The sad, nostalgic and misery-inducing messages of old age. Suddenly I find myself assailed by them. They seem so bitterly cruel. That once-hale people proud of their independence have suddenly -- or not-so-suddenly as the case may be -- succumbed to the trials and tribulations of their body stuttering into worn agedness.

Yesterday, an email from an old friend in California who has shared with me over the years the happy and relevant stages of her family life from the time her children were young to the present, when her granddaughter has accepted her first employment as a lawyer. What she wrote was anything but celebratory. She and her husband used to go on adventurous trips everywhere around the world until he began faltering and died, last year. And since his death she has experienced no fewer than seven family deaths the latest of which she wrote of in this way:

She was supposed to have a cancer test every year, but she retired last year and lost her work coverage and under Medicare, they would not give her the cancer test.  This year they did when she was suffering so badly and found the cancer number high.  They then ran tests.  Barbara and I went up to met with the cancer doctor to hear ourselves what was found.  Carol lives in Eureka, which is in Northern California – a six-hour drive, much of it over mountainous roads.
I don’t drive much anymore, as it is very painful for me.  My feet are so bad that I had to have special shoes made.  We left while it was still dark and got to Eureka just when Carol and her husband Vic were going to leave for the doctor appointment.  We all went.  The news was not good.  The doctor did not come out and say she was dying, but it was implied.  He asked her if she wanted to have chemotherapy and she said yes.  He said that would buy her some time.  Actually it did not.  The first treatment was what really killed her. After the visit with the doctor we went next door to the hospital to talk with the 4 nurses in charge of the chemotherapy.  Carol knew some of them from her previous treatment. They made an appointment for 3 days later.  We then went back to Carol’s house and had to get on the road for the long drive home.
Carol had been on morphine as her pain was terrible.  They had hoped the chemotherapy treatment would relieve it some.  She was so weak that it had the opposite effect.  Vic had to rush her to the hospital and they had to give her morphine directly into her veins the next 11 days and she was in a semi-comma(sic) and did not know anything that was going on.  They talked about radiation, but said they were sending her home until she got stronger.  Of course they knew they were sending her home to die.
The day after she got home, I had some minor surgery on my foot, as I couldn’t not walk very well, and then the next day we made the trip to Eureka again.  They had set up a hospital bed for her, but I was horrified that they did not sent any oxygen home for her.  I recognize that she had pneumonia from her breathing as it was like my Dad’s and Charlie’s.  Her daughter came and I told Sandy that she had to call the doctor.  She did, but he said he couldn’t come out until the next day.  They did bring oxygen then, but Carol died that next night.

And then, there is my old friend from Toronto, from when we lived there from childhood to young adulthood, and the last time we saw one another was almost 50 years ago. She has been bringing me up to date on our old mutual friends:

 I now have Wheel-Trans with the TTC as I fractured my right pelvis in mid June and use a walker. I have booked Wheel-Trans to take me & 3 friends to Harbour Front on Labour Day.
E---- just came home from the hospital today, after being in since early morning Saturday when she called 911 as she had terrible pains in her back and legs.  She had loads of tests and it seems the cause of the pain is from her back, but they are not sure.  E----  had heart surgery about 11 or 12 years ago and became a diabetic after that.

They're our age. My own sister, four years younger than me is suffering from health problems that make her daily life quite difficult and her husband's health has now degraded to the point where he isn't much better shape. Perseverance is the common quality that they all bring to the experience of age and growing disabilities.

And we, we are so incredibly fortunate to be able to carry on with our lives with as yet only muted and gradual alterations in the integrity of our capacity to live life as we always have, with huge enthusiasm, curiosity and the exuberance of those whose physical capabilities have not yet been challenged beyond their ability to cope.

Suddenly a terrific crack rent the stillness of the atmosphere, temporarily freezing us into inaction with the shock of its overwhelming sound. The person with whom we were speaking, when the crack bruised the air around us had a shocked expression on her face. After the crack, a seemingly agonizingly slow series of crashes continued the aural assault. I watched as our companion's instinct to flee kicked in, and she seemed to be trying to determine in which direction to flee.

