Out & About #844 | Inglis Falls Conservation Area

Read Part 1 HERE !

​D̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ Deviations from the planned itinerary ceased at the 3 PM mark. We would pull into the unpaved lot of the Grey Sauble Conservation Authority office - unoccupied at the time due to the long weekend - and commence the hike at 3:15 PM.

​Making a beeline for the assumed trailhead, I led the way.

Within seconds, the sleepy polar bear began to speculate that we were headed in the opposite direction and posed the question, "Is this the right way?"
"I think so." I responded, half-certain. "The trailhead is here after all." Though, none of the colours on the map had matched the web version in the slightest.

As we further along the path, we found a largely barren path filled with info boards distinctive to trees - arboriculture content. Confirming our coordinates with Google Maps, it had turned out that we indeed ventured along the incorrect path.

​Quickly retracing our steps, we found an actual trailhead (marked "Trail Head"), which appeared to date back at least thirty years from its dilapidated state. To its right was a picnic area and locked washrooms. We followed a dirt path onto the main trail.

Almost immediately, we found ourselves at a four-way intersection. There was clear signage to denote the directions to Harrison Park (left) and Inglis Falls (straight). However, our intent had been to visit the Salmon Trail.

​Turning right, we trodded over fall leaves, a boardwalk, and a narrow access with patches of stout green shrubbery lining its edges. With minimal effort, we found ourselves facing a stream, the supposed destination for viewing the "Salmon Run".

Busily snapping away, I was unaware of the presence of salmon in the stream until the sleepy polar bear pointed out, "Hey look! There's a dead salmon there."
I looked over, acknowledging what I initially thought to be a log as the underside of the overturned fish. The pungent odour filling the air finally made sense to me.

​Upon closer inspection, we saw two more in the corner, and even a few further down the channel. Venturing upstream, the salmon could be seen just beneath the water's surface, resisting the turbulent current in an attempt to complete their spawning run.

​It was unbeknownst me at the time that these species were set to perish and deteriorate after the spawning process. During our brief stay, only one of several salmon succeeded in jumping over one of the river segments. Another was observed to make numerous tries, only to be gradually shifted downstream. There was another that surrendered altogether and began swimming with the discharge direction instead of against it.

​The Salmon Run was quite a sight to behold. Neither of us had witnessed the act firsthand, nor been acquainted with much knowledge regarding it. Moreover, it was shocking to see such sizable salmon in general. These creatures were at least 1.5 times the length of those in captive, nurtured for the sake of consumption.

Instead of heading back immediately, I proposed traversing along the river for a bit further. It wasn't long before we discovered the path to terminate, however. Turning back, we headed uphill, brushing away branches that would otherwise scratch our face.
We came face to face with a freshly mowed lawn instead. I intended to cross over the private property to meet our original path, but found a steep descent, followed by a waterway and no obvious signs of the trail we had came from. Descending back towards the river, I spotted a handcarved sign bearing the word "TRAIL" and two spade-like arrows. It led to visible access.

View the full album HERE !

Stumped, I conjured up sensory observations from our route. "We came to the river and saw the dead fish. That's our landmark." I began to reason. "So naturally, we should be turning left at the dead fish." And surely enough, over a small hump we found our original path.
"I can't believe we got lost already!" expressed my first-time hiking companion.

​At the four-way intersection we found ourselves once more. This time, we would head to Inglis Falls.

Manmade walkways came into view: a bridge crossing over the channel, followed by boardwalks lined with trees bearing either blue, red, or white markings (or both red and white).

Bridge Crossing

​Visitor volumes were surprisingly low, and we managed to photograph a number of different poses without background disruptions. Once dreary, the skies had also cleared to a point where a distinct blue fitted behind branches of yellow, orange, and green. Fall foliage wasn't quite in full swing just yet.

We derailed several more times off the trail, following tree markings until we failed to see them at all. Nearby passerbys assisted in guiding us back.

Throughout the trek, we found white and brown funghi, moss climbing upon the bases of trees (either upright or fallen), and occasional appearances of maple leaves. Ground conditions were sodden overall, yet became more walkable as we strayed away from the river along an unmarked side trail. Moss sightings were frequent, yet nowhere near as widespread as in BC.

