How many times have I driven past the small driveway and the historical plaque just south of 7A Sideroad? Hundreds? At least.
I went there today with Amy and Molly for a walk, along the Bruce Trail through a young pine forest to an older black locust grove where the remnants of an old cabin lay, a hole in the ground filled with leaves, mossy rocks and rusting galvanized pails.
We went past down a slope, to where the trail disappeared at a small lake. It’s only spring melt that has no place to go other than filtering through sinkholes in the karst, and it’s already dropped several inches, leaving behind ice that looks like chandelier crystals hanging from the red dogwood. A large dead tree twists and groans in the breeze, not far from a young pussy willow with small fuzzy buds against a heartbreakingly blue sky. A pair of ducks fly past and land in the water.