Killarney, Part IV (parts 1-3 below)

I am hoping for clear, cold and quiet weather this week, my ideal recipe for photography. However, as this day turns slowly into night, it becomes obvious it is going to be anything but that tonight. It’s still warm, in the sixties and the winds are picking up. I watch as the gusts grow continually stronger, sending waves of crisp leaves sweeping across the ground and raining from the trees. Above, ominous gray clouds freight train across the sky. After several days of unusual warmth just prior to my visit, a cold front is approaching; the weather gods are about to set things right for this time of year.

The storm seems to be justifying my decision to rent the yurt instead of camping. Now inside, I hear the fury growing stronger, lashing the canvas roof and walls again and again with waves of rain. I begin to wonder just how well built this thing is; another shuddering gust has me concerned it could be torn from its moorings. Eventually though, I get used to the howling winds and pounding rain and drift off into an uneasy slumber; I dream of tropical storms and hurricanes…

Apparently, the yurt is built well enough; it survives the night. I awake in warmth but sense cold lurking just outside the door. There’s a different sound on the roof this morning, a rapping instead of a tapping – freezing rain. I step out to pee and almost fall on my butt, there’s a thin sheet of ice coating everything. The temperature has dropped like a rock overnight, from sixty to twenty degrees (F).

By the time I finish breakfast, wash up and dress, it has warmed up enough to turn the precipitation back to all rain, but it’s still not letting up. I drive to the Georgian Bay shore trailhead and sit for a minute pondering whether I should attempt the hike in this cold rain. Not much stops me; I set out. The first thing I see is a little sign stating “Rocks slippery when wet” -this whole hike is a clamor over smooth rocks. The sign proves prophetic (no surprise), within a matter of minutes I am forced to turn back. The cold rain has indeed rendered the rocks dangerously slick.

Nothing else to do so I head to the little town of Killarney. I take a slow drive around; it takes all of about two minutes. The park has increased in popularity since I first visited many years ago but this tiny town has hardly changed at all - it still has that quaint old fishing village feel that I am so enamored my. Until the 1960’s when they punched a road through from the highway 45 miles away, it was only accessible by boat or small plane.

The rain lets up just enough to park my vehicle and walk around town. The summer gift shops are now closed; they’ve been boarded up since September 2nd, the end of the Canadian Labour Day weekend. Not much of a tourist season up here, but that's one of the reasons I like it - no glitz or glamour. Walking to the western edge of town, I discover an area overlooking the bay that I had somehow missed before. It’s a perfect place to watch the sun disappear below the watery horizon; how I love a good sunset! I’ve been coming here for thirty years and still somehow managed to miss this vantage point, guess it sometimes pays to have a rainy day!