​Truthfully, it hadn't occurred to us that we had deviated until spotting others navigating through with much more ease. Climbing over stones, protruding tree roots, branches of all heights and thicknesses, we eventually came to a point where no other visitor was present.
The path ended at a series of boulders, where the only way forward was up.

​"Stay here while I check it out." said the sleepy polar bear. I nodded, for my fear of descending was far greater than climbing up. Even with my camera tucked away, I would be unable to maintain three points of contact for safety.

"It's here!" was proclaimed shortly. As it turned out, we had arrived near the bottom of the falls. In the distance was a lookout platform, likely attainable by routing up and around the path we had taken.

Bottom of Inglis Falls

​Hesitant to undertake another side trail in the case of not completing the loop before sundown, I suggested heading back to the car and driving down Inglis Falls Road instead.

​On our way back, we found the fork separating the red and white trails. I presumed the red to be the "Hub Trail" and white the "Bruce Trail - Main Trail". Neither of these colours had made their way to the on-site map spotted outside the Conservation Authority office, which prompts me to declare that a map update is necessary (preferably in JPG format).

Source: Grey Sauble Conservation

​Signage in the conservation area lacked clarity, which may very well have contributed to the difficulty level of our hike. Online users had classified Inglis Falls as being an "easy" route, but the consistent presence of rocks, tree roots, and unlevel descents deemed it otherwise. That said, the trail was not very steep. Elevation differences were gradual and manageable. Furthermore, having the river in view at all times was reassuring and enlightening.

​At 6:42 PM, just short of sunset, we slid ourselves back into the car and drove southwards. Awaiting us was a beautiful lookout point, as well as a paid asphalt lot overlooking a pond with gently rippling waters.

​The sleepy polar bear disembarked first, exclaiming at the view in wonder. I too, in wide-eyed marvel, uttered the same response at beholding the sight before us.

Inglis Falls Lookout Point

Beneath a downy azure gradient were rows upon rows of shrubbery, reds, oranges, and mustards nestled between vibrant greens. To our right were the rushing waters of Inglis Falls, which was, in fact, the result of a constant current passing through a mill.

​We gazed upon the view in awe, then navigated towards a lookout deck - marked with white to denote a connection point to the white trail. Had we been intrepid enough to re-enter via the wooden staircase, we would have likely connected the trail to our point of divergence.
The red trail apparently also connected to the lookout point, but from the east side of the lookout point.

​Content at having experienced this year's dose of fall foliage, my equipment was returned its carrying case and hiking shoes unlaced.

​We returned to McDonald's for bathroom usage, encountering a brilliant pink sunset as dusk fell upon Owen Sound.

Dinner options were few in the city, for many had already shuttered at 7 PM or were nearing closing. I advocated for the sleepy polar bear's original proposal of The Alphorn, which was in close proximity to the overly touristy Blue Mountain grounds. The drive estimated a total of fifty minutes.

​Through the double doors we entered, finding ourselves in a dim, bustling eatery furnished with beer bottles, ski-related décor, newspaper article cutouts, and varying sizes of the Swiss flag.

​The menu could be accessed through a double-sided laminated sheet, or by using a QR code.
​
We took a Swiss Onion Soup sheerly out of curiosity to compare against its familiar cousin of French Onion Soup and a Flädlesuppe, described as "thin sliced savoury pancakes with fresh herbs" paired with beef consommé. "We plan to share" I announced, "so could you bring us two sets of utensils?". Our server had nodded in response, but ultimately misinterpreted the order through the system as two Swiss Onion Soups. The Flädlesuppe had been forgotten entirely.

​Arriving with a promising sprinkle of chives on its surface, the Swiss Onion Soup was scrumptious and perfectly briny. While not necessary as sophisticated as the likes of Café Cancan, the appetizer provided an interesting twist on a French classic in its utilization of Swiss cheese and crostini - submerged and layered twice within the soup for maximum pleasure. Gooey, stringy cheese was concentrated at its surface, and again in the second layer.
We commended the dish for being well-seasoned yet not overwhelming in sodium levels. There was an adequate degree of briny-ness; the onions possessed a near-jammy consistency, albeit not having the stringy, barely-intact qualities of caramelized onions. The result was a Swiss Onion Soup that was saltier than it was sweet. 

