The Beautiful Bruce

On Friday, I was busy feeling curmudgeon- ey when my sister called me to invite me on an impromptu guerrilla camping trip. Initially I declined, thinking that misery didn’t want company just this once, but she persisted, and after a few “Oh, come on…”s I somewhat grudgingly agreed. Little did I know what I was getting myself into….

The drive up the 4o1 matched my mood. The cars on the highway were all angry and inching along so slowly it felt like time was going backwards. We decided to pull over and chill out instead of burning precious fossil fuel. We ended up creating a little parking party by the side of the road. Lizzie and I erected a fallen sign, and chatted with fellow motorists that had decided to join in on the stationary fun. However there was not a single safety implement in sight.

First destination: Meaford, Ontario. Why? Because we liked the name. We cracked open a few cold beers, danced around to the music in our heads, and watched the most spectacular sunset imaginable.

We watched the blood-red moon rise on an isolated little sandy beach, and decided to sleep there for the night. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with it, guerrilla camping is not like regular camping, you see. Guerrilla camping requires nothing more than a solid sleeping surface, a cover, and a clear starry night. We laid down our yoga mats and pulled the comforters/sleeping bags over us and settled in for an unsheltered night’s sleep. The rising of the sun woke us up the next morning, lightly kissing our cheeks.

We took a sleepy side road up to Wiarton which was banked on both sides by rolling hills that looked like they came straight from a promotional pamphlet for the English country side. The road got narrower and narrower until we found ourselves at a dusty cross roads. Each of the four roads looked like they rolled off into infinity. Instead of admitting defeat, we cracked open some cans of beer, cranked the Beatles Blue Album and danced like maniacs.

The antics should have stopped there, but they didn’t. We got to Wiarton like bats out of Extasy-laced hell. Oh yes. And amazed and confused the locals by buying these awesome multi-coloured zebra flotation devices made for people ages 4-6. Cracked open some more beers and spilled onto a paradise beach near the town of Oliphant on the coast of Lake Huron.

We were out of our knobs! I waded into the water with a zeebra around my waist and a cold can of Sopporo in my hand; and you know what? It was gleeful bliss. We spent about six hours splashing around like raging lunatics.

Now, to sidetrack this very matter of fact recounting with a little social commentary, I got chided twice for being topless on the beach. As I walked back to the car for another beverage, a middle age lady told me that toplessness was “rude” and that she didn’t want her “boys” to see my chest. I was quite confused as to what she was referring with the use of the word ‘boys’. I thought to myself: “she can’t be talking about her testicles, she doesn’t have any…. or does she?” Then I realized she must be talking about her male children. So I replied: “If they haven’t seen a woman’s chest before, you must have breast-fed them very strangely.”

Then, a few seconds later, I hear some girls chanting “my titties are better than yo-urs!” I laughed, and said “I’m glad you are so well adjusted.” But it didn’t stop there. One blond hick girl yelled “yo, bitch, I don’t want mah man starin’ at yo’ titties! Puch-ur damn top back on. Don’t make me beat-ur ass!” Wow; and I’m being rude? “Don’t worry madam,” I said calmly, “I am not interested in your male companion. Nor is he interested in me, I’m sure.” They continued being hicks for a while, and then the yelling started again. I really couldn’t believe it. I didn’t realize that Canadian society is so damn puritan. On beaches in Portugal, Italy and France, people will only stare you down and make rude remarks if you’re NOT topless. I left the parking lot area, where they were hanging out on the back of their truck, and returned to the beach.

We went for dinner at a restaurant that had live country music on the patio. We ate and drank like royalty. It reminded me that hicks aren’t always so bad. Boy, they can croon Johnny Cash tunes like nobody’s business. We returned to the beach for the night, and slept extremely uncomfortably. Guerrilla camping doesn’t work too well with rain, no matter how lightly it falls.

The next day, we took off to Tobermory in search of a natural Grotto. To get to the Grotto, we hiked along the Bruce Trail and came upon one of the most stunning rock beaches I’ve ever seen.

 

 

 

 

 

With a little rock climbing, we found the entrance to the Grotto.

Needless to say, (but I’m going to anyway) the trip turned out to be one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. So, eat my shorts Hugh Hefner: my grotto’s better than yo-urs!

I guess the motto of this post is: It doesn’t pay to be a curmudgeon. Life’s too short to spend it being miserable. Thanks Lizzie and Shvennee!!