Revisiting
Last week I treated myself to a return to a special, lesser-known walk at Foley Mountain. (There are so many memories from my 30 years of living within the park, so many places I need to revisit.) Today’s walk, on what is called The Wildflower Trail, part of the Rideau Trail, is easily reached, setting out from directly across from the less-used door of the Interpretive Centre.
Eventually this trail makes a splendid walk through the park, following the cliff overlooking the Little Rideau Lake. With its high views over the lake, once the leaves have fallen and the insects are gone, is very best time to follow this part of the Rideau Trail all the way to Spy Rock.
But today I was not going to make the whole trip. The beginning of this trail is a place of ancient maple trees and it is the best place I know of to get a second autumn. Guarded as it is by high cliffs and sheltered from early frosts by the lake’s remaining warmth, when in most more-open places the trees are newly bare, heading into the company of the grandmother maples I am surrounded by lake light and the low sun glowing through lemon-colored leaves. I am steeped in the bittersweet leaf scent of autumn.
This is a place of memories for me, and no doubt for many others.
Third generation visiting the maple grove.
Long ago, I was told, there were an indigenous resident, Jake, and his family, who settled by what was once a spring by the bottom of the big hill. Once, on an “archaeological expedition”, my younger son Jeremy and I actually found the house foundation and also a rusty white tin coffee pot (an artifact). Thinking of Jake, I told Jeremy, how many times on my walks it made me happy to follow the mossy foundation stones across from the campground and under the pines which were said to mark off the carriageway he used on his trips to Westport to sell his ash baskets and furniture.
This day, I did walk on until I reached the foot of the hill, mentally greeting the site Jeremy and I once explored, now sprouted up with saplings, but then I turned back. 
Deliciously scuffing through mounds of leaves beneath my feet, I was headed for the little side trail at the Meditation Point which would take me to the bench overlooking the lake. This is one of Foley Mountain’s secret places, easily available to all, but visited by few.
Here I sat in this great place of peace, companioned only by a small flock of migrating juncos, turning my face to the light, drinking in the silence, letting myself sink into stillness. For all I was surrounded by memories, for all the turmoil in the world, surrounded by leaves, birds and lakes there was only the loveliness of a brief now.