Climate change appears to have given us new weather patterns. We've been experiencing nearly-daily thunderstorms and that's unusual, particularly when they come in one after another in quick succession in the space of a few hours. Last night, after a day without rain in pleasantly cool temperatures and plenty of sun, a series of thunderstorms rolled overhead banging the roof of the house. It's either that or late-afternoon thunderstorms, and sometimes both. We've yet to see whether that will become a new summertime 'normal'.

 

What has become 'normal' is that tornadoes that once regularly hit Canada's mid-western provinces have moved east, to east-central Canada, over the past decade or so. This morning Environment Canada issued a weather warning for our area of Ontario -- that by late afternoon or early evening a tornado watch would be in effect. Today has been one of those days of low-lying clouds alternating with sunny breaks.

 

 

We decided to get out for our ravine hike with Jackie and Jillie a little earlier in the afternoon than usual, with the intention of leaving as little possibility that we'd encounter serious weather, as we could. Although it looked as though rain was imminent when we set out, that impression soon changed. From trepidation to relaxation, despite the warning, it just seemed like a beautiful day, so we took our time and decided to lengthen our circuit.

 

 

We're seeing some occasional colourful leaves on the forest floor discarded by overhead trees, though it's only midsummer and a long way from autumn. We've noticed over the years that poplar in particular have a tendency to drop foliage that has turned fiery orange-red; not in large numbers, but here and there. Maples also have a tendency to do the same thing. We also saw today that thanks to the inundating storms hitting regularly fungi is now appearing on the forest floor. 

 

Not so wonderful are the standing puddles of rainwater, the perfect venue for mosquitoes to lay their eggs, and this week the pests seem to have proliferated, albeit not in serious numbers. Just enough to be irritating and put us on our guard. As we entered the forest, we heard an owl call several times, but had no luck spotting it. At one juncture we saw and heard a few crows flying circles in a limited area and conjectured they were harassing an owl, though we couldn't confirm it.

 

Because we had extended our hike, we passed by an area that is host to a number of wild apple trees. The apples are numerous this year, and beginning to put on weight. In late summer and the fall months we often pick a few apples to munch on and share with Jackie and Jillie. Some of the apples are crisp and sour, others sweet and juicy.

 

Different wildflowers tend to grow in various areas, and so today we saw wild sunflowers in bloom. We tend not to see them everywhere in the ravine; they grow in a strictly defined area where asters can also be found, an area that is host to large colonies of trout lilies in spring. 

 

In the entire time we were out we saw only one familiar face, a woman we've known for decades as a dedicated trail-hiker. In fact, she comes out to the forest multiple times throughout the day; once when she does a really long circuit at a hot pace, leaving her dog Millie at home because Millie is getting on in age, and tends to linger here and there. And then again, bringing Millie out with her, at a more leisurely pace. Millie heard Jillie's falsetto barks and came barrelling through the trails to set herself expectantly beside Irving, to wait for cookies.

 

It was once we were back on the street after our ravine circuit that we came across neighbours. One of the street's group mailboxes is located close to the entrance to the ravine, and sometimes it serves the function of the office water cooler. So we stood for a while in a little group, talking neighbourhood happenings, being brought up-to-date on what's been going on, with whom.

This has been an unusual winter so far. Not just the manner in which society has been hamstrung from normalcy thanks to the ubiquity of a threatening virus and all the constraints avoidance has visited upon us. The weather patterns, thanks to another anomaly of nature, appear to be reflecting the uncertainty of climate change; inexorable and inexplicable, with its influence on normalcy, or what we have always recognized as 'the usual', patterns of life as we've known them.

 

The difference in this winter's weather is on the incidental side; nothing comparable with the tumultuous weather patterns upheaved by tornadoes, wildfires, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, tsunamis, torrential rains of a nature unprecedented in their ferocity. The modest difference that we identify here with is the paucity of snow that has fallen in a region always known for its heavy snowfalls.

 

We've accumulated just enough snow to cover the ground, little more. Most winters at this time would see a sizeable snowpack. And most Januaries have a brief period of unseasonable mild temperatures we always recognize as a 'January thaw' that melts at least a quarter of the snowpack, before it begins accumulating once again with the refreshed arrival of colder weather, and more snow.

 

The lack of snow this year is obvious in the conditions prevailing in the forest for example, where the trails' covering of snow has hardened, packed down tight with a layer of ice under and over. People on the trails without cleats cling to trees for stability on their ascents and descents of the hills in the ravine.

A horrible accident that occurred a week ago on a snowy hill crusted with ice that the municipality has warned residents through signage is not to be used, took the life of a ten-year-old girl when the toboggan she was sliding downhill on with her older brother and sister hit a metal signpost.

 

It also hasn't been quite as icy-cold as frequently as a normal winter would be with a number of daytime highs in the -20C range. Of course, when we're out in -10C with a mean wind, or today at -15C and wind, it seems brutal. It feels just like -20C. Today I layered well under my down-filled winter jacket; two undergarments and two thick sweaters over them, along with a scarf. I could feel the cold penetrating. 

 

My face felt ice-stiff with the cold, my mittened hands felt frozen. My feet rarely feel cold in thick long socks and winter boots, but my toes on arrival back home after our ravine hike this afternoon, felt cold. During our hike over the spine of the ravine, Jackie began pouncing up at Irving and me, a signal that he wanted to be picked up. He was cold and wanted to be held. So held he was, until he got edgy when a large dog appeared behind us and he squirmed to be let down, so he could run after the unassuming dog.

 

Irving remarked on my cheeks, how red they were. Like a painted wooden Babushka doll. An old friend from my high school teen years wrote me today that it's also really cold in Toronto. Too cold, she said, to get out for a much-needed walk on the street with her walker. And, she said, she could no longer safely walk through her apartment building hallways because too many people have the 'virus', without informing anyone else or remaining isolated.