Local Adventure #2: Hiking the Spirit Rock Trail

The phrase "Take only pictures" really hit home for me when I was hiking the Spirit Rock Trail, located near Wiarton (yes, home of Willy the Weather-Predicting Groundhog). I should have known better than to piss off Mother Nature by trying to shoplift some of her goods.

It all started harmlessly enough. The Spirit Rock Trail begins with ruins of a mansion called The Corran, built by Sir John McNeill in the late 1800s. It must have been an awe-inspiring sight in those days, and truly, it still is.

The ruins of The Corran

I'm not sure if there are many other ruins like the Corran in Canada, but as a city girl, I'm used to seeing decay that's, um, more urban in nature.

As the trail progressed we reached a delightful spiral staircase that took us down to the shores of Colpoy's Bay.

Colpoy's Bay was serene and beautiful, with patches of turquoise water where the bay deepens.

The calm waters of Colpoy's Bay

While the serenity was somewhat interrupted by the malicious buzzing of horseflies, the trail is generally a pleasant and easy hike.

Spirit Rock Trail is named after a First Nations legend about a maiden who leapt from a rocky cliff overlooking the bay. After being kidnapped by an enemy tribe, she fell in love with one of the tribesmen. He was killed, she was rejected by her family, and without options, ended her life with the fateful jump.

The Legend of Spirit Rock

My trials and tribulations are nothing compared to the maiden's, but the hike was not without some drama. I had decided to collect some birch logs for a crafty project I'll probably never end up doing. I was feeling quite resourceful and woodsy carrying my birch logs in a canvas shopping bag, when I felt a tingling sensation spreading from my bag-carrying hand up my wrist. I looked down and saw thousands, no, millions* of ants crawling out of one of the logs and up my arm. They were furious. They amassed in a chocolate sprinkle-like formation, and after freezing in terror for several seconds, I threw the bag o' logs into a grove of poison ivy. My friends stood watching me dance around, shrieking, until the last of the little critters had been brushed off my person.

So there you have it: take only pictures. 


*Blatant exaggeration for storytelling purposes, but still, it was horrifying.