Dromore Snowshoeing

 



In my search for ever more remote trails to explore I drove us to Dromore, deep in the back country of King’s County. We left paved roads behind and followed dirt tracks that were icy but at least plowed. We parked beside a dark and ominous opening in the trees where a trail disappeared into the interior. A map board showed a basically north/south trail with several side loops totaling some 12 kms and we set forth on an un-groomed path where recent falls had left the snow quite deep. The way was marked by periodic red ribbons tied to tree branches and clarified only by a couple of sets of old boot prints.

 

 

Within minutes we felt we were a hundred miles from civilization. Stopping to stand and listen, the silence was a dense blanket around us, so eerily quiet that Susan began to feel uncomfortable. Her unease deepened when the boot prints petered out and our only ground markers were animal tracks. The ground was fairly flat but the snow so deep that at times we struggled to stay upright. At forks in the path we took the main route north, sensibly gauging that the side loops would be a step too far. We forged ever further until I fished out my phone and with a single bar of signal used the GPS to locate our position. The map revealed we were not too far from a dirt road. At the prospect of an easier walk back on a wide path I suggested we strike out across virgin snow through dense trees to reach it.

Susan was distinctly nervous at this turn of events and felt it too much of a risk. She was of course right as we were a long way from anywhere and help would be a long time coming, if ever. Nonetheless my inner compass and the GPS agreed so I comforted her with promises of a lovely stroll once we had just got through this maze! Uncertain, Susan bent to examine animal tracks and with much sage rubbing of her chin and deeply furrowed brows she stood slowly and announced her findings. A coyote had passed this way and what’s more, with a damaged paw. I studied the prints myself and indeed this was a large set of pads and judging by the depth, a heavy animal. I kept thinking there is nothing more fierce than a wounded, cornered animal!

 

 

 

 



GPS insisted we were barely a couple of hundred feet from the dirt road and I suggested that to proceed would be quicker than to back track. We set off at a furious pace expecting to be pounced on by ravenous canines at any moment. Ducking under branches, pushing others to the side we crashed forward. A sharp dig in my cheek went barely noticed, such was the rush of adrenaline. In a few moments we burst into sunlight and scrambled over a high snow bank to reach sanctuary... a road with ATV wheel tracks we could comfortably walk in and visibility for some way ahead. Phew!

Now my cheek began to sting and I asked Susan to nurse my wound. Blood was running down to my neck and it felt like a large flap of skin was hanging off. A visit to ER seemed certain. However with a quick spit on a tissue and a couple of dabs Susan pronounced me fit to continue and that stitches would probably be unnecessary. Buoyed by this good news I virtually scampered up the track, well as good as I could on twenty-five inch snow shoes. More animal tracks came under our scrutiny and Susan spotted paw prints of fox, rabbit and even birds. I am in awe of her tracking abilities! After ninety minutes and four and a half kilometers we were back at the car and had survived another adventure.

 



Strathgartney to Bonshaw Hills snowshoeing

On Monday we buckled up our snowshoes in the Strathgartney Provincial Park parking lot and rattled over ice sheets into the park. After a southerly trek towards the river we turned westward following a trail sign to Bonshaw Hills. The snow was hard and the path sloped steeply up and downhill. We found the air cold and our toes were soon numb.

 

A couple walking three dogs on leashes stopped as they approached us. As we drew level to pass, two of the dogs barked highly aggressively and strained hard at their leashes bringing the man to his knees in the snow. If he had let go I do think they would have attacked us. Susan, normally an avid dog lover, was fearful too.

 

Much relieved, we forged on downhill to a point at which the trail, the river and the Trans Canada Highway all converge. We took the riverbank path beneath the highway and came up on the north side of the road. The river ice creaked and cracked alarmingly as the flow forced its way beneath. At Bonshaw Hills we struck out north and followed a trail until it passed close to the highway again. There we made a very steep embankment climb to the road which took immense effort.

 

We swung our legs over the guard rail and clattered across four empty lanes. Taking the no-exit road off the highway, which I had been looking for, we snaked back towards Strathgartney and close to the five hundred foot transmission mast atop the highest ground in the area. We were able to walk on the dry road in boots.

 

A beagle watching us from the road ahead began barking. He trotted up to us, tail wagging, and enjoyed a brief pet before darting off with his nose glued to animal tracks in the snow. We reached the highway again and walked on the shoulder for the last few hundred metres, bringing to a close a long and strenuous trek of seven and a half kilometres which had taken us two and a quarter hours.

 

Brookvale Demonstration Woodlot snowshoeing

This trail was recommended to us by a guy we stopped to talk to at Winter River a couple of weeks ago. The trail is reached by a dirt track from the road, opposite Brookvale Skiing Centre but today the track was blocked from the road by a plowed ice bank and we sailed right on by the first time.

 

Realising the mistake we doubled back and I parked on the narrow shoulder before clambering over the bank to buckle up. The trail was groomed to an icy ribbon about eighteen inches wide and we followed it past dense stands of trees whose genus and 1960s planting dates were announced by well-weathered signs. Rather comically one sign declared “woodpecker feeding site”. We chuckled, wondering if anyone had told the woodpeckers this.

