The plane heading from Ottawa to Orlando last week wasn't very crowded, we were informed by our ravine-walking friend. The return trip a week later was packed. And nor, when she was in Orlando, did she ever venture outdoors. Though Hurricane Irma struck the coast with its full fury, it vented merely gusts over 100 mph in Orlando, enough to sweep someone in the outdoors off their feet, but since they stayed indoors, presenting no problem for her and her daughter's mother-in-law.

They did see a lot of disruption; signs down, trees torn up, that kind of thing, and felt just a little trepidatious, but it was just one of those things you get over. Since we're given to being polite, we stifled the urge to gently prod: why, in heaven's name, did you go there at that very time? Perhaps it's just as well not to know. And if she felt like sharing that information revealing her level of awareness, she might have. It certainly wasn't a sense of adventure, since they hadn't ventured out while the storm was raging....

Her three dogs, however, devoted as highly intelligent and exercise-hungry working dogs to getting out and about on the forest trails two to three times daily -- translating to at least two to three hours of trekking the ravined woodland -- were ecstatic on her return. And there was little doubt she too was more than happy to be back to her normal routine. Who wouldn't be, considering the potential alternatives?

As for us, routine is a vital part of our lives and for obvious reasons, and our two little mutts are always eager to go about their anticipated jaunts in the ravine. Jackie, far more than Jillie, is curious about the small creatures we come across. Not the tiny corpse of a shrew my husband carefully bundled into a large leaf and set aside off the trail yesterday. But the squirrels disporting themselves, searching out fall bounty before the really cold weather sets in.

Over the years we've had a quite personal relationship with the squirrels in the ravine. For years, we distributed peanuts at various cache points, where squirrels would await our presence to triumphantly make off with their winnings. When Jackie and Jillie came into our lives they required so much close attention, we had to forego the peanuts routine. And the squirrels to whom we had become particularly attached, two little black fellows without tails, Stumpy and Stumpette, are long gone, after an acquaintanceship of at least five or six years with each. Stumpette took Stumpy's place when he was gone; boldly accosting us directly for their daily due, unperturbed by their close proximity to Button and Riley, our current twins' predecessors.

We know that occasionally while still in the nest, baby squirrels' tails sometimes become knotted together. The outcome of which, though rare, is that the most unfortunate among the nestlings lose their tails as they struggle to go their separate ways.

At one of the bridges crossing the creek tributaries in the ravine, we've noticed a very young and impudent little tiny red squirrel, unafraid of our presence, tail twitching, watching us intently from the safety of a tree. On the top rail of the bridge, one can see that the little fellow uses it as a serving board, with its steadily growing pile of pine-cone leavings where it had extracted the edible seeds.

Jackie is extremely aware of its presence, Jillie less interested, and the red squirrel seems to reciprocate, teasing them. It appears that it has made its home in the hollow of an old pine snag. We can recall not all that long ago when that was a large and thriving old pine. About a decade earlier we'd had an episode of quite violent rain and wind, and it seems a micro-tornado had whipped through a portion of the ravine, taking down that healthy old tree and a swath of others along its path. In the year preceding the storm a pileated woodpecker had diligently created a large hole just about where the tree was snapped.

We viewed the destruction with amazed incredulity a day later on our usual ravine ramble, post-storm.