Rowing on the Lakes of Canada: 2008 trip to Killarney Provincial Park, Part I.

Common Loon

In an effort to catch up on unblogged portions of my lifeⁱ, we're revving up the Wayback Machine once more. In September of 2008 my wife and I joined our newly Canadian friends Seth and Nina for a trip up to Killarney Provincial Park, on Georgian Bay in Ontario. True to typical fashion, I have finally forced myself to sort through and edit my pictures.

After jetting up to Buffalo, we drove over the border to Guelph and environs. Having not been back to Canada since 9/11, I was a bit surprised at the tighter border securityⁱⁱ. But after a bit of a wait, we stopped in Guelph for some fantastic ice cream and then drove up to stay the night at Seth and Nina's new place.

In order from top; Manitoulin Island Ferry, Open Maw of the Ferry, Ship Monolith, Me Relaxing on Deck, Island in the Bay, Passenger Sleeping.

The next morning, after some minor car rental issuesⁱⁱⁱ, we booked north up the Bruce Peninsula to catch the Ferry to Manitoulin Island. Driving into the open maw of the Ferry was a somewhat daunting experience, but the ride was very enjoyable. For some of us more than others (see last pic)

In order from top; Manitoulin Farmscape, Manitoulin Waterfall, Flow, Nina talks to the Police, Milky Way from Camp, Milky Way Extended exposure.

We had decided to spend a night on Manitoulin Island, and it ended up being a great idea. The Island is primarily agricultural, with a large First Nations population. We stopped briefly at a fantastic waterfall, and scouted for a place to eat supper. Unfortunately the cozy little bayside restaurants we had been looking for were closed, so we at at a roadside diner. After briefly conversing with a friendly police officer, we found or way to our campground for the evening. We made our camp by the shore of a bay on the Bay. To say this place was dark at night is an understatement of the highest order. The milky way was practically glowing across a sky more full of stars than anything I'd ever seen^iv. Needless to say, this necessitated a photo session^v. I think the only downside of the camp was its outhouses. I have never encountered smell that was like unto a physical barrier before. The truly prodigious stink was so eye watering bad that it physically repelled you at a distance of 50 feet^vi.

In order from top; Sunrise over Georgian Bay, Morning Sky, Campsite on the Water, Downstream Flow, Waterfall by Morning, Seth under Waterfall, Me at Waterfall.

The next morning I got up early and watched the sunrise over the water. When Seth made an appearance, we set out to return to the waterfall we had briefly visited the day before, to catch some shots morning light. After a brief breakfast on return, we broke camp and headed out to explore the Island a bit.

In order from top; Cup and Saucer Trailhead, Etched Rock, Gum on Stump^vii, Glacial forest, Vista, Fungi! (Fly Agaric).

We did a short day hike on the Cup and Saucer Trail, through forested fields of huge erratic boulders, to a reward of some really outstanding vistas of the Island and the Niagara Escarpment^viii. Bidding the Island a fond farewell, and headed for Killarney on the mainland.

In order from top; Killarney sign, campsite, persistent raccoon.

Although Manitoulin Island and Killarney are almost directly adjacent, Killarney is remote enough that getting there involves driving all the way around Sudbury, and back down to Killarney.

We finally arrived in the late afternoon, and set up camp. Or, more appropriately, set up the blood donation center our campsite, for all intents and purposes, was to become. Apparently, mosquitos are normally growing few and far between by September in Killarney. Emphasis on “normally”. We had the unenviable luck of coming in a mild fall that raised a bumper crop of mosquitos^ix. Luckily we were usually busy enough fending off fairly insistent racoons that it gave us brief respite.

In order from top; Sunrise vista, Morning Sunbeam at Cranberry Bog, Double Spider Web, Sunbeam through Morning Mist.

The next morning, Seth and I got up early to get some shots in the morning light. We hiked down the road to the trailhead for the Cranberry Bog Trail. A small overlook put us in a great position to catch the sun rising over the trees and bog. Despite an surprise encounter with a black bear in waist high bog grass^x, the morning was very productive, with some truly once in a lifetime views of sunbeams shooting through the pine forests.

In order from top; More Fungi!, Lilly Pads in Bog, Wood and Water, The Most Photographed Frog (Toad) of Cranberry Bog, Lake's edge (faux Infrared).

