in exhaustion, but we’ve never felt stronger. Dragon boat practices are an incredible lesson in skills.  Come experience the rush of race day at the Cornwall 12th Annual Dragon Boat Races on August 10, 2024, held at the historic Cornwall Canal, at Power Dam Drive and Second Street West in Cornwall, Ontario. In conjunction with the popular dragon boat races, there is a unique market featuring local artisans displaying their wares. Delicious food and drink are served on site and DJ Shellshock will be spinning the tunes… This year, Cornwall Waterfest is joining up with St. Joseph’s Continuing Care Centre to raise funds for its expanded rehabilitation space. St. Joseph’s Continuing Care Centre operates 150 Long-Term Care beds and 58 Complex Continuing Care beds and has been providing health care services to the Cornwall area for over 125 years. The newly built 2400-square-foot space at 14 York Street will be a first of its kind in the community to assist with patient recovery and increase rehabilitation program options. Funds raised from this event will purchase new rehabilitation equipment for the program. Better yet, why don’t you register a team or join one needing more paddlers?   If you are unavailable on that day but want to find out what all the hype is about, don’t fret; You can volunteer for a practice to help fill a boat.  For more information go to www.cornwallwaterfest.com and choose the “Contact Us” page. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, July 2024, page 24

By Sylvie O’Rourke We gather at Gleeson’s Lock at the canal’s west end just as the sun prepares to set.  In the west, the sky glows in shades of purple, orange, and red as we light our candles.   Protecting the flames from the breeze with our cupped hands, we shift to form a circle and reflect on the friends we have lost and have not had the opportunity to honour as a group.  Having shared so many experiences, we have thought of them often since their passing.   Simple things like a Tilley hat with a braided band or a white Kevlar kayak are reminders of these special individuals who no longer walk among us.  While both shared a love of the great outdoors and had similar tastes in food, they differed vastly in their personalities.  One would be blissfully content shopping at the Army Surplus Store and could identify camouflage patterns by type and country at a glance.  He also enjoyed collecting camp stoves.  A talented handyman, he crafted a wooden paddle for his sea kayak, built canoe and kayak racks for the club, and often repaired equipment for us.  Frequently, he would plug geocache coordinates into his GPS to optimize his excursions.  He was happiest spending leisure time camping in the woods or paddling on a lake with his friends. The other loved gear and would immerse himself in lengthy research and comparisons before purchasing major items such as an electric bicycle or a kayak.  He enjoyed watching baseball and hockey games and worked as an usher at the Ottawa Senators games for years. His decision to persuade his friend to take ballroom dancing lessons with him resulted in a love match – my husband’s and mine.  I learned recently that he was the original “Walk to Brunch” event planner, a tradition that continues today. Tonight we are invited to share stories of adventures and misadventures and the tales come tumbling out.   “Do you remember when he got lost while geocaching?” says one.  “What about the time he fell in the mud up to his neck”, chimes in another.  There are many such prompts and each story seems funnier than the next.  Curiously, throughout the narrations, our candles keep flickering in the breeze and extinguishing themselves and we must relight them each time.  Perhaps our departed friends are causing havoc, playfully letting us know they are here with us.  One of them in particular, would want to keep things lighthearted. When the stories start to peter out, we decide to have a moment of silence, but alas someone does not hear the request and unwittingly breaks the silence after less than a minute with an elaborate story of his own.  This elicits a fit of giggles from our circle and for all our good intentions, any semblance of silence is all but abandoned.  I am sure that if our friends are watching, they have already forgiven us and are chuckling too. We set off on our sunset walk along the canal and around the OPG Centre to complete our memorial.  Some bring along their burning candles, warm wax dripping down their fingers.  The soft glow of their candles gives the effect of their spiritual presence accompanying us on our pilgrimage.   It is both symbolic and comforting.  The illuminated power generation station reflects in the river and helps to guide our way around the loop.  It looks rather impressive in the darkness.  What intrigues me the most as we approach the end of our walk is the fact that, for its duration, the candles did not once fizzle out.  In all likelihood, the breeze has died, but it is just as easy to believe that the spirits have turned serious for a time and stopped teasing us. This special night of unity has focused on the legacy of a couple of remarkable men.  Their impact on our lives will be felt for a long time.  A sense of closure fills me, as we blow out our candles and disperse.   I hope they know how much we miss them, and how their memory will be forever in our hearts. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, June 2024, page 23

