Rushing to Rushing River

Every summer, Manitobans go rushing to Rushing River. I told Margie, “And that explains the name!”

Although 240 kilometres from Winnipeg, Ontario’s small Rushing River Provincial Park reports 51,000 annual visits by ’Tobans, about two-thirds of total entries. On some days, I’ve only seen Manitoba vehicles in the campground.

Yup, my new pastime is vacationing to survey licence plates.

This boreal beaut awaits down Ontario Highway 71, shortly after the Trans-Canada Highway’s clever sign explaining “Large vehicles need more room” — and after the intersection where Margie yelled, “Stop! A turtle is crossing!”

She waved away a semi-truck and delivered the thankless creature to a ditch. A kilometre later, she yelled, “Stop! A turtle!”

Rushing River flows from Dogtooth Lake to Blindfold Lake — the usual names. Tip: Rushing River Store stocks T-shirts and hoodies emblazoned with these toponyms. Oh, and find cups of 26 hard ice-cream flavours.

Although only about two kilometres long and sometimes just a few metres wide, the river boasts six cascades, sandbars and, at one of four park beaches, a tiny midstream rock.

During several summers, I tried claiming that plot of land for myself. Another fun feature back then was the park’s rope swing. Tip: at some point, let go.

Our family knows many of the park’s 200-plus campsites. That’s because we repeatedly failed to beat the annual rush to reserve newly discovered, preferred sites. Plus, I forgot campsite numbers that I assured Margie I’d never forget.

Favourite spots sit along the north shore before you get to the sign announcing “Slow children playing.” (The park also makes for increasingly slow adults.) Lie in floaties tied at your site while kayaks and SUPs (stand-up paddleboards) rented from the park pass by, some with dogs up front — SUP pups.

Tip: on Saturday mornings, the park office and North Side Nook sell yummy cinnamon buns baked by Kenora’s Hungry Pug Café. Margie confides: “Hungry Pug cinnamon buns are my downfall.”

To fully appreciate Rushing River’s splashy performance, hike the 1.8 km lower rapids loop. North and south trails discreetly start across Highway 71. Boardwalks and stairs relieve hikers from inclines, some muck and exposed roots. Nonetheless, Margie tripped and fell. Whump! She wasn’t hurt but did amass a stunningly artistic collection of needles, leaves, and twigs on her legs, chest, and arms. I didn’t even laugh, or blurt that ol’ “Have a nice trip? See you next fall!” line. I’m learning. Whew.

The north trail leads to dreamy cascades between stairs 8 and 9 where in-the-know families lounge on broad rocks sloping to clear, moving waters. Sitting there, I remarked, “This rock is hard!”

Margie said, “Because it’s rock.”

I retorted, “But it’s harder than most.”

Lengthier cascades and a split rock at the loop’s footbridge tease for photos. Near the footbridge, a gorge-like cliff is — you know it’s coming — gorge-ous.

One summer our family hiked off the main trail and found a resort called Camp Waterfall surrounding a lively cascade. Cancellations last summer allowed us to book into one of three remaining units that features two long-eared grey rabbits near our door and, delighting Margie, the far-off crowing of, indeed, a rooster.

For over 50 years, Rob and Nancy Rummery have lovingly nurtured this upgraded 1930s-era, summer retreat. They cherish their wonderland and seldom miss afternoon swims followed by riverside sunbathing among towering red, white, and jack pines.

A resident chipmunk answers to the name “Charlie.” Or any name. While I enjoyed a snack of nuts and dried fruit, I looked down and saw him right in my bowl. When he left with exploding cheeks, my fingers went for a dried blueberry. It suddenly struck me; it was Charlie’s poo. Close one! Because I don’t eat chipmunk poo.

While later cooking ribs on the camp’s barbecue, a woman called from a porch, “That smells great!” I replied, “Nice try!” With that great smell on our waste, next morning I told Rob, “The name of last night’s garbage collector: Yogi!”

Having heard our tightly-covered trash can clang under the window at 2 a.m., we stared at a big dark bear staring back. Yogi uttered something rude and ambled off — with our garbage bag. But hey, everyone loves seeing a bear, with notable exceptions.

A family of four otters made an appearance. We discovered the calls of a red wing blackbird and an exuberant eastern phoebe. The falls croon with a harmony of rumbling, splashing, and whooshing. As the river weaves downstream toward Tyc’s Blindfold Lake Resort, cattails and water lilies embellish the scene.

Two life-jacketed youngsters, enticed by the falls, maneuver SUPs from downstream to twirl and tumble in the turbulence. And during high water, thrill-seekers grab a ski rope tied to the footbridge and body-surf in the vigorous flume below. A long-time guest told me the flow pulled off his trunks. When our daughter Cotelle braved the experience — oh, the gasping, screaming, and laughing! And that was from Margie. But Cotelle’s eyelash extensions remained intact. It’s a miracle.

At night we rejoiced at brilliant stars. And Margie exclaimed, “Look at all the fireflies!” I noted, “Those could be a problem for wildfires.”

Maybe I’ll see your license plate in these parts.

gordmackintosh9@gmail.com