We were made privy to an interesting episode in social dynamics yesterday, among the canine crew surrounding us when we're out in the ravine on our daily rambles. As we were yesterday afternoon, a beautiful mild-tempered day with the warming sun floating on a clear blue sea above.

We'd ventured out at almost three in the afternoon, a time that makes our little Jack and Jill fairly restive, but accounted for on a Monday since that's my house-cleaning day and I'm usually not free until the dusting and mopping and vacuuming has been completed and the last floor has been washed, well after two p.m. At which point I'm prepared to go out, accompanying my husband and our irrepressible two scamps.

We never know who we'll come across, so there's always that surprise element, and yesterday it was Lilly and our friend Rod, and soon afterward another couple we've only recently become acquainted with, along with their husky, Malika. Both dogs are beautiful specimens of their breed, the former a white German Shepherd, the latter a typical Husky.

Lilly has endless patience with Jackie and Jillie, who tend to crowd around her excitedly, happy to see her and to communicate their pleasure to her. We don't hear her sigh in resignation, but no doubt she does, while indulging them.

When Malika arrived, she and Lilly kind of edged around each other, evincing a fairly obvious disinterest. Huskies tend to be offhand like that, sensibly reserving judgement until they become more familiar with others. And certainly though Jackie and Jillie were more than willing to become more familiar, Malika who has by now seen them often enough by now, remains aloof to their overtures.

And when the two large dogs, equally matched in dignity and reserve stood briefly side by side as their humans took part in obligatorily pleasant social small-talk, they seemed to take pains to let the other know they weren't terribly interested. Somewhat like young girls and young women viewing one another askance, as rivals in vivacity and good looks, each summing up the other to calculate whether one had the edge over the other.

We're on the approach to the Vernal Equinox, when the sun sits closer to us as it approaches the celestial equinox, and our days are longer, nights shorter. We've noted the differences, since we already have longer days, the sun setting on our horizon much later than it did in November. March 20th marks the full astronomical transition bringing us into spring, another three weeks to go.

Meanwhile, we've had a peculiar February, with extremely cold temperatures and plenty of snow, balanced off with milder spates and February thunderstorms, lots of them. Our snowpack is beginning to decrease, but it will take much longer exposure to warmth and sun to dissipate entirely.

When we venture out into our backyard we've got to be careful because of the ice that has replaced the packed-down snow on our walkways, kept cleared throughout the winter months because of our two little dogs. Venturing out into the confines of the forested ravine, we wear cleats over our winter boots, enabling us to walk with confidence.

The freeze-and-thaw cycles have reduced the snow, but the snow covering the landscape has become denaturized in the process, corrupted so to speak. One does well to remain strictly on the trails, otherwise risking a rude surprise when a leg suddenly disappears up to the thigh in snow that has surrendered its structure to the forces of thaw-and-melt, despite the ambient cold atmosphere.

Now, ice has formed above the snowpack as well on the trails, since when there are clear skies the sun's springtime warmth serves to melt the surface and when nighttime falls and the temperature drops again, and it all turns to thick, solid ice. Our two little dogs explore the still-lofty areas of snowbanks that sustain their inconsiderable weight, but they find themselves slipping over the newly-icy surface.

Transition is clearly in progress. The promise of spring before us.

They are two very small creatures. Alike, yet different. Sometimes they act independently of one another and often enough they act in concert with each other. They sleep together, play together and eat together. When we're out on the forest trails daily they often diverge widely in their preoccupation with the great outdoors. It's difficult to say which of the two is more curious about everything than the other.

Their personalities differ greatly. Jillie is phlegmatic but when she encounters something unfamiliar she is instantly alert and alarmed, expressed through her wildly hysterical barks. Her behaviour infects her brother, and Jackie responds by  releasing his nervous energy to emulate hers. Otherwise he would approach situations that make her fearful with far more equanimity.

They do their best to instruct us in their ways. Sometimes it must seem to them like a thankless job. We're the ones who look at clocks and wear timepieces, but they're the ones who know instantly what time it is. They seem to feel that we should be far more aware of the importance of time. Not all time, but the important times.

Time when they anticipate they should be taken out to the ravine for their daily hour's jaunt in there. Time, above all, when their evening meal should be prepared. And time, finally, when everyone with an ounce of good sense knows it's the point in the evening when trudging upstairs to bed is required.

They're restless in the morning edging into midday if we've delayed too long taking them out for a walk, even though they may have spend time racing about the house or the backyard in hot pursuit of one another, wrestling, grunting and daring each other to greater excesses. Five o'clock marks a sacrosanct hour, one that twice yearly becomes a real problem in the changeover from daylight savings and vice versa. Five, as anyone in their right canine mind knows, is mealtime.

