Fathom Five Marine Conservation Area is a national park. That's what the Parks Canada website says. Bruce Peninsula National Park is also a national park. The two of them are very, very close together. They have the 
same sort of campsites: wooden tent platforms, very tall composting toilets with solar panels to power the fans, and "no fires" rules. If you thought the two were one, you would be forgiven. But they are not! And if you thought Fathom Five was all about the shipwrecks and caves that draw divers to this area, you would be making a logical assumption. But you would be wrong! There are islands that are part of Fathom Five. There are diving destinations that are part of BPNP. And, most importantly from my perspective, there are two sets of rules for camping, including two offices, two fee structures, two reservation systems.
Well, no. Not two reservation systems. Fathom Five has one set of backcountry sites, on Flowerpot Island. There are six tent platforms. It costs the same for six people to stay on six platforms as it does all of them to be on one: $9/person/night. You don't need to be able to paddle or hike in, either - there is a tourboat. And there are *no reservations*. First come, first served. Six sites. At the very tip of the Bruce Peninsula. Makes sense, no? Sure...
So, because this makes so much sense, and because we once again wanted to stalk some orchids, Rob devised a plan where we - all eight of us - would hog at least half the tent platforms at Flowerpot for the weekend. And in order to do so, we'd simply show up before anyone else on Friday. Done. So, would be campsite hog that I was, I waddled into the (very dead) office in Tobermory. Where the (very friendly, but not exaclty busy) staff told me, ummmm... this group of 30... they took all the sites... yesterday. Yeah. Seeing as not only are there no other campgrounds on the islands, but the other islands in Fathom Five are *off limits*, *no camping* and all that sort of stuff, and seeing as Rob had all these people driving from far away (I was a couple of hours early because I don't read my email very well), I was of course incredibly impressed by the efficiency that is Parks Canada. I contemplated spending the time I'd have to wait for Rob composing a thank you for such great use of my tax dollars letter. I went to the library to find more information on effusive thank you notes. And there, the internet, which I used to retrieve Rob's cell number from my email, and then... sigh... then I had a *job* to do. Ok, I volunteered. I can think of better things to do than sit in front of a computer when my kayak is on my car.
Like drive to the Bruce Peninsula National Park Office! Because they have two more sets of backcountry sites that are accessible via water, on the mainland: Stormhaven and High Dump. Here, you pay by the site. And you can reserve the sites long in advance. And if you haven't done said reserving in advance, you can take the long and twisty road into the Cyprus Lake campground to find *their* office and register. Which I did, dragging along John, 
who had also shown up early. (And I really am going to be fair - both the Tobermory and Cyprus Lake staff were incredibly friendly and helpful, insofar as they could be within their rules, and the Cyprus Lake people kindly let me book more sites than I had bodies in evidence, too. And we were really lucky that Stormhaven wasn't close to full, is all I can say.)
And that is what we did. A frustrating start to a glorious weekend. Really. It couldn't have worked out better. Because from then on, everything was smooth: the next time I got Rob on the phone, the connection didn't crap out, Rob managed to leave a message for Sarka, Marti and Doug - who were going to paddle out to join us the next day - with an updated rendezvous point, Elaine and Carla got my message at the Tobermory office ("look for two women with kayaks on the car. If you see some, accost them. If they don't run away when you call them Elaine and Carla, give them this note. Thank you!" And that's pretty much exactly what happened.)
And from here on, really, it's all gloating. See, the stretch from Dunk's Bay to Stormhaven is pure eye candy - cliffs and caves and the grotto and all that. I did it twice last year, but it was still pretty great again this year. The last time Rob did it, Georgian Bay cruelly forced him to focus entirely on the tricky water and he saw nothing. Rob was not unhappy. Nobody was unhappy. How can you be unhappy when 1. you realize that you are going to a *way nicer* campsite than the one you had planned on; 2. Rob's boat makes a clinking noise ever time he jiggles it too much; 3. there are caves and cliffs; 4. it is not raining; 5. there is no headwind; 6. you are not sitting in front of a computer but instead in your kayak.
The only tricky bit about Stormhaven is the landing - it's fully exposed to the north. In calm weather, there are these delightful limestone shelves that let you step out of your kayak. In the slightest bit of onshore wind, there are these stupid waves that want to grid your glass boat against these pesky limestone ledges lurking just below the surface. But we had a good crew of helpful people (and Rob and I were the only glass boat people that Friday), so we landed. And inspected our new paradise. And drank the welcome beers that had 
clinked their way along in Rob's boat, and ate the welcome smoked fish that our thoughtful trip organizer served us. I was waiting for the welcome committee to set up my tent, but at this point it went off duty. So I did it myself, on my appointed platform, wishing I was out on the (no camping!) flat limestone ledges with a wonderful view of the Bay. Elaine and 
Carla, meanwhile, spent 20 minutes trying to find their designated tent pad. They found it, along with about one million blood sucking insects. Oh, and several hundred feet elevation gain. So, while Rob, John and I were the goody-goodies who stayed in the woods on our wooden pedestals, Elaine and Carla thumbed their noses at us and at the rules, skipped over the poison ivy, and set up in way better spots than any tent pad in the park could provide. Envy!
Rob and I kept our envy in check, though, with another beer - and smug proclamations that the rogue campers would have to hide their tents during the day on Saturday, when we would go to Flowerpot, meet the rest of our crew, and hunt down those tiny little orchids. Except those two, they don't 
follow rules at all! No sir! Rob speculated that perhaps this goody-goody "but these are the *rules*" sort of behaviour was a central European thing (which Sarka disproved, by not even contemplating anyplace but the wide open rocks when she showed up). Their tents stayed where they were when we did our day paddle to Flowerpot the next day (I started *my* daypaddle by dumping on launching. Those cushy limestone ledges are as much fun for launching in a bit of onshore wind as they are for landing.)
Flowerpot is pretty. Particularly if you don't land where the tourboat does, and instead beach your boat between the two star geological attractions, the flowerpots. Which we did. And then we tromped along every meter of trail the island has to offer. We found three kinds of orchids - one of which didn't even look like a flower to me, so I refused to photograph something that made as little 
noise as that and took a picture of a columbine instead. But I did take lots of pictures of striped coral roots and calypsos. We had the hardest time finding the calypsos while standing right in front of them. They're good camouflage artists, those orchids - they are a similar hue but less intensity than the gaywings they hide among. But take eight sets of adult eyes and defenseless little 
calypso orchids that can't actually move because they're rooted, and the people win. We bagged those suckers (by which I mean, we flopped onto our bellies and took endless pictures while heeding Rob's many cautions not to hurt other flowers while stalking this particular bloom).
And then we paddled back. And hung out some more. And Sarka and Doug went swimming, without nary a whimper at the coooooold water. So those of us sitting in our 
dry and cuddly clothes on 
shore made the sound effects for them. There was much giggling, and much eating, and sunset watching, and it was perfectly lovely. And the next morning, the water was flat as glass, the launch was dead easy, and we were in danger of vertigo floating over the clear clear drops. We saw fish far below us. We made kayak trails through the pollen. We felt smug because the hikers couldn't see half of what we could. We 
dragged the day out for as long as we possibly could with not much coastline to paddle, and then we were done (and Sarka and Doug swam again at Dunk's Bay.)
The workday:weekend ratio is backwards.