Both of us, however, seemed to more quickly ascertain from the sounds and where they were emanating from that though close, they presented no immediate danger. Eventually, or so it seemed that way, the crashes came to a stop. I had thought that perhaps there was a crew from the municipality in the forest, taking down trees. We had been discussing the imminent replacement of the bridges in the ravine. After a year during which each of the bridges had been posted with warnings of instability (though we could determine no such thing), it appears that crews will be coming into the ravine in the next little while to decommission the bridges and build replacements. So we were thinking construction crews, when the crack-and-crashes occurred.

When all was still again, we theorized what might have occurred and concluded that natural events had overtaken some vulnerable tree beyond where we stood, up on one of the ravine slopes. It was windy, but not excessively so. We parted with our acquaintance and continued to the conclusion of our daily circuit through the network of trails we usually access on a daily basis.

As we ascended the last long slope, we thought we would continue and make a left-hand turn onto a trail we rarely now take, that runs along the back of the houses on the street where we live and where our house is located on the opposite side. We hadn't gone too far along the trail when we spotted the source of all that when-a-tree-in-the-forest-falls-does-it-make-a-sound if no one is there to hear it?

Down the hillside, below where we stood was the remains of part of an old pine tree. In its agony, the still-living trunk had crashed down upon other trees, lower down on the hill, and taken them with it to eventually become part of the detritus composting itself away on the forest floor, renewing the living environment, generation after generation.  I made my way down the slope closer to where the tree had succumbed to a combination of predation and circumstances. I could see that there was a series of deep holes from the bark to the heartwood, where the tree's structural-integrity had been badly compromised by Pileated woodpeckers harvesting the infestation of grubs and larvae that insects had laid beneath its bark.

It was an old double-masted pine, and one of the masts had simply given way. Leaving a reproachful looking snag about fifteen feet in height, unwilling to accept the fact of its own demise, its torn and shattered top now raw and white, appealing to the sky for justice.

All is still, comparatively speaking. The house sounds are now muted to reflect and echo those we alone make and are so accustomed to. Our home opened wide its arms over the last month to welcome those of our children who live far from home, who came in a successive wave to linger with us, briefly sharing their lives with us in their summer get-aways.

Our younger son sent along some of the photographs he had taken on our Algonquin Park canoe-camping trip, including those taken at Gatineau Park in Quebec. With his finer zoom function in his camera he had succeeded in snapping a photo of the Great Blue Heron that he had taken, while in my photos the bird can be seen as a mere pinprick, acknowledged only by the fact we knew it was there, and enlarged in presence in our memory.

A volunteer (our son) offers kids a peek at local species. Photo by David Buzzard, www.media-centre.ca

He had gone on from his conference in Quebec City after leaving us to take part in the annual late-summer Whistler, B.C. BioBlitz weekend, where 50 scientists lent their expertise in their fields to have fun with and educate families with their children who look forward to attending the event..

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A volunteer at Whistler BioBlitz offers kids a peak at local species.   Photo by David Buzzard / www.media-centre.ca

- See more at: http://www.whistlerquestion.com/news/local/bioblitz-counts-dinosaur-dinner-among-finds-1.1328679#sthash.UAH7N3ho.dpuf

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A volunteer at Whistler BioBlitz offers kids a peak at local species.   Photo by David Buzzard / www.media-centre.ca

- See more at: http://www.whistlerquestion.com/news/local/bioblitz-counts-dinosaur-dinner-among-finds-1.1328679#sthash.UAH7N3ho.dpuf

Our daughter-in-law called yesterday to let us know they'd arrived back in Toronto on schedule and were busy unpacking their gear which was plentiful, including all the astronomy sighting instruments our older son takes along with their annual three-week trip to rural Nova Scotia.