And eleven sharp in the late evening is when everything should be tucked away for the night, distractions shunned and bedtime beckons. Last night we were watching a film series as we often do on Saturday night, and they spilled over in time from eleven to midnight, to one in the morning and this situation was found by Jackie to be extremely unnerving. He communicated constantly that we were in arrears of our bound duty. Until finally, the VCR was put to rest and so were we all.

The combination of a cold winter atmosphere hovering on freezing that invites precipitation to fall in the form of rain is not conducive to carrying through plans of enjoying a peaceful stroll in a woodland landscape. So, because we had all-day heavy rain yesterday we were shut out of a walk on the forest trails that usually host us at some time during the day.

Early evening brought lightning and thunder, sights and sounds we haven't been exposed to for months. And both lightning and thunder marched through the atmosphere throughout the night-time hours, last night. At times I became aware through my sleep-shut eyes that bright flashes of light were intervening in the usual darkness beyond my closed eyelids and the thunder that erupted soon afterward confirmed that rolling thunderstorms were passing through.

By morning the landscape was thoroughly drenched, and the snowpack reduced somewhat albeit  inconsiderably. There is ample left of this season's accumulation of snow yet to go. The weather report informed that showers would continue through the morning to be replaced by steady rain by the time the afternoon came around. So we decided to embark on our daily ravine trek a little earlier than usual.

And off we went into the forest. Walking up the street to the ravine entrance it hardly seemed that the snowpack had been reduced much, on either side of the road, though the road itself was now completely cleared of ice and snow. In the ravine, the creek was full and hurrying its way toward the Ottawa River.

We decided to take a longer than usual circuit because the temperature was relatively mild at 2C. degrees with a slight breeze. Halfway through the circuit a light shower descended but it didn't last long. We kept coming across people out like us, anxious to beat the incoming rain, and with them their canine companions.

First, we came across a female Malamute whose patience with our two little dogs is monumental and very much appreciated. She is usually walked by a blonde, middle-aged woman we've become slightly familiar with only in the last several months, whose own sweet temperament is no doubt responsible for her canine companion's outlook on life. 

There was Jasper, the most even-tempered, good-natured dog we've yet met anywhere, whom we haven't seen before in the ravine this winter. He was as delighted to see us as we were to come across him. And his devoted walker, a dear young man, brought us up-to-date on what's been happening with his sister and his mother.

And along came Rufus, a large terrier mix, ambling ahead of a man we've known as a fellow ravine hiker for decades, when his two boys were still in their early teens. Now, both boys have gone into the vast field of the medical sciences, one as a radiologist technician, the other with a tactical paramedic crew. A calm young man dedicated to serving the interests of people in medical distress who has his own stories of the abuse paramedics are subjected to by some of the very people whose lives they save.

Another young man we met years ago when he had an elderly Newfoundland dog and its companion, a bull mastiff, and who on their deaths brought into his life another two bull mastiffs as puppies came along, though we haven't seen them also in many months. His two puppies are now fully grown and placidly regard everyone with a certain degree of playful curiosity, particularly our two little black runts whom they're interested in gently playing with.

Jackie and Jillie are light enough to walk over the snowpack without breaking through the melting crust and the snowpack beneath, while the bull mastiffs' muscular weight crushes everything in their path; their girth and their perfect symmetry of form more than a little impressive. 

Our weather patterns are beginning their seasonal shift. We've encountered a series of mild days, some sun and plenty of overcast. Yesterday morning started out with a wild rainburst and then the sky cleared, enabling us to get out into the ravine. This morning began with the house interior illuminated by a spring sun with an altered position in the sky, making it more brilliant and certainly warmer. That was followed by rainfall, so we haven't been out as yet for our daily trail walk in the forest.

The rain is helping the sun melt our snowpack, a considerable, albeit not unusually large one for this area. Snow is melting off rooftops and swishing down the eavestroughs and the sound is continual. In turn the running snowmelt contributes, when it reaches ground level, to the snow melt on the ground. Our driveway is now completely cleared of snow. In the backyard the snow that had covered sheets of ice on the pathways has melted, once again revealing those ice sheets from previous episodes this winter of freeze-and-thaws.

During yesterday's ravine walk we could see the creek in the ravine is swelling, whatever ice that had accumulated on it now gone, the water swirling downstream steadily, and woe betide any small creature caught in it.

We came across Suzanne walking little Munchkin, a long-haired miniature daschund. Munchkin isn't her dog, but she likes to walk other peoples' dogs, particularly those of close neighbours. Suzanne's own dog Della, died about fifteen years ago and since then she has taken to walking Munchkin and occasionally other dogs. She had walked Munchkin's predecessor, also now long gone.

