Chapter 1

The Mountains I Didn't Know Existed

Discovering Killarney Bay and the La Cloche Mountains was, in many ways, a happy accident.

I knew Killarney was somewhere worth visiting. I knew it was a small town about an hour south of Sudbury, next to a provincial park surrounded by Crown Land. I knew it offered access to the northwestern coast of Georgian Bay, and I knew that this part of the lake was scattered with islands and wilderness.

I also knew the geology would be different.

The Bruce Peninsula, which had already become one of my favourite places to paddle, was dominated by white limestone, shale, and grey dolostone. Killarney was something else entirely — part of the Canadian Shield, where ancient pink granite shaped the shoreline into something far more rugged and primitive.

I knew I wanted to paddle here.

I just didn't know how special it was.

I didn't know about the La Cloche Mountains. I didn't know about the metamorphic rock, the wildlife, or the iconic windswept white pines that somehow manage to grow from bare stone.

I was about to find out.

Chapter 2

The First Glimpse

My first visit was supposed to be about Phillip Edward Island.

Because I was still inexperienced and knew very little about the region, I parked at a public beach, loaded my kayak, and decided to simply follow the shoreline. My thinking was that I could paddle far enough along the coast to eventually reach Phillip Edward Island, cross the remaining stretch of water, and explore from there.

It was not exactly a sophisticated expedition plan.

It was also not particularly successful.

I never reached Phillip Edward Island that day. Instead, I received my first real introduction to the landscape that makes Georgian Bay and Northern Ontario so extraordinary.

Somewhere along the way, I saw something I had never seen before.

Far in the distance, rising above the landscape, was what appeared to be a rocky mountain cliff.

I had hiked through the Laurentians, the Green Mountains of Vermont, the Adirondacks, and other parts of the northeastern wilderness. I had seen plenty of mountains.

This looked different.

From that distance, it barely looked like rock at all.

It looked more like a precious stone — a distant gem catching the light, or perhaps some enormous treasure sitting on the horizon.

I remember staring at it and wanting desperately to get closer.

I wanted to know what I was looking at. I wanted to paddle toward it, get closer, and understand how something that appeared so strange could rise from the landscape so far away.

But I was already running behind schedule, and I had learned enough by then to know that distances on a map and distances on the water are two very different things. Crossing open water simply because something looks close is exactly the kind of decision that can turn an enjoyable paddle into a very bad day.

My plans were already questionable enough.

The mountain would have to wait.

Perhaps I would see it on another trip.

Perhaps I would come back for it someday.

I didn't yet realize that I had just discovered the beginning of something that would become one of my favourite places to paddle.

Chapter 3

Beyond the Horizon

Eventually, I returned.

This time I planned ahead. I studied maps. I researched the area. And in the meantime, I had hiked portions of the La Cloche Silhouette Trail through Killarney Provincial Park.

There, I finally got my answer.

The strange mountains I had seen shimmering in the distance really were something extraordinary.

The La Cloche Mountains are largely composed of brilliant white quartzite, and seeing that rock up close was even more remarkable than seeing it from the water.

Walking across it.
Touching it.
Seeing the way it caught the sunlight.

The rock ranged from pearly white to sparkling grey, with veins and subtle shades of pink running through it. Some surfaces were almost porcelain-smooth, while others broke into jagged edges and fractured shapes. Pebbles became boulders. Boulders became cliffs. Cliffs became entire hills.

The shapes and textures seemed almost unnatural.

As though something had sculpted the landscape deliberately rather than leaving it to geology and time.

I had seen the mountains from the water.

Now I was walking through them.

And even after walking roughly twenty kilometres through the La Cloche Mountains, I still hadn't seen everything they had to offer.

That realization stayed with me.

What had started as a distant curiosity had become something much larger. The mountains were no longer simply a strange shape on the horizon. They were a landscape with its own character, geology, history, colours and textures — something worth returning to again and again.