Hockley Valley

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Photo: Thicket of maple saplings along the Bruce Trail, yesterday in Hockley Valley.

Full gallery: 13 images.

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We went to see broad vistas of autumn colour, and we saw plenty of those. The Hockley Valley cuts into the Niagara Escarpment near Orangeville, Ontario; the place where the Nottawasaga River trickles down from the ridge of Devonian dolostone, headed eventually for Georgian Bay. Situated in Dufferin County, this is one of the most scenic places Southwestern Ontario has to offer. The Bruce Trail runs for hundreds of kilometres along this escarpment: from Tobermory on the tip of the Bruce Peninsula, along Georgian Bay, through the Blue Mountain area, down through Hockley Valley, Milton, Hamilton and eventually Niagara Falls at the south end.

Yesterday we drove northeast from Guelph to Orangeville, turned east on Hockley Road and immediately found our path cutting down sharp hillsides covered with golden maples. The bright reds had fallen, but the landscape was still ablaze with softer, later, nostalgic tones. A few kilometres down I saw three cars parked on the shoulder near a sign, and a pathway scrambling upwards among boulders. I stopped, turned around and checked; sure enough, it was an access point to the Bruce Trail. We parked and headed in. We climbed past a lonely farmhouse, through ancient cedars and reached a trail junction. From here we could begin the "East Tom Loop," which circles through a corner of Hockley Valley Provincial Park.

No horses or mountain bikes, the sign said. This part of the escarpment is prone to erosion, and certain parts of the nature reserve are suffering serious environmental degradation. The Niagara Escarpment has been declared a World Biosphere Reserve by the U.N. It passes through some of Canada's most densely populated land, but it is also an significant green belt as well as containing important geological formations and natural resources.

Over the next few minutes we scaled higher, eventually coming out on top of the cliff overlooking many hectares of the valley: green slopes, clusters of bright maples and dark conifers, the ski lifts of Hockley Valley Resort. A herd of cattle browsed across a sloping meadow, drifting like contented ghosts through the edge of a red pine plantation. Then we turned and headed through denser and denser vegetation: first a stand of maple saplings, and then into a steep gully. There, mature trees lifted a golden canopy over slopes dotted with ferns. Brenna clambered exuberantly above the path, and called me up to see herb-robert blooming late among the fallen leaves.

Looking through the photos today, it isn't the broad vistas that engage me, but the remarkable autumn light, pale gold sifting through thin canopies, moist air laden with the smoky scent of fallen maple leaves. I can smell it still.

We circled the entire 4.5-kilometre loop, eventually following the verge of a noisy beck, tributary to the Nottawasaga. By then our feet were tired and we were laden with interesting artifacts Brenna had scavenged from the woods: a piece of a rusted bicycle, and a small pink granite boulder, carried here long ago by glaciers from the north.

Toward the end we fell silent. I breathed heavily on the steep hills. We were glad to hear the shush of traffic down Hockley Road, and two motorcycles racing loudly.

I can't find words to sum it up. It was a rare autumn day: mild, sun fleeting among clouds, drops of shining dew still lying on the cupped surfaces of leaves underfoot, my feet swishing along the path. The place was close enough to home that we could easily visit it again, just far enough that we easily might never. But it was just beautiful enough never to be forgotten.