Jackie and Jillie become effervescent with their greetings when they see a little fellow like Munchkin. They're certainly not shy, but Munchkin has a retiring personality. She's a lot more courageous now, however, than she was as a puppy, when she hid in the presence of those she wasn't completely familiar with.

It's not uncommon to find things dropped by accident or misadventure on one of the trails in the forest. In the winter months occasionally a toque, a glove, a child's scarf, a piece of a ski pole, a dog bootie that has slipped off. And in the summer, favourite balls that dogs have brought with them, and somehow lost, a bicycle part, sunglasses, a leash. And at any time of year albeit more infrequently, a water bottle, keys, that sort of thing.

Usually whoever happens to come across one of these lost objects places it in a very visible spot, to attract attention, most often looped over a tree branch at sight-level. Sometimes they're picked up by the owners, and sometimes they're not.

Yesterday, what immediately attracted our eyes from a distance was a bright red object hanging from a low branch of a small tree. Before we reached it, we came across someone walking a young, black Labrador Retriever, a friendly, galumphing dog that our own two enjoyed spurts of racing to and fro with, until we parted, and they started up the next hill over one of the bridges before we did.

We watched as the Lab sprung for the red object and retrieved it. That's what Labs do, after all. Actually, any dog of sufficient size to grasp something intriguing like a forlorn mitten, a toque or a scarf will go for it. This dog was undoubtedly delighted with his catch, swinging it about joyfully, prancing with the pride of ownership.

That wasn't to last. The man with him, removed it from his dog's grasp. Likely, the dog felt at first that his companion was just playing with him, teasing him for the woollen hat, and would return it to him. But that wasn't the case. The man hung the hat on a much higher branch, and though his dog attempted repeatedly to grasp it, leaping and huffing with the effort, it was futile. But it did make for an interesting sideshow, and our Jackie and Jillie watched the proceedings more than a little bemused.

The man soon moved on, after watching his dog for a short while with an amused smile on his face. The Lab was willing enough to move on, after casting one last reluctant glance at the now-unattainable treasure that had been his, so briefly.

As we passed the Rideau Falls yesterday on our drive to and from Byward Market, we realized that municipal crews were out, cutting the keys in the ice frozen atop the falls, to release it from its icebound state in preparation for the huge chunks of thick, flat ice that would be sliding down the Ottawa River from north of the city, to fall over the falls with a huge, resounding splash by early March, just around the corner from late February.

Cutting the keys above Rideau Falls

It's always an interesting, pleasant drive from our home to downtown Ottawa, taking the Eastern Parkway, with its green, treed landscape where we see venerable giants of perfect tree specimens along the way; even on occasion deer and red foxes. So many points of interest, as the drive follows the curve of the Ottawa River.

Gates at 24 Sussex Drive

At this point in the season, ice has melted in large parts of the river, and people have had to haul away their ice-fishing huts, anchored on the ice. That sport for those enjoying the seasonal opportunity to sit for hours in the huts and cast their lines through the holes they've made in the ice is over for this winter.

National Research Council

On we drive, passing embassies, the Royal Canadian Mint, the Global Affairs building (External Affairs, Foreign Affairs in previous administrations), 24 Sussex Drive, the 'home' of the residing Prime Minister, the Governor-General's residence, and more.

Royal Canadian Mint

We find a place to park at Byward Market, readily done, this day following Family Day when it was undoubtedly crowded. During the winter months the outdoor stalls for which the market is famed are absent, those selling local produce in season no longer in colourful presence, crowds mingling on the sidewalks, exchanging modest sums for fresh-grown fruits and vegetables, no longer given a reason to be there.

Global Affairs Canada

But for us our mission is geared toward one of the many specialty shops in the market which sells magazines, journals and newspapers from around the world. Where, just incidentally all manner of paraphernalia around smoking licit and illicit substances are also sold, from ecigarettes to hookahs. The Somalian store owner recognizes us and his warm smile is a benefaction on a cold, windy winter day.

"Maman" sculpture at plaza in front of the National Gallery, Ottawa

From there, we cross the street one over, to access one of the specialty cheese shops we always gravitate to, to pick up various types of cheeses we don't readily find elsewhere. We've always been cheese lovers and find the best place to look about for exotic cheeses from abroad as well as Canadian-made, is right there at Byward Market.

A rare time when Byward Market is uncrowded

Not far from the market, a short drive takes us to the Rideau Bakery. We exit the bakery with armloads of fresh rye breads, dark and light, with onion buns and their excellent French-style breads. We're also voraciously avid bread-eaters, though much of what we're bringing home is destined to end up in our freezer, to be taken out at intervals whenever the urge to enjoy the best bread in town falls upon us.