by Sylvie O’Rourke We are getting bogged down today.  Not literally.  Eight of us plus a beautiful white pup, are going hiking in the Mer Bleue Conservation Area which just happens to contain the largest peat bog in the region.  However, before visiting the bog itself, we plan to put in some kilometers on a larger loop through the conservation area. Fortunately for us, on this cold March morning, the muddy ground is crusted over by frost, and we don’t have to contend with too much muck, at least until the temperature rises.   Very soon into our walk, we spot a lively spot full of birds and squirrels.  In its midst, a large tree sporting more than a dozen child-made birdhouses and feeders, all in brightly painted colours, stands out like a neon sign in the deciduous forest.  It’s a merry send-off. The trails are well-indicated and the sporadic boardwalks, although aged, are welcomed. When we arrive at a stretch of mixed snow and ice, I take the time to slip on my crampons for extra security.  The mud is already starting to thaw and getting slicker by the minute.  Occasional water hazards, some covered by a thin film of ice must be skirted.  No matter the obstacles, the sun burns cheerfully in an azure sky, and we are all in high spirits. After a picnic lunch, we bid the now not-so-white puppy and his master goodbye as dogs are not permitted on the trail around the bog.  I’ve often wondered why this bog is called “Mer Bleue,” which translates to “blue sea” as its only body of water would be more likely described as a pond. The mystery is solved by an interpretive sign explaining that it got its name from early French settlers who noticed that in the early morning when the sun lit the mist, the bog appeared blue thus giving the illusion of being a sea.  This trail is almost entirely composed of boardwalks, and it is not hard to see why.  The landscape is very fragile, and signs warn us to stay on the trail.  The slow-growing bog plants can take decades to grow and stray footsteps can cause much damage.  Walking in a peat bog can be just as hazardous to humans.  Peat moss, especially when waterlogged, can be very unstable and a misplaced foot could get sucked in and be very difficult to remove.  Heaven forbids that one of us should become the next Bog Monster! The landscape is very unusual, with few trees, allowing us to see the horizon’s expanse.  I am thankful it is not overly cold today because an open bog offers little protection from the wind.   The low vegetation with its reddish hue is interrupted by the occasional pop of stunted black spruces or needle-less tamaracks.   I can almost imagine myself seated on one of the wooden benches waiting patiently for a moose to show up, but I would have neither the perseverance nor the courage for a close encounter.  In any event, it would be unlikely for one to appear at this time of the year when the bog is at its wettest.  Even they are not immune to the suction of the bog.    Closer to firm ground, we approach a shallow marshy area where the cattails take centre stage.  These aquatic plants remind me of corn dogs, but fortunately for the bog creatures, they provide healthier nutrients to those who feast on them.  Trails of tramped-down grasses point to critter activity, and a twig and mud house on the edge of the pond establishes that at least some of them are beavers.  In any event, with our noisy chatter, any animal out there is sure to be crouched down in the reeds to avoid detection, waiting to resume whatever they were doing once the loud humans have departed.  They will soon have their chance as our boardwalk tour has ended. My visit to the Big Blue Sea has been a pleasant one.  I hope to return in the fall to hike the other trail loop in this section that we have yet to visit.  Who knows? Maybe it will be a misty day and I will catch a glimpse of what the French Settlers once observed.  And just to keep the fantasy going, perhaps the ghostly outline of a moose might peek through the fog. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, May 2024, page 23