We met the ladies back at the campsite for breakfast, and then set out to hike the Cranberry Bog trail. The hike wound around the eponymous bog, through dense woods, and around a small lake. It was a good introduction to Killarney, with the famous white quartzite rock showing through in places, and dotted with white pines^xi. Our hike encountered yet more fungi, as well as one very photogenic, and patient, amphibian^xii.

In order from top; Killarney Village scene, You Down with OPP?, Granite Ridge Trail Pine Forest in Afternoon Light, Old Car Skeleton, Lines in Stone^xiii, Group at Granite Ridge Trail Summit, Last Light on Birches.

After the hike we made a brief sojourn into Killarney, a small fishing town located on Georgian Bay. It had beautiful scenery, a small grocery, an Ontario Provincial Police station^xiv, and most importantly, a beer store. We got back in the mid afternoon, and decided to get in another hike before the day ended. We hiked the Granite Ridge Trail, and caught some fantastic light coming through the forests of pine at its base. A grand old car lies quietly rusting on the side of the trail, and the end point opened to a grand vista over a ridge of granite, making the trail, well, aptly named. We hiked back out, had a nice campground supper, and got to sleep early in anticipation of hiking “The Crack” the next day.

To be continued in Part II.

Notes

iBecause, in 2010, no aspect of our lives is allowed to escape the all seeing eye of Sauron, I mean, the internet.

iiPerhaps it was just the 1000 Islands Bridge crossing, but my recollection of the security protocol in years past was answering all of three questions: 1) What's your business, 2) how long will you be in Canada, 3) any drugs or weapons in the car. Then you got a hearty “Have a good time, eh!”, picked up your complimentary moose-shaped bottle of maple syrup, and went on about your business.

iiii.e. the car we had intended to take developed a slight smoking issue, forcing us to rent a car. The available vehicle, a Jeep Grand Cherokee, was not an altogether unwelcome (though costly) upgrade, given the volume constraints of packing four adults and camping gear into a decidedly smaller station wagon.

ivEven growing up in rural upstate NY, we were close enough to the lights of Fort Drum and Watertown that we didn't have the sort of skies that a place this remote gets.

vMy traveling companion Seth and I are both avid amateur photographers. It doesn't take much to necessitate a photo session for us...a beautiful landscape, interesting flora and fauna, it being a day that ends in “y”, etc.. While this trait is often bemoaned by our respective significant others, when we travel together we have a great time staying up/getting up at all hours in pursuit of the perfect shot. Our wives are quite happy to sleep in, and not have to be dragged along on such occasions.

viI was caught between being inconvenienced, and honestly, kind of impressed at the sheer magnitude and scope of the stink.

viiApparentlly it was tradition here to post one's gum on this stump. It lead to speculation about grand Canadian Traditions of the Stumping O' the Gum.

viiiAlso, our first encounters with what would be a surprising large number of mushroom/fungi species. It started to be a thing later on in the trip; a quest to photo the most species of fungi. Giving that none of us especially cared about fungi, this should speak either to the preponderance thereof.

ixWe tried every combination of sprays we could think of, but the deterrent that worked best were bug spray infused wipes. At the end of the trip, as we began to run low, they became more valuable than gold.

xI really really wanted to see some bears, and Killarney is a good place for it. Unfortunately, I didn't see one all week long. Our sole encounter was during our first morning photo shoot. Seth dropped down a ledge to the bog, to get a better angle. As I stayed up top to work on a shot, I suddenly heard BEAR BEARBEARBEAR!, and only seconds later Seth came running toward the ledge at full speed, practically vaulting to the top. Apparently as he had been lining up a shot, a bear head had popped up from the grass 10-20 feet away. They unexpected meeting scared both parties, leading to mutual flight, in different directions. Once the adrenalin wore off, we had a good laugh at the event. As we were walking back to the campsite, a camper along the side of the bog said he had seen a mother bear and cub tear through his site at full speed looking like the wrath of hell was harrying them. Nope, just Seth.

xiKillarney was a prominent focus of the Canadian artists known as the Group of Seven, and it's easy to see why. While not having the overt majesty of taller mountain ranges, the austere beauty of the area is truly art-, as well as awe-, inspiring.

xiiThe poor fellow was subjected to a barrage of photography. We dubbed him “The Most Photographed Frog of Cranberry Bog”. I actually started writing a poem/book for children about it, based pretty much on the catchiness of the title. Sadly, the “frog” turned out to be an American Toad. I plant to take poetic license....

xiiiI was told this was lines of quartzite in pink granite, the two primary rock colors/types of Killarney.

xivYou down with OPP? Yeah, you know me. Growing up near the border, this joke never stopped being funny long after it stopped being relevant.