We rarely, now, even get a glimpse of a fox rushing through the Bilberry Creek Ravine forest. At one time if a fox was around in our presence, it was unperturbed and simply would stand there awhile, gawking at us as we did the same with it. We would, decades ago, also often see foxes on the street, close by the ravine. Increased traffic in the ravine has changed all that, though people whose houses back onto the ravine still see them on occasion.

A week ago, in a local small newspaper there was a report of an eight-year-old small-breed dog being snapped up by a coyote. The little dog had been let out into its backyard (perhaps unfenced) and a neighbour saw a coyote make off with it. We do hear of these things happening from time to time. During our walk in the ravine yesterday we came across someone we'd never before seen in there. He informed us that he had, in fact, seen a coyote swiftly slinking from the dense confines of a gully in the woods past the trail he was on at an early morning hour.

Several years back, there were frequent sightings of coyotes at dawn and at dusk and the night-time hours in the ravine. Years back, we used to go out into the ravine at night, when we were still in the workforce and were unable to access it during daylight hours.

A soft pink or mauve light would illuminate the ravine, so it was almost as bright and clear as during the day. This is a phenomenon not seen from outside the ravine, on the street. Once we'd enter the ravine, that glow would be evident, lighting our way beautifully as we forged our way through the ravine's trails in the winter. It had something to do with atmospheric light pollution from the city centre illuminating the sky, emphasized in the ravine interior, by the prevailing snowpack.

The knowledge that coyotes are present in the urban forest is both thrilling in a sense, that we still share nature with these wild creatures, and alarming in another, in the sense that their presence presents a potential threat to the well-being of our beloved puppies. We try to ensure that they're in sight-distance at all times, but the trouble is when they hear or see someone else, or other dogs in the distance approaching, they're anxious to run over and make acquaintance. Annoyingly, they do their own approach noisily and assertively.

They do respond when we call them back to us, Jackie with far more alacrity than Jillie, but in the interim when they're a distance from us, anything can happen. Not only an episode where we wouldn't be able to intervene should a coyote view one of them as a snack, but possibly also coming across a large dog that is aggressive and inclined to be in conflict with the presence of small, nuisance dogs.

It's a toss-up; whether to give them the freedom to enjoy the environment and go where they will despite our concerns, or confine them to the leash, and sometimes the leash wins and sometimes the appeal to allow them to roam at will prevails.

It is hastily premature to draw any conclusions from the weather pattern that has descended on our landscape in the past several days, to make the assumption that Environment Canada's prediction that we will be enjoying an early spring this year, might actually occur. Yet we do appear to have been plunged into atmospheric conditions that make it seem so.

The above-freezing temperatures we've enjoyed since Saturday (I know, it's only been three days, with more of the same predicted over the short haul) and the clear blue skies with a warming sun have all conspired to drive people out-of-doors to seek that close-to-nature experience, one they have shunned all winter.

On the other hand, warming day-time temperatures combined with night-time plunges below freezing that we've been experiencing, represent perfect conditions for sap running back up into Maple trunks, so this should be a bumper spring for the maple-syrup producers.

Amusingly, we came across a middle-aged couple on one of the forested trails yesterday, on snowshoes. These aren't the snowshoes we were accustomed to wearing, hand-made in Canada via traditional means, the wide bear-paw type meant for deep snow conditions, to facilitate trekking in woodland conditions. These are small by comparison, manufactured of metal, not wood. Even so, the two snowshoers were proceeding awkwardly, clearly not comfortable in their use.

But ours is an urban forest, and there are many people who venture out, albeit representing a minuscule percentage of the population living nearby, the several days after a sizeable snowstorm, the trails tend to become nicely packed down. This is not the kind of snow conditions conducive to the use of snowshoes, in any event. The trails were nicely packed and firm, making the use of snowshoes completely redundant.

And so it was yesterday, as we trekked comfortably along the trails. The male of the pair chortled at the great price of their snowshoes, procured through Canadian Tire at $100 each pair, whereas snowshoes from Mountain Equipment Co-op are vastly more expensive (I reminded him that MEC attempts to source their outdoor gear products from Canada and Europe rather than cheap knock-offs from China).

He seemed inclined to just stand where he had stopped on their passage through the trail, clearly bushed from the effort he had thus far expended, while his wife went on a few yards before, to "break trail", he said, and it was all I could do to keep from breaking out in laughter at the absurdity of his words. If he wanted a real snowshoeing experience, I told him, they should try snowshoeing up at Gatineau Park, the nature preserve accessed through a