Tick tock, tick tock. Hmm, almost ten AM, and my son has yet to poke his head out of his room. I think it is safe to say that we will not be heading to Algonquin park today for a hike, as I suspect he might be feeling a bit under the weather from his late-night adventures with friends. I gave a loud knock on his door and received a muffled response, though I have no idea what he might be saying. It could have been “coming mom” or could have been “I was abducted by aliens last night and require a mental reset”. Whatever his response, he was up and somewhat awake by eleven AM, again much too late to head to Algonquin at this time of year. I racked my brain for a closer destination and remembered a short but picturesque trail on the back of a cranberry farm. Ok, that should be a fun jaunt, and not too far away, just a short drive to Bala.
Off we went, the bright sunshine reflecting off the window, necessitating sunglasses. I imagine my son would have needed sunglasses today regardless of the weather. The music was…not loud, though I enjoyed the occasional moan from beside me as I belted out my favorite lyrics with gusto. After what I considered an enjoyable drive, though my son might disagree, we arrived at what I remembered as Johnstons Cranberry farm. It had been at least a decade since I had been out here, and where there once was a modest cranberry farm was now a bustling tourist destination called Muskoka Lakes Farm and Winery. Cars lined the road, a wagon trundled by in the field and groups of tourists milled around the winery staging for the perfect selfie to post on social media. My son gave me a side eye, knowing that this is far from the kind of environment that I enjoy. I took a deep breath and made the impulsive decision to join the tourists. I think my son was hoping that we would be on our way to find a quieter spot to hike, and I admit I loved the shocked look he gave me when I informed him that we would be going on a wagon ride and posing for pictures in a cranberry bog. I don’t think he really believed I was serious until I poked and prodded him up the stairs and plunked down on the cold wooden bench under the wagon’s canopy. With a lurch we were off to learn about the unassuming cranberry.
Though the sun was bright, the wind was bitingly cold. We stuck our numb hands in our pockets and disappeared to the eyeballs in our jackets. The wagon headed off to the fields, now devoid of red cranberries. Instead, rows of dense short plant crowded together, dull greens and browns dotted with the bright red of the occasional forgotten berry. We listened to our guide explain that cranberries were extremely sustainable, the plants not harmed as the fields were flooded and the buoyant cranberries floated to the top, and a machine knocked the berries loose without damaging them. Swaying with the motion of the tractor, and listening to our very knowledgeable guide, a giant figure could be seen on the edge of the woods, draped in secretive shadows. This colossus crouched, tentacled head rearing far overhead, silvery body catching the stray beam of light. Here resides Koilos, the bog monster who traveled all the way from Neveda’s Burning Man Festival and around the Muskokas to find a home in these peat bogs. Whether Koilos is a dangerous monster or a misunderstood beast is for you to decide, though I like to imagine him lumbering through the fields at night, giant hands gently reaching down to pick a bright red berry, or moving a small turtle back into the still waters.
Our wagon returned us to the parking lot and left us with some interesting new facts about the cranberry. The wine testing was next on our itinerary, though we decided to forego this part of the experience, as my son turned slightly green at the mention of alcohol and I was eager to get in a short hike. There are almost ten kilometres of trails to explore, travelling around the bogs and marshes where the cranberries grow, and up into the forests. In the winter there is snowshoeing and even skating on the flooded bogs. While I had so far enjoyed our outing, I needed a bit of solitude and the Pioneer trail provided just that. Away from the groups and constant photos, this trail travels through the hard wood forests of maple and oak. Blue sap lines run from tree to tree, and soft brown leaves cushioned our footfalls. The sun was still warm here, and that cold north wind only brushed the leafless treetops, having us shed our layers in the shelter of the forest. While not a long or technical trail, it was just what I needed before heading to our last adventure of the day.
Out in those barren cranberry fields is a small pond, covered in bright red berries floating lazily on the still water. Donning rubbery hip waders, we gingerly stepped down the ramp to stand hip deep in the cold water. Our strides left a clear path through the berries, swirling around in our wake to close back up once we stood still. Small groups laughed and threw cranberries in the air, as we all became children for a few minutes, delighting in something so simple yet so magical. A large dog strained at his leash, whining as his person frolicked in the pond, surely wanting to jump in and play in those berries too. Even my son had perked up and had gone from reluctantly joining me to smiling and posing for pictures, though I would bet that he would deny any such thing to anyone who would ask. We left as the afternoon light was fading, happy in this unexpected adventure with a special bottle tucked away in the trunk. Afterall, when life gives you have cranberries, why not make cranberry wine!
