Late on a starry summer night, as campfires die low, and distant laughter echoes through the dunes and across the waters on either side of the outlet beach, the inevitable sigh of campers, full of the day’s sun, seems to coincide with a sighing of the whole surrounding countryside. The sigh, far from relent, is a deep exhale that anticipates an equal inhale of crisp air that has dropped its dew—the day’s satisfaction anticipates a bright morning. The fact that the sun rises over points of eastern land, rather than the water, is a small price to pay for the ever changing and always faultless light of each day’s westering sun. For some, the early shade leaves cooler tents for sleeping in. For those appreciating the dawn, the morning air lingers just long enough to smooth the waking of tranquility unto the activity of the day.
Nearby Cherry Valley and East Lake give the impression of being equally addicted to such summer nights. Little homes, like year-round cottages, must sojourn in peaceful sleep under snow whose melt awakens the lakes that once again revel in reflecting the various lights of the sky.
For those who venture from the beach, climbing out of Cherry Valley, southbound on County Road 10, and beginning the slow descent to Point Petre on County Road 24, the weather usually changes. If it’s raining in Picton, Point Petre is probably sun bathing. And while residents along 24 might be snowed under, the roads of Hallowell are probably dry. Along Soup Harbour, down to the point and the southernmost shore of the County, Athol is a silent place. If the coyotes don’t outnumber the people, deer certainly do. Even the cow population is sparse.
The haunting dominance of shallow-rooting trees like juniper and sumac, betrays the nearness of limestone bedrock. Pockets of elm, giving way to oak and maple, starkly indicate the underlying bowls and fissures, where soil and water collect. Along an uneven shore that alternates between shale cliffs, slab shoals and pebble beaches, some of these withered oaks look as though they have witnessed long years, while waves, migrating birds, human hunters, and ships have passed by—some dead or wrecked, and some, perhaps, whose bones or hulls are yet to be found. The point and southern shoreline stand as the unmoving first landfall of travellers from the south, seeking the lush lands of sheltered river valleys further north. South of Army Reserve Road, government-managed land lies desolate and unkempt, as if the land itself rejected the permanence of anything but the interface of waves and stone. As if knowing this land was a place for passing through, ancient Iroquiois peoples buried their dead in mounds along this shore.
Visitors are aware of their visiting. Breathtaking as the stroll along these remote shorelines may be, home eventually beckons souls to shelter elsewhere. Back at the Outlet’s campfires or the hearths of Athol’s homes, the glow of firelight inaudibly whispers stories long forgotten, but nonetheless, “rest well.”