 

After an hour we were still pressing deeper into the woods and were ion the point of turning around when the trail at last swung to the right, then back on itself and the sun told me we were heading back south.

 

I lost the trail when grooming ran out and we headed down wide tracks between the trees, our legs plunging eighteen inches in to the snow, despite our shoes, in sections where the recent rains must have undermined the winter’s snow accumulation; a mere 3.58 kms but it took us an hour and forty-five minutes. It was not the best walk but one which may prove to be more enjoyable in the summer and fall.

 



Winter River snowshoeing

We took the short basic loop from the car park where the Suffolk Road turns to dirt. The short 2.5 km trail is wooded so there was not much snow build up and what remained after recent rain had dwindled to a thin ribbon in many places. It had turned to ice and was hard going, not to mention very noisy. We saw enough to decide that it would be better suited to a summer or fall hike.

A Shock at the Thrift Store

We were in our local ‘lightly used’ thrift store, Value Village recently and I wandered off to check out the jigsaw puzzles leaving Susan to work her way systematically through an eighty foot rail of jeans (at the small end), most so tiny I wouldn’t get a foot in them.

 

From a discreet distance I could see just the tippy-top of her little head and could tell she was engrossed in her trouserly inspections. I slunk surreptitiously back in her direction, keeping low to avoid detection. In no time I was creeping along the aisle next to hers and soon stationed myself right opposite her, just two rails of clothing now separated us.

 

The flapping of jeans legs and the clicking of hangers confirmed she was still rapt in her task and oblivious to most of what was going on around and about. Now I was crouched down and slowly parting the garments on my side of the rails... then, a swift swish of Levi’s and I poked my head through with a beaming smile! Well, the dancing and the jumping and the loud verbal protestations had to be witnessed to be fully appreciated. Suffice to say I could have done with my big spatula to ease the little lady off the ceiling!

 

Susan’s a good sport... but to calm her now thumping heart I skipped around to her aisle, sidled up to her and reached my arm right around round for a light squeeze of the upper t-shirt – a double squeeze, two in quick succession accompanied by a double-toot sound, somewhat reminiscent of a cartoon car horn. Inevitably I collapsed into giggles while Susan, to her eternal credit, gave me a sheepish grin.

 

Despite all this mischief she is still speaking to me (well, mumbling oaths, at least!)

Snowshoeing at Strathgartney

It’s remarkable what you can borrow from the Public Library these days: telescopes, yoga mats and even books. This weekend I took home a pair of snow shoes!

 

Susan and I drove to Strathgartney Provincial Park, a picturesque yet lesser-known tract of meadow and woodland tucked away off the Trans-Canada Highway in the Bonshaw hills. We were decked out in jackets, gloves and the thickest socks that would fit under our boots. I found a toque that would pull down over my ears while Susan produced the most extraordinary hat known to western civilisation! I had seen it lying on the back seat of my car and assumed it was a baby racoon but once donned and tied, it gave her the appearance of Deputy Dawg, an observation I was happy to share with her.

 

We slotted into our footwear, buckled up and headed out on a trail which had been groomed just enough to show its course and was solid ice with a surface of light snow. Susan is an expert and owns her own shoes, however I am a novice and found the experience a tad confusing at first. My twenty-five inch shoes seemed to find many ways of tangling with each other yet somehow amid unexpected leaps and stumbles, I managed to remain vertical.

 

The path ran uphill and down dale through birch woods eventually reaching the northern banks of the West River, frozen but for a small flow in the centre. We followed the river’s course for a while then forged uphill and away. The trail inclined sharply at times causing us to catch our breath but the spiked shoes kept us sure-footed as gazelles (kinda). When the green siding of the day camps came into view and the distant sound of traffic returned we had been trekking for ninety minutes, time to head home for well-earned potatoes, sprouts, carrots and chicken (well, veg burger for some!)

Blaze at the City Cinema

Blaze Foley was a country singer songwriter, highly regarded in the outlaw scene. His life was creative, colourful and sadly cut short when he was shot and killed while attempting to defend an elderly friend’s welfare cheque.

After a rather splendid burger combo at A&W, Susan and I made our way through swirling flurries to the tiny City Cinema where we watched a poignant biopic detailing the mostly low points of this fascinating man’s time on earth. Directed by Ethan Hawke and co-written by Sybil, Blaze’s long-suffering wife and muse, his story is told with tenderness affection. Scenes of his adult life - living with artists in a treehouse, touring bars and clubs and meeting record industry men - are interwoven between reconstructed bar room gigs and a radio interview with Townes Van Zandt.

His songs of life and love, sung in a low voice over acoustic guitar, emerge from a haze of drink, drugs, chaos, poverty and sheer bad luck. Yet despite a troubled and trouble-making existence, Blaze’s essential gentleness shines through in a movie that is filmed and acted in a style sympathetic to the singer’s values and legacy.

Not much remains today of Blaze’s musical output although he is known to have recorded three albums. The master tape of the first album was confiscated by the DEA when the executive producer was caught in a drugs bust. The second album was stolen from his station wagon. The third album "Wanted More Dead Than Alive" went missing when he died. All of which seems sadly fitting.