Back from the Bruce Trail with no bear tales for ya, but a snake tale (photo to follow when developed) and a bad magician tale. What shall I post first? The latter, I think. You’re not from Oastler Lake, right? Okay then, Oastler Lake Provincial Park is the WORST CAMPGROUND IN THE WORLD. After six days on the serene and rugged Bruce Peninsula we wanted (read “needed”) showers before we hit civilization at IMC Camp, Parry Sound – there were Torontonians there in Capri pants, so, yes, civilization. We easily booked a tent site on Saturday of the Labour Day weekend (hmmm…) for Oastler’s night life. Trains went through every hour or so in the wee hours, whistling and howling and screeching brakes, bush planes took off, motorboats roared, and, worst of all, a bad magician was giving a show on the hill above our tent ("Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, and Genders and Generations I haven't mentioned..."). Maybe he wasn’t bad. Maybe he was Houdini and I couldn’t hear the clapping and ooos and ahhhs for the howly trains. There was trainscreech-absence enough, however, for him to fill with un-ahhhed patter. Sleeping bag over the head didn't help. Oh for that nice quiet trail with the nice quiet bears and the nice quiet snakes. But there were showers. And we covered ourselves over with biodegradable camp soap for that. (No soap allowed in the lakes on the trail – rogue bears might take the mounds of it that collect on the shore and fashion fake moustaches and goatees for themselves, terrifying hikers.)