By Sylvie O’Rourke Icebox By Sylvie O’Rourke I am packing my snowshoes and trail crampons, but I am half inclined to bring along my swim fins as well.  Kidding aside, this morning, after a night of heavy rain followed by a day of above-freezing temperature, I woke up to a yard of brownish grass.  We are going, allegedly, to snowshoe up Owls Head Mountain, southeast of Malone, New York, curiously one of at least four mountains in the Adirondacks bearing the same name.  Given this unusually mild February, I am just not sure if the trail will be covered in snow, mud, or water.  As we drive across the border, I am not at all optimistic. Other than the odd smidgen of week-old snow in the shadowed woods, there is very little white gracing the ground.  The sight of a green golf course past our halfway mark only makes my spirit sink further.  But then, as we approach the hamlet of Owls Head, I am astounded by the transformed landscape; A magic wand has seemingly covered the land with a thickening blanket of snow. If I had realized that this area was once dubbed the “Icebox” of New York for being the coldest spot in the state, I may not have worried so much.  Based on scientific fact or not, I am a believer! The snow on the mountain is not fresh by any means, but it is plentiful and that is good enough for me.  The hike is a four-kilometer round trip, and the ascent is mostly gradual.  It is an ideal mountain hike for beginners or people like us looking for a leisurely climb on a Sunday morning. Don’t think that the beautiful summit view is the only incentive to strap on your snowshoes. This little mountain has an additional noteworthy site to visit.  Just before the steepest section, a little past the main trail, is an abandoned mine from the late 1800s where ore was once excavated.  A considerable amount of water streams down over the rocks above the shaft and in the winter, it freezes into an impressive waterfall monument while the shaft floor itself sprouts ice stalagmites.    Perhaps this is the nucleus of Owls Head’s icebox. It certainly looks like the most glacial place on the mountain.  Once back on the main trail, the real ascent begins.  While somewhat steep, it is a relatively short climb compared to other mountains.  Within a few minutes, we are at the summit and have a clear view of the mountains and the frozen Mountain View Lake below.  It is a lovely spot to kick off our snowshoes for a while and enjoy a meal on the rocks. However, we must first bundle up as the open summit is quite breezy.   We don’t mind though, because we are at the top of the world gazing across at the purple high peaks in the distance and into the beautiful valley below us.  In the distance, we spot the red barn near our departure point.   From here it reminds me of the classic toy barn of my youth, which, coincidentally, also sported a white “x” on each door.  No matter, how many times I come here, I never fail to photograph that structure.  There is just something nostalgic about a bright red barn in an open field.  Surpassing the view, if that is possible, is the knowledge that there are no other souls around.  We have the entire mountain to ourselves, and assuming every visitor has signed the trail register, no one has been here in several days.  Regrettably, the time to descend has come.  I take a last look, trying to imprint the vista in my mind to make it last a little longer, because a photograph, as good as it might be, fails to capture the whole scene.  With a heart filled with gratitude, I turn my back on the valley, and start the journey down, embracing my surroundings with mindfulness.  It is odd how once the anticipation of the climb is satisfied, the descent, despite being the same distance, always seems so much shorter.  Already, we are back to the life-size barn, and it is time to load up the car and leave, but we will be back next year, same time, same mountain.  After all, we must make sure the presumed icebox will remain cold to honor its reputation. SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, April 2024, page 23

By Sylvie O’Rourke Snow!  It comes in so many varieties from light and fluffy to heavy and wet and everything in between.  You may have heard winter sports enthusiasts complain about the slow start to the season this year.  Promises of snow forecasts were failing to deliver, taunting us with predictions of heavy flurries that somehow missed Cornwall entirely, yet graced the land of every surrounding municipality.  Weather predictions can be a slippery slope sometimes. Club Activity leaders with scheduled activities must roll with nature’s punches and be ready to juggle times, dates, and locations to make the best of an outing.  Our first event of the year turns out to be such a day.  Faced with rain and slush, this event was first changed from Saturday to Sunday, then the location itself was moved slightly more to the north in the hopes of finding better snow.  Deciding which type of footwear is required when the weather offers us a mixed bag is not easy.  Just to be sure we pack snowshoes, trail crampons, our best snow boots, and some hiking poles for good measure.  We will figure it out when we get there. We group together in the parking lot of Warwick Forest for a discussion.  It has snowed a bit more here than back home, but it is crusted over by frozen rain.  Yesterday’s slushy footprints have frozen over unevenly which make walking more difficult. The conditions are not ideal, and the opinions vary greatly.   