Now, no more consultations over food preparation, to take into account everyone's preferences and food allergies. No more lengthy conversations, catching up with everything that has occurred since the last time we were together, despite the exchanges in telephone conversations and emails and conventional letters.

Once again, I cleaned up the bathroom that only guests use, washed the linens, remade the beds and mused how quiet everything had suddenly become. Riley takes it all in stride, no longer excited at his age at their presence, simply accepting. Accepting as well, that the atmosphere goes suddenly still with the absence of our temporary house guests.

We're back to our daily ramble in our nearby ravine, dutifully dropping peanuts in all the usual cache places through the woods, intrigued as usual to be greeted by those squirrels which prefer to confront us directly, appealing for the special three-chambered peanuts we reserve for these encounters. Already, some of the ground cover in the forest is beginning to dry up, becoming yellow and wilting to be reabsorbed into the soil, their long summer season lapsing into early fall.

As a prelude to our planned hike, we surrendered to fond memory and decided to first embark upon a picnic; nothing elaborate, just the opportunity to sit quietly at a picnic table beside perfect little Lake Mulvihill before setting off on our Laurialt Trail perambulation. With that in mind, we brought along a little one-burner, freshly-ground [organic, free trade] coffee, rye bread, cheeses, and plums.

And then sat talking, observing the life on the lake from the perspective we had chosen, seeing three little turtle-heads skimming the lake close by the shore, countless little frogs at the lake's edge, and the sun perfectly reflecting the puffy white clouds in an otherwise-blue sky, a slight wind lapping the water against the shoreline.

We watched as a Great Blue Heron made its way languorously across the lake. We watched as Riley did his utmost to cadge treats from the picnickers whose habits he is so intimately acquainted with.

And we lost ourselves in the reveries of times past, when our son and his siblings accompanied us countless times to this very place, in the near-distant past. Forty years is a reasonable facsimile of the near-distant past, for us.

The lake shimmered and whispered to us as the breeze incited it to gentle movement. A tiny red squirrel scolded from a pine overhead. And we finally roused ourselves to clear away our picnic things, store them back in the car trunk and embark on the hiking tour of Laurialt Trail, to work off the coffee and the edibles and re-acquaint ourselves further with the delights of Gatineau Park.

After our hike was completed we returned to a slightly different part of the lake, to the dock from which perspective we could gaze deeper into the lake, and the sightlines were further. We spent the next little while exclaiming at the number of schools of fish eager to respond to the crushed dog biscuits we sprinkled on the surface, courtesy of Riley who would far rather have preferred eating them himself, having no patience himself with the law of sharing, the little scofflaw.

Again, we watched the Great Blue Heron tease us, eluding our camera lenses. But the little painted turtles didn't disappoint, they're obviously well schooled in the art of attracting the attention of nature-lovers, oohing and aahing over their presence, tossing out tidbits to their expectant satisfaction.

So we decided, since the weather has turned so marvellously summer-like once again, why not haul our temporary guests off for a trail hike, and since it only takes a half-hour drive from home, the Larriault Trail once again took centre-stage. It is picturesque, and the trail varies from easy-going to tricky footing, uphill here and here, and then downhill, with a variety of landscapes, some running water and fairly good overviews, and the opportunity to see woodland creatures if we're fortunate.

They agreed, and so we set off soon after breakfast, but not all that soon, and breakfast was late anyway, and even later since we lingered over it, finding more than plenty to talk about, as is common with family members who haven't seen one another directly for quite some time.

The drive into Gatineau Park, taking the Eastern Parkway of the National Capital Commission-operated roadway alongside the Ottawa River is beyond pleasant. Passing the Aeronautical Museum, Rockcliffe Park and various large and picturesque foreign missions and forking off between the National Research Council building and Foreign Affairs we drove over into Gatineau on the Quebec side to make our way to charming Chelsea with its puckishly-named pubs and restaurants, coffee shops and craft shops, to enter the environs of the Park itself.