Comes the Fall

Fall, my favorite season, is slowly inching its way into the southlands, despite temperatures well into the 90's still.

Fall was an easier season to anticipate in my native NY. That crisp bite to the night air, the first cool breezes, a new clarity as the haze of summer departs, and of course, an explosion of foliage colors.

Bereft of those obvious signs here in the land of perpetual summer, I have to look for more subtle, and less grand, indicators.

Thankfully, America's brewers have anticipated my predicament, and offer a wide variety of fall-themed beers. Kicking back on a rainy day, with a hearty oktoberfest brew, one could ALMOST think it was a proper fall.

Making things out of clay.

With the possible exception of middling photography, I am not what one would call an accomplished artist [1]. I would like to make my excuses by way of lack of time or more pressing matters. But the long and short of it is that I have a lack of artistic ability [2]. )

As with much of my art, this falls into the "simply should not BE" category.

I enjoy art, but for the most part, I'm not terribly good at it [3]. I know all artists feel caught between the perfection of the ideal, and the imperfection of the being [4], but I never make it out of the imperfection gate, in this realm.

Another early effort from class (see below), a large sturdy mug. Sized for a giant. Handle for a hobbit.

That being said, I did not expect much when I joined my wife and a friend in signing up for a ceramics/pottery class [5].

The class lasted 5 weeks, and turned out to be a really fun time. The instructors were really laid back and awesome, and had a great facility. As much as I am drawn to artsy people, I often feel a bit intimidated in relating to them [6]. But it was a nice mix of people, and a great atmosphere.

Works from my "blue" period. Getting a little better, resembling actual "art"

While I may not be a great artist [7], I still retain a deep seated desire for academic approval and competition, so the challenge was on. The previous images and the following are my work product. I wish I had spent more time chronicling the various steps, but this is only the finished work.

In order from top, alien-esque tea-light holder, Blue Vase, Thing that Should Not Be, Scalloped Bowl, Blue Spiral Pitcher, Bark Texture Mug, Blue Bowl, and lastly my "utter-failure-at-glazing-Candy dish" (it was supposed to be black and red).

Some turned out well, some were disappointing. I did end up with the tallest piece in the class. But for once, I actually managed to translate what was in my head into may hands with reasonable success.

Hurrah for small victories.

Notes:

[1] It's been my experience that there seem to be three sorts of people drawn to the arts... the "real artist", for whom the production of their art is a central focus, the "aficionado", be they fan or critic, who consumes art but produces nothing, and the "tourist", who dabble here and there in controlled settings but never take up a particular medium. I am undoubtedly a reluctant mixture of the latter two of these types.

[2] This is sure to be a nominee for the "understatement of the year" award. Right alongside, "That Sarah Palin, she's a little off, isn't she?".

[3] I can't draw. I can't paint. I can't sculpt. My musical talent days are behind me. I'm adequate with a camera, but I'm no pro. I can see what I want to do in my head, but it's like the translation to my hands is well, a good deal off. Off, in the sense of it being akin to a brain damaged Siberian man-child trying to translate Swahili into cuneiform. Their will be an end product, but it's likely to go on at length about beets and be punctuated with gaseous emissions.

[4] I have no idea who said this originally. I'd like to say it's from my broad reading of literature, but I'm fairly sure I'm re-quoting it from a childhood comic book (Joel, I'm sure it was the Black Panther in Marvel Presents back in the late 80's).

[5] I know "taking a class" is the uber trendy thing to do in some sets, but I'm usually more of a do-it-yourselfer. However, this seemed like an opportunity for a risk-free foray into an art that was unlikely to result in explosions or major blood loss. Although, with proper disregard for safety and materials' natural states, you'd be surprised what art forms can unintentionally incorporate explosions....and screaming.

[6] I have had literal nightmares of being in the middle of a class, only to have the illumin-art-i turn on me, chanting "he's a left-brainer! burn the heretic".

[7] ..or a good artist...or an OK artist...or an artist who does not hear "For the love of all that is holy what is that abomination???" on a regular basis from people simultaneously clawing at their eyes...

A Story of Rivers (Part I)

I’ve always felt that the stories of America, and we as Americans, are inextricably bound to the stories of the nation’s rivers[i]. They have been, and remain, our lifeblood, the focus of our greatest cities, and a draw for our imaginations. They were our inroads to the continent, and the history of our character as a people stretches out along their lengths.

