The hike seemed posited on degrees of difficulty. The old field on the way in, which had been full of veronicas scattered like blue stars throughout the grasses, was easy walking if you don't mind the odd invisible sink hole. Then we bushwhacked for half an hour through a mature maple forest with a robust understory. There were huge black cherry trees here and there and patches of bellflower beneath. The painted trillium had finished blooming but now I know where to find it next year. There was even a swamp amaryllis at the edge of the open water. We had hoped to find orchids, moccasin flowers in particular, but they eluded us. Another time.
Though the toughest to negotiate, the bog itself was the highlight. We squished through it under a cloudless sky in perfect temperatures. I still can't understand why there were no mosquitoes but one should never question perfection. The only small challenge was trying to photograph pitcher plant flower stalks; kneeling in a bog is not recommended. But this time I managed to balance on the log on the way out although it was something of a Pyrrhic victory by then; my feet had shrivelled to prunes. They may still be.
Jon had opted to paddle up river to fish. He claims he had just as good a time. I don't believe that for a minute but his right foot does smell better than mine.