The ground-covering thyme is still in evidence at one particular fork that we take to deliver us through the park to the area familiar to many visitors at the Mackenzie King Estates, from which the Lauriault Trail  and Lake Mulvihill can be readily reached; we attain it from the back entrance, since there is a parking fee at the estates, and none where we begin the trail.

And from there we began the loop that would commence with a bit of an uphill stretch, leading to an overlook now well grown in by maturing trees obscuring the view below, and the meandering trail where wild geranium 'pinks' still evidence themselves among the pussy-toes and the asters, the goldenrod and what's left of the columbine, the Solomon's Seal, yarrow and Queen Anne's lace.

We saw nothing spectacular, aside from one pleasing sightline after another, the sun glowing in various places through lapses in the canopy overhead. This time, however, unlike our hiking foray several weeks earlier with our younger son, the water level in the creeks running through the area had been restored to normal, whereas before it had been amazingly low.

We enjoyed ourselves; our older son, our daughter-in-law, we and our little dog. There's no life like it. It was surprising that on such a popular, easily-accessible trail, on a lovely, warm and sunny summer day in an area where over a million people live, so few others were to be seen on the trails; we passed a mere handful doing what we were doing with ease and satisfaction; enjoying nature.

I happened to be slightly ahead as we crested the first long hill leading from the ravine to the street where our house stands. My husband and little Riley were just behind me, as often happens. Riley toddles along at his own pace, undoglike, but perhaps like a little old dog would do, taking his time to get along. Just as we neared the top of the hill I saw a flash of rufous fur and thought it odd that any dog would whisk itself along at such a pace. But then, expecting to see someone coming along the trail toward us, that same dog in tow, it just didn't happen.

And it occurred to me tardily, that the colour I saw was very unlike any dog's pelt. So that, finally, I realized it wasn't a dog at all, but a red fox. It had been years, likely a good fifteen, since last we saw foxes in the ravine. Twenty years ago they were a common enough sight, and fearless, uncaring at our presence, remaining on the trail quietly watching as we proceeded on our own way.

When I told my husband he could hardly believe it. But when I related what I'd seen he agreed; it could not have been anything else. We'd been told by people who happen to go out for walks at dawn and at dusk that coyotes make their presence deep within the ravine, as well, since they'd seen them prowling about in dim light. Mostly during the winter months. We'd never seen any coyotes, however, in the ravine, and one might think they would occasionally howl, if they were there. Just as owls, dropping by to spend a few weeks or a month or the winter in the ravine make their presence known by their night-time hooting calls.

In any event, several days later, as we were well into our daily hike in the ravine, my husband and I happened to be strolling alongside one another on a broader portion of the trail that is very horizontal, when he suddenly excitedly called to me: 'fox'! Sure enough there was the fox, trotting from one side of the woods across the trail to the other. Not in a particular hurry. Its measured pace enabling us to fully appreciate its confidence in its environment, and the beauty of its conformation.

Now, we know they're still around, although to be truthful, we had known they were still about. People living on the direct perimeter of the ravine had told us they often spot them, that their dens are nearby where their own homes are. But this was the first time in so many years we'd seen directly that they remain nearby. And now we're slightly more alert of Riley's presence alongside us in the ravine; his small size could represent a temptation to a fox. On the other hand, perhaps not; there is ample small wildlife for these beautiful predators for the foxes to satisfy their required nutritional intake.

We assume, we hope....

That night after our evening entertainment we unbelievingly witnessed the night sky being transformed from heavily overcast, dark clouds to temporary clearing giving us the hoped-for opportunity to view the night sky from a perspective of no unnatural light flooding the atmosphere above. The display we saw on those occasions when a window was opened with the temporary parting of the cloud cover was beyond spectacular, and more than met our expectations.

Apart from the startlingly brilliant view of stars and planets, blinking back their reflection in the now-stilled lake, we saw an incredible burst and flash of light as a meteorite shot through the sky, a shooting star of some impressive dimensions; if not a meteor certainly some substance of material note.