My own life, and my own story are equally intertwined with the rivers I have know.

Indian River, New York, photo by Joel Kramer (http://www.flickr.com/photos/75001512@N00/)

I grew up on a tributary of the Indian River in New York. When we were small and the world was undiminished, the small piece of Black Creek that threatened our ramshackle old farmhouse with yearly spring floods seemed a raging torrent of water. To young eyes, unable to discern the scope of the world, it was a vast thing. But in the afternoon light of adulthood, it is really just a small creek feeding into a less than notable river in a near-forgotten landscape. The Indian river connected several of the small local rural towns, whose school district bore its name. It meandered around a glacial landscape pocketed by innumerable isolated lakes. When I think of my father, passed on 10 years now, it is often the too-rare occurrences of going fishing at places like Muskellunge Lake. These moments stand out as fond memories in a sometimes tempestuous relationship. Many of my friends had fathers who were woodsmen, outdoors types. My father certainly enjoyed the outdoors, but we never did a lot of hiking or camping together. I wish we had, for both the memories it would have provided[ii] and also to have explored more of where I grew up. [iii] Sentimental wanderlust, perhaps, but it’s also a fascinating landscape to me. My parents death and our transition to adulthood was like a flood, raw and uncontrollable. All the detritus of our past and our lives was driven on before us, and fell out, each in its turn. I feel like we lost our link to that place along with everything else, as we were driven downstream through the years by the tumult. These remembered moments feel like flotsam that eventually found its way to dry ground, but out of context with its origins.

Kring Point, St. Lawrence River, New York

The St. Lawrence River, for all its hulking, massive ore ships, is a river that has always felt to me like a throwback in time. It is broad and majestic. It has a sense of place that seems more like an echo than a sounding call. Stretching from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic, it is of a scale that dwarfs and is incomprehensible to the tiny river towns it flows past, but flows with a pace that belies its long journey. Even without the grandiose mansion islands and castle that shackle it to a bygone era, it has a sense of oldness. A sense of being a repository of years and peoples. The deciduous forests and dense greenery of the Adirondacks give way to the gentle sloping rock outcrops and pine stands of the river. My mother taught in a small resort town on the River. We often went with her in the late summer as she spent days readying her school room for the coming year. The old school, empty except for our curious wanderings was equal parts frightening and intriguing. It was old, dusty, and spoke of years and generations gone by. The town around it, even with the last rushes of tourists filtering through the shoddy streetfront bars and ramshackle boat tours, felt the same. Old and patient, waiting through the years. Resolute and cumulative. I cannot imagine what it would have been like to grow up somewhere without this sense of place and identity. I can’t help but compare it to the Black River in Watertown, the nearest City. The Black River flowed in hues true to its namesake. Where the St. Lawrence was picturesque and stately, the Black River was raw, powerful, gritty. It cut, unheeded, through rock cliffs in Watertown, and its history was the hard, mechanical clockwork of industry. My father worked in Watertown, in an industrial park, dingy and past its prime that echoed the same history. In many ways my childhood and my parents were reflective of these two characters…my mother from a stately downstate family, my father from a working class upstate family, she of a patient, old spirit, and his raw and passionate. Myself torn between the pull of history and place, and the demand of the now.[iv] But it’s always been the St. Lawrence that called the strongest to me. In the end, when my father passed away, we scattered his ashes on its waves; and then my mothers, in turn.

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[i] I admit to being biased in this assessment, being someone who works with surface water bodiesin a professional context.

[ii] It often feels to me like people I have lost seem to diminish in my memories…not that I think less of them, but that the whole of that person gets compressed by the years. Like when you take a trip and take photos, and as the years go by, it’s the photos that form the backbone of your memory, even though time passed and things happened in between them. Those mental snapshots of my father seem to get fewer as the years go by, and he seems reduced to a collection of still frames, frozen in time.

[iii] I talk a lot about how where I grew up affected me, as it does with anyone, and the uniqueness of the landscape, but as I have grown up I have realize how much more there was to the area than the narrow psychic landscape of the places we frequented. We tend see things as a series of waypoints, and pathyways instead of a top down map. Sometimes that means the interconnections and relationships are lost. The small creek that flowed past our house was part of Black Creek, thence part of the Indian River, and so on…all connected on a map, but not in my childhood head. My sense of place as a child was very much like my sense of people in the previous endnote…single frames tumbling over the threshold of memory without anything but general connection.

[iv] When I left New York and ended up in Houston, it felt like history repeating.