It sounds like an opportunity to experiment, and in that spirit, we each do our own thing.    I opt for snowshoes because I feel that they distribute the weight more evenly resulting in more stability for my ankles.  A few others do the same.  Some decide to wear crampons for more grips, and others feel comfortable in good-treaded boots.  Poles are not a bad idea for added exercise or security, but they can be a hindrance.  I compromise and use only one.  No matter our choices, none of them are infallible. The first trail starts from the parking lot.  The sound of eight pairs of feet on the crunchy snow causes such a ruckus that we must strain to hear the person ahead of us speaking.  We have no chance of hearing the birds chirping today!  The forest is beautiful though, and we soon immerse ourselves in the experience.   While snowshoeing in deep snow can be hard work, today’s conditions pose challenges of their own. Each footstep must be calculated for optimum stability. The next trail is across the street from the parking lot which is convenient today because it gives us an opportunity to go back to our cars to make footwear adjustments, if needed.  Sure enough, a couple of people decide to exchange their crampons for snowshoes for the second part of our excursion.  The others appear satisfied with their original choices and remain as they are.  And we are off again!   The second trail has interpretive signs educating us along the way.  There are nine signs altogether and for us they mark rest stops, places to study the landscape and regroup.  I am intrigued by the second one entitled “Fire Pond”, with no explanation.  I will learn later that this pond was dug in the 1950’s when the trees were planted and is now a habitat for many critters.  Typically, fire ponds are used to extinguish and prevent the spread of wildfires in remote areas where there are no hydrants.  Further along the trail is another sign identifying an old homestead.  We can see a foundation, the remnant of a farm abandoned in the 1930’s due to poor soil and drainage.  I love the learning opportunities trails such as these provide (not to mention the chance to stop and catch my breath.) By the time we return to the parking lot again, I am exhausted from the efforts of this hike, both mentally from having to be conscious of each foot placement, and physically because of the awkward terrain.  Despite this, I leave with a feeling of deep satisfaction.  Winter and all its types of snow are welcome.  Whatever winter dumps on us, there is a solution to tackle it and make the most of it.  If the driving conditions permit it and the trails are open, we will find a way!  Mother Nature keeps us on our toes, that’s for sure, but isn’t that the whole idea? SDG & A Cornwall Seeker,, March 2024, page 22

By Sylvie O’Rourke Snow showed up in early December and remained, blanketing the trees, for four glorious days.  I was launched prematurely into winter-utopia mode, going for strolls in the woods at every opportunity.  I even headed out to Rigaud for a day to snowshoe where the snow was deeper.  Sadly, on the fifth day, the rain came and washed it all away, but by that time the snow-bug had already bitten and drawn blood. Now that the grass is green again, I feel like I have no choice but to do what every winter enthusiast might do. I go where the ground is whiter, in this case, across the border.  That is what brings us here now heading on a snow-chasing excursion to the Adirondacks in a car full of like-minded people.  First, we explore a little-known gem called Elders Grove where the trail is not marked, but the trees are massive.  It has been a few years since we have last been here and, although we locate the gate, the trailhead is another matter.   We can’t find the inconspicuous cairn to get us started and there are no human tracks in the fresh snow. We do the next best thing and bushwhack following any hint of a possible trail, but what appears promising at first eventually ends up a dead end.   We are forced to backtrack time and time again.   Ultimately, we never do find the trail, but we sure have fun in the process.  I pity the next snowshoers who might rely on our tracks to find their own way around the forest.  We will try again some other time but now we have another forest to visit. Our second stop is at the nearby Osgood Pond, where the trails are blazed, and we can snowshoe with confidence.  The trail has bridges crossing two century-old hand-dug canals which connect three ponds together.  Historically, this enabled cottagers and hotel guests to reach the nearby church by canoe.  Also of interest are three lean-tos where you could choose to spend a night under the stars if you were so inclined.  Today, one of them will serve us well as a picnic spot by the frozen pond. After a restorative lunch, we are ready to go again to snowshoe on the network of trails along the shore and through the cathedral pines.  