To my utter horror, the sleepy polar bear commented that the bread ought be separate for dipping as to preserve crunchiness. I defended the creation with vigor, adamant that the plush properties of soaked bread was pivotal to the dish. Bread selection was important to avoid rapid disintegration.

​Our mains arrived within ten minutes of the Swiss Onion Soup.

A Regular Cut of The Alphorn's Famous Schnitzel had been requested with a side of Alphorn Hunter Sauce for an additional $4.75. As opposed to the red wine-pepper medley that had been depicted ever-so-deliciously, the substance residing within the sauce boat was dark, gloopy, and gravy-like. There were not even vague references to red wine. Thin slices of mushrooms was its only saving grace.

​The Schnitzel portion was behemothic, but, broadly-speaking, barbarically bland. Breading seemed to contain baking soda, for it retained a crunchy edge mixed with unmistakable airiness and alkalinic aftertaste. Three wedges of lemon provided a dash of acidity, contrasting well against the otherwise unseasoned slab. The bed of string beans and carrots on which it rested was saturated in hue, seemingly blanched and lightly tossed in a frying pan instead of roasted. The customizable side of Swiss rosti potato beckoned similarities to hash browns, with a subtle crispiness and excess moisture at its centre.

My pick of the Beef Stroganoff was satisfactory, despite being different from anticipated. A bed of Austrian Spaetzle served as the foundation of the entrée. Having been informed by our server that it was "dough ripped, boiled, and seasoned", I suppose we could have concluded a likening to pasta. The pieces were visually akin to cheese curds, but its texture chewy without squeakiness. Paired with sour cream and demi-glace sauce, I enjoyed the morsels between bites of red and yellow bell peppers. It was an unexpectedly tasty pairing with the beef.
The dish was satisfying overall, however the seared pieces of red meat was stiff and unyielding - not the tender profile we had imagined.

In review of The Alphorn's extensive selection of local Ontario craft beer and European big names, I pointed towards the Krombacher Pilsener. The past week had seen repeated instances of beer tasting like cough syrup, stirring worry from within.
The sleepy polar bear reached for my glass first, surprisingly. After declaring with a grimace that "It tastes like beer." (No duh), the golden fluid was returned to my side. I made the spectacular discovery that it tasted fresh and malty, as a beer should! The aftertaste of cough syrup remained, though it appears that certain tasting capabilities are returning.

A Black Forest Cake was taken to go, for the meal had replenished our appetites entirely. The twelve dollar slice was roughly 1.5 inches thick, constructed of three layers of fluffy sponge rich in chocolatey-ness. Encased between the layers was an acceptable amount of cream, neither excessive nor lacking. That said, the cake was scarce in maraschino cherry essence, diminishing its Black Forest aura. A single maraschino cherry rested at its peak, but meager shreds were tasted between the sponge layers.

Satiating in large quantities, I took to consuming the slice across a few sittings. The portion was generous at its given price.

​Bathrooms were situated towards the back of the restaurant. In the women's single stall was a sink bearing rusted patches and a disposable bin surrounded with brown paper towels. The toilet was probably the oldest variation I've encountered in recent years, and offered limited flushing capacity.
A contoured map of Switzerland was positioned just beyond the stall door. I took much interest in this framed portrayal of mountains, even enthusiastically relaying my discovery to the sleep polar bear with my return to the table.

Our server, who casually asked to identify our status as visitors or locals, was learned to originate from Mississauga as well. He admitted to loving the area and made the move up north with his wife, away from his home neighbourhood of Clarkson.

​On our way out, I plucked two brochures from the stack by the door. One depicted the Apple Pie Trail between Collingwood and Meaford and its points of interest; the other was a magazine comprising of photographs from the escarpment, real estate ads, and skiing content - as expected of Blue Mountain.

​We stopped for gas, then departed for home. The drive was much shorter this time around, averaging one hour and forty eight minutes versus the northbound trip of two hours and thirty one minutes (plus an unplanned forty minute detour).

​Streetlights were few along our route; unlike Halifax though, reflective line paintings were present throughout.