I heard rumours of the Grand River, which starts in the Dufferin Highlands in Ontario, up near Dundalk. The elevation up there is so high compared to Lake Ontario that it’s basically at the height of the CN Tower. We are all subject to watersheds. The Grand River’s watershed, its contributing areas, covers seventeen creeks and rivers, including Laurel Creek, the area in which I live, before eventually spilling into Lake Erie at Port Maitland. I’ve never been to the end of the river, but I’ve seen its beginning.

I bike along the Grand River from northern Waterloo. A gravel path weaves between subdivisions. In this shot, the river is to the left, hidden. This is at the top of a hill so long and steep that I couldn’t make it all the way. I almost did. One day, I will. I sat on the bench and had some water, a granola bar. It was nine in the morning, already getting hot. I checked my heart rate on my device. It was thumping.

The path, called the Grand Trunk Trail, gets you over Highway 401, past a golf course, and into the flatlands. There were hikers here, and people on electric bikes. The sun was relentless. A gravel bike is a specialized bicycle with drop-down handlebars like a road bike, but with thicker tires with a flat strip down the middle. The flat strip lets you bike comfortably on roads. The thick tire with the heavy tread allows you to chew through gravel paths like this one.

Here’s the Grand River. I found kayakers on it, people in canoes, a couple of paddle boards. In one place, a guy on an electric scooter was parked next to the water, talking on a phone as he just sat there. Felt like he’d been there for a long time. I passed a couple of hikers, wondered where they’d started. By the time you reach this spot, far south of the 401 and on the way to Cambridge, you might pass a person every half an hour. Might.

I clip into the gravel bike. That means your feet are attached to the pedals. You unclip by twisting your heels outwards and sliding backwards. It’s a trick that you have to learn well, because if you forget to do it, it’s very easy to fall when you come to a stop. On this stretch, there’s a warning that the trail is too rough to bike. You have to walk your bike for about 2 km. A really good mountain bike with an experienced biker could manage it, but I didn’t want to. Walking was fine. The river gurgled along, and I didn’t see anyone for so long I felt like I was alone in the world.

The rough patch on the trail borders a golf course. Why is there always a golf course? I don’t like golf. I tell people that it’s unsporting to hit a ball that’s not even moving. Try hitting one that does move. The Grand River opens up here, then constricts again and gets faster. By this time of day, it was about thirty degrees Celsius. I’d ridden about 45 km.

Further south, a field of wheat. Biking alongside, I put my hand through the wheat, and pretended I was some explorer of the land and water. In the open, the sun was merciless. I wear bike shorts. They have padding where you need it, and I’m so thankful for that. When you’re on a bike for multiple hours, it’s very helpful.

Galt is part of Cambridge. The Grand River clears a weir and plummets. By this time, I was overheating. I stopped at a coffee shop, and the owner asked where I had come from. I told him, and he asked how long it had taken to get there. About three hours, I said. The latte was spectacular. On a pedestrian street, a bagpiper was playing and a young troop was doing highland dances in the morning air. It’s amazing what you find when you’re not looking for anything at all.

In the lower part of Galt, back on the path, the remnants of an old bridge. They’ve left it here. I wonder how many cities in the world have built on top of old cities. Humans build in places for specific reasons, abundance of resources, access to water, proximity to rivers… one settlement builds on top of another, over and over again, because people want that location. They like that real estate. After this, I got on the Cambridge to Paris run, a gravel path that goes through forests, flat and sloping downwards slightly, a straight ride all the way into the cute little town of Paris.

The end of the line. Paris, Ontario. My family came down with a bike rack to pick me up. We had lunch at the restaurant you see to the bottom right. We ate while the Grand River continued its way to Lake Erie. I had biked 65 km on a brutally hot day, modulating my speed and exertion to not overdo it. It had not been the fastest ride. It had not been the most comfortable. But I’d been next to the river for the majority of it, sometimes losing it, only to have it cut across my path again. A constant companion as my brain went to faraway places, slightly exhausted, open and free to any thoughts that might want to enter. I don’t know that I had any revelatory writing thoughts on this trip, but I think a few ideas were generated, taking root, growing there. One day, I’m going to ride the river all the way to Lake Erie. I think there’s a path down that way. Gravel. Rough. Mostly downhill. I’ll get there.