We are warming up for the season ahead, building up our muscles for the mountains to come, and getting used to having awkward snow-gripping devices attached to our boots.  The surrounding beauty casts its spell on us, and it takes a near-stumble on a protruding root to jar us back to reality.  There is not much of a snow-base yet and caution is needed.  We observe footprints on the trail ahead, perhaps those belonging to a coyote, along with the occasional crisscrossing of deer hooves.  As in the previous forest, we see no evidence of human activity since the last snowfall.  The white purity of the forest has a calming effect on us, shattered only by the wind relieving an evergreen bow of its burden of snow.  At times, this unexpected snow dump narrowly misses someone’s head, much to our amusement. A deep breath of crisp air fills my lungs and promptly vaporizes as I exhale; proof that I am alive in this heavenly setting.  Sporadically, I stop in my tracks to admire nature.  I do that…a lot.  Amateur photography is my magnet, always pulling me to see art in the most unassuming places, be it a shadow on the ground, a light-pattern filtering through the trees, or a frozen drop hanging from a pinecone. I am trying to absorb everything as it may serve as inspiration for a story later.  You just never know.   It is no wonder that I am often trailing behind the others; it’s not so much my lack of physical speed as my overactive mind.  At least that is the excuse I’m sticking to.  A day such as this one only convinces me more that sometimes we must take matters into our own hands to extend the snow-season and eradicate those in between months that are too buggy or muddy to be in the woods, or too cold to be on the water.  We are snow-chasers, doing what we can to get an early start on the season and make it last as long as possible.  SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, February 2024, page 20.

My nerves are on edge and I realize that I am holding my breath.  My right hand is gripping the handle tightly while my eyes dart from side to side looking for a sign. I am wielding a machete chopping my way through the concrete jungle to locate my target, or so it would seem.  In actuality, I am a passenger in a vehicle trapped in a queue on the congested streets of downtown Montreal and I am trying to determine if we are in the correct lane or if we need to merge towards the next exit.  An aggressive driver, a local who knows exactly where she is going, wedges her pick-up truck ahead of us forcing us to let her in.  Somewhere in the background I hear honking and in the distance the faint sound of a siren.  Big bustling cities do not summon me as do the mountains and lakes and I would trade the bright lights for the desert moon in a heartbeat.  My purpose in crossing this busy metropolis today is to reach the hill emerging from its centre; the one Jacques Cartier scaled in 1535 and named Mount Royal.  Our group intends to hike to the summit in time to watch the sun set over the skyline. I exhale gratefully as we reach the parking lot at last. Instantly, I find myself in another world, a refuge of nature in an unexpected place.  From here the skyscrapers are not visible.  As far as the eye can see, there are frosted trees, a partially frozen lake, and people here and there milling around the grounds.  We follow a path along Beaver Lake watching children slide down a hill in snow tubes or sleds, their laughter replacing the cacophony of car horns.  There is more snow up here then back home, and I am surprised to see cross-country skiers gliding by so early in the season as it is only mid-November.  In the blink of an eye, I can almost forget that I am in a large city. The sunlight is slowly fading as we walk up the trail to the Kondiaronk Belvedere.  It looks like we timed our arrival well. From the half-moon-shaped plaza we can look down onto the high rises that define urban life.  The view to the east set against a pinkish sky is noteworthy.  In downtown’s heart I spy an impressive large-scale mural depicting Montreal-native legend Leonard Cohen.  As he stares my way I can almost feel the “Hallelujah” melody vibrating through my core.  Standing in this pocket of nature, I feel removed from the traffic chaos below.  I inhale deeply, appreciating this haven of preserved land.  It has been nearly five hundred years since Explorer Cartier stood on this very hill.  I wonder what he would think now. Just a short distance away the illuminated Mount Royal Cross stands majestically over the St. Lawrence River, outshining the dotted city lights in the valley below.  We stop here briefly before heading back down the path.  We are just in time to catch a glimpse of St-Joseph’s Oratory silhouetted against the last of the sunlight.  The setting has calmed me considerably and I am now ready to head back into the urban din, through the throng of vehicles once more.  It is amazing what a pocketful of air will do for the spirit.  First appeared in the Cornwall Seeker, January 2020/Sylvie O’Rourke