And that night, snug in our little tent, with the three of us and little Riley tucked into our sleeping bags, we heard the wolf chorus again and yet again. We also heard, at some time in the wee hours of the night, thunder, and the pelting of rain which didn't disturb our sleep one iota. When we awoke at a decently late morning hour, the rain had abated to some degree, and it was possible to walk about heedless of its presence, since the wind now, at long last, was absent from the scene, and our rain gear kept us dry and comfortable.

And the rain did stop for an hour, miraculously, enabling my men to haul down the food cache, and begin the breakfast preparations, so when the lazy, late-riser of their group finally arose, it was to the comfort of a roaring fire and awaiting breakfast. We appreciated the lull; took a short ramble around our part of the elongated island, visiting little coves; enchanted places where lush moss thrived and aquatic plants lapped the shore. And the views of the lake from the different perspectives were securely stored in our memory. Aided by a number of valued photographs. Saying good bye to our brief haven in this wilderness area.

And then began the pack-up procedure. I did the interior of the tent, tightly bundling the sleeping bags, the inflated mats, packing our clothing and other items, and emptying the interior of the tent so it could be taken down, a quick enough job that my husband and I tackled while our son packed up just about everything else. Taking down the rain- and wind-breaks was time-consuming and quite the job, since everything was sopping wet.

At this point the rain had begun with a ferocity that we hadn't yet experienced on the lake. At this point also, there were people in canoes laden with camping supplies paddling by, scoping out possibilities for their own camping experience for the week-end. We shouted out to one that lingered nearby, to affirm what they themselves could readily determine; we were vacating this excellent spot where the wind no longer raged, but the rain and the cold did.

It took us hours altogether to get ourselves prepared to load up the canoe and ship out of Mallard Lake. But we eventually did, paddling against the wind that was there until we rounded the island, with the rain blessing our departure. Riley was wearing rain gear but, sitting before me, a plastic lid of one of our empty containers was balanced over him to ensure he kept dry. Reluctant to leave, despite the weather, we lingered on the lake, and watched as a loon surfaced with a large silvery trout struggling to be free until the loon somehow swallowed it.

As we were making for the canoe launch one loaded canoe after another met us in the opposite direction, all paddling ferociously in the rain, some in tandem with one another, with an incredible cargo of young children, to find camping spots for the weekend. We wished them good luck, told them where we knew vacant spots to be, and waved them adieu. When we reached shore, we began unpacking the canoe and packing up our retrieved car. Our son fixed the canoe in his inimitable way to the rooftop carrier, and then we were off, but not before stopping to chat with others preparing to do what we had, but in reverse.

On our way driving the long winding gravel road out of the park we came across one after another canoe-topped vehicles making for the area we had so recently left, all hopeful for a turn in the weather while driving in the pouring rain, determined to make good their reservation for one of the coveted camping spots within Algonquin Park.

When we returned from the afternoon's jaunt on the portage trail back to where we began it, our canoe patiently awaiting us, looking out over Mallard Lake and the sky above it almost seemed as though the sky might begin to clear, the wind seemed less hubristic, and although it was clearly colder at this end than where we had departed from at Wet Lake, we thought it possible that when we returned to our camp site the wind might have abated and allow us a little more creature comfort.

A family of loons appeared in the near distance as we took off from the intake of the portage. Again the pickerel weed swaying gracefully in the wind and our disturbing of the calmness of the water at the shoreline, as though waving us a fond farewell. Another, single loon surfaced elsewhere on the lake, and its loud piercing cry reverberated across the water, hitting the granite cliffs at the far end of the lake.

The rain had held off, though, and that was something to be grateful for; aside from the morning's several light rainfalls the afternoon had been free of rain. We paddled leisurely back to our camp site rounding the length of the island, and as we gathered toward it, the waves increased in their intensity, shoved by the wind. There is a lovely, even pattern that presents on the sand under the water lapping the shore of our campsite, one of nature's incredible micro-canvasses of natural art.

