We're both of us fascinated with narratives of Arctic and Antarctic discovery and Himalayan adventure. Over the years we've amassed a sizeable number of books in our home library on those topics. An endless source of information and entertainment, leaving us with a measure of awe for the grandeur of this planet we inhabit and wonder at the men and women who set aside their security in favour of satisfying their curiosity and sense of adventure.

We've read countless books of these missions of discovery and the frequent catastrophes -- much less the hardships and arduous events -- that accompany some of these journeys into the unknown. Irving is reading a book now, Alone On The Ice, of an Australian expedition of three men who set out for the South Pole, in 1913. The leader of the Australian Antarctic Expedition, Douglas Mawson, was the only one of the three to return. His companions died in separate misadventures. He somehow made his way back, alone, surviving the 350-mile journey to a point of rescue.

It's almost miraculous to think that someone who must rely on his experience, endurance, faculties and determination to return from the most remote, isolated area in the world, a sea of ice, winds and loneliness somehow manages such a Herculean feat. I can't imagine it for ourselves, but it is endlessly fascinating to learn how others manage to do just that.

It leaves me to wonder, on the other hand, whether there's an affinity for ice and snow in our DNA that accommodates us to long Canadian winters and exposure to more snow and ice than most people could imagine themselves living with for such prolonged periods. Needless to say, the comparison between what these adventurer-discoverers must navigate in terrain and danger has no comparison to anything. We speak of discomfort, they experience danger along with the exhilaration of discovery. . 

These winters we experience in the Ottawa Valley never seem to end, once March has left the scene. April seems to conjure up a picture of warmth and sun and green buds, but not here. Well, not exactly true. This morning we looked about in the backyard where the snow has markedly receded and there are bare patches where scilla and grape hyacinth bulbs are shooting up green spears in a few spaces free of snow despite snow piled high all around.

So comfortably benign in the backyard, we hardly needed jackets. But later, when we went out to the ravine for our afternoon hike with Jackie and Jillie, we were all wearing our jackets along with headgear and mittens and cleated boots. Out on the street one of our young neighbours, a boy about thirteen, wore shorts and a bare chest on a 11C day, bouncing a basket ball into the net at the end of their driveway. We winced, he cheerfully laughed.

The last several mornings we've heard our neighbourhood cardinal sing his spring song, joined by a robin. I was certain I saw a few warblers, though it seems early yet for their presence. Gulls have returned and geese are on their way north again. A neighbour told us she had seen a bluejay. Here, we only see them spring and fall, passing through.

The forest trails are becoming a little less icy every day as the layers of ice turn to thick icy slush, accounting for the need to wear cleats to achieve proper grip on slippery hillsides.Not many people from the wider community coming into the ravine these days, reluctant to expend the increased energy required to slog through the melting trails.

A bright and beautiful, full-sun day, worth every moment of getting out to revel in the changing landscape.