It was clear the wind was stubbornly resistant to toddling off anytime soon. And the cold prevailed, but the rain held off, under those dark, threatening skies. But the views were superb and we drank them in, grateful for this opportunity given us once again. Another fire was lit, and the competition between the fire and the wind was mitigated by the windbreak stretching across that part of our campsite.

We watched and waved as two canoes loaded with provisions came into view alongside the island, people obviously looking for vacant camp sites. Knowing from our own experience that there were plenty to be had, we knew they wouldn't be searching for too much longer. In the distance, later, we saw a canoe rounding the lake with its two paddlers stopping occasionally, hoisting fishing rods. We had ourselves decided against a fishing license for this trip.

Our son began preparations for dinner; this time it was linguini with tomato sauce, fresh vegetables stirred into it as it cooked, and tons of cheese to be added later. When we eventually sat around the comfort of the fire having dinner, dusk closed in quickly as it is wont to do when surrounding hills mute the effect of the setting sun. A light drizzle descended with a short life. Enjoying the leisure, we suddenly realized that the wind had indeed gone down, the first time in days, and we basked in the comfort of it all.

Then, looking up into the canopy of the pine needles above us we realized we could see the fiery brilliance of stars and planets, larger, brighter than we could ever see them within the light-polluted skies of any urban centre. Breaks in the clouds had arisen with the falling wind, and we tore ourselves away from the fire toward the beach, fascinated with the aspect of stars blinking back at us from a now-becalmed lake surface. We heard a mournful loon cry in the distance.

And then, another sound, one muted to my hearing-deficient ears, but clear and compelling to the hearing of my husband and our son. A low, murmuring, then rising, ululation, repeated and repeated, a wolf chorus. We looked at one another, incredulous with the experience, but remembering it, though not as hugely present, at other, earlier such camping expeditions.

That night, we watched for hours as the sky clouded up again obscuring those magnificent orbs of blinking brilliance in the sky, then progressively gapped, and cleared again, then clouded over in gradually repeated episodes of uncertainty, giving us a balcony-view of an celestial operetta, that incited and motivated the Algonquin Park wolf population in the area of the park we happened to be in, to a mass impetus of wilderness-life celebration.

We pulled into the intake for the portage, a narrow opening on the near shore of the lake, well beyond the canoe launching area. It was packed with pickerel weed and another, exquisitely lovely aquatic-flowering plant swaying in white-flowered profusion in the gentle wash of our watercraft. As usual, our son leaped first out of the canoe and pulled us closer toward the rise of land where we'd have to balance our way out of the canoe, hopping onto terra firma. At least on this occasion we didn't have to stumble over the loaded contents of cargo cluttering the canoe bottom.

We embarked on our hike under continued lowering skies, but the wind seemed to have shifted and as we entered the forest, the trail taking us initially alongside the shore of the lake, about several metres from it, gradually veered more off into the interior and the air became becalmed, the forest shielding us from the wind and we began to feel warmer though the ambient temperature was still around 9C.

It's clear that the forest is usually damp close to the shoreline, and the interior was also fairly soggy, given the unrelenting rain that has poured down in the park interior for over a week. The forest there bears some resemblance to that which exists in our own Ontario wooded ravine nearby our home, but it is decidedly different. Evergreens, for one thing, predominate, though there are also hardwoods in evidence, just not in the majority, and it is the towering pines, the fir, spruce and hemlock one notices. In this part of the park there is no sign of cedars.

The hike was enjoyable, being able to stretch our legs, the forward momentum pleasing to our hike-sensitive preferences, our eyes pleased as well with the unfolding shortened vistas of the forest surrounding us. The smells, the sounds, the terrain, all reminded us of our past explorations of this wonderful nature preserve in the natural geological splendour of this province and its abundance of fresh-water lakes.

When the trail, after a series of clambers over rises, boulders and tree roots narrowing the passage came to its end, we found ourselves looking out over a small lake. Wet Lake it certainly was, but which lake isn't wet? At one end what appeared to be a bit of a swamp, at the other, far in the distance, the bright orange circle posted on a far-off tree signalling a camp site.

The place we now found ourselves in was far more pleasant than where we had begun this portage trail; wide, attractively appealing in a number of rocks that presented as seating arrangements, and far, far warmer in atmosphere, and an absence of thrusting wind than what we had been experiencing the last few days. Our son divested himself of the small backpack that invariably accompanies him on any jaunt, and withdrew a tiny stove, proceeding to boil water for tea. Although his parents never eat lunch, he does, and we sat comfortably there, viewing the aspects of the lake, talking between ourselves of other, years-ago expeditions we had shared, and drinking tea. Riley was extremely attentive to the food being consumed, offering to sacrifice his 'diet' to aiding in ridding the backpack of any excess food.

When we eventually began packing up to retrace our hike back to the canoe and Mallard Lake, our son pulled an empty bag out of his backpack; his motto might be 'never without bags', and proceeded to carefully gather glass shards and intact beer bottles, along with tins and discarded food wraps and other detritus that partyers disguised as nature-lovers in their gross neglect of responsibility had chosen to leave behind, to haul it back to our campsite, include it with our own waste to be carried out of the park. In the case of bottles and cans, which are restricted in the park, that bag accompanied us home so our son could separate its contents into our recycle bins.

Our paddle back to our campsite gave us the impression that the wind had died down, that it was becoming warmer, that there might be a break in the cloud cover, and we felt quite heartened by this perception. Which we were disabused of shortly after landing at our beautifully welcoming campsite.

Once we retrieved the balance of our firewood and stowed it in the canoe, we decided on our choice of potential hikes for an afternoon excursion. Previously when we'd stayed at Mallard Lake, those many years ago with Button our intrepid little black miniature poodle, we had gone on to Barron River Canyon, a picturesque site we had also camped at on several earlier occasions, with our son.

We'd also taken a hike on a nearby-to-our-camp-site portage leading to a small lake, as all portages at Algonquin Park, inevitably and with purpose, do. The portage we ended up agreeing on this time was one we believed we hadn't taken in our past expeditions, so off we went. It almost seemed as though the weather was poised on the verge of relenting; the overcast sky appeared less darkly threatening, and the wind seemed to have abated somewhat.

We embarked on a leisurely paddle across the lake, in the process disabusing someone's dog that this landscape was its alone to share with its human companions at a camp site we passed, who seemed to believe this was its personal environment; affronted by our near presence. There's always an acknowledging wave when canoes pass camp sites, the unspoken recognition of kindred spirits in nature lore, as it seems.

Pickerel weed and water lilies appeared in abundance close to the shorelines of the lake's island, and the mainland. Those aquatic plants are beautiful, their flowers breath-taking in their perfection of form and colour. Now and again a loon would break the surface of the lake, before once again descending into its depths, fishing for the abundance of food to be found there, nature's unending cycle.

Finally, we beached the canoe at a narrow intake, and took to the trail/portage. A bit of a rise initially took us to a fairly wide and flat trail which, as we progressed became increasingly narrower, moving away from the lakeshore and closer into the forest. Now and again the trail was firmly beset with roots and rocks, and innumerable rises and declines. All of which would make the footing fairly tricky and challenging for anyone carrying a canoe over their shoulders, as our son had done so often camping with us at Algonquin in the past. And which he still does, on his own expeditions to the coastal and interior mountain lakes of British Columbia.

The effect of the wind was decreased on the trail since we were within a close forested area with high humidity, enough so that we began to feel somewhat warmer, geared as we were with multiple layers against the ambient cool temperature. On either side of us, the trail edges sported unproductive blueberry bushes, and striped maple was prevalent in the understory. Pines grow differently in Algonquin Park than elsewhere; there in the Park they resemble the famed paintings of Tom Thomson, starkly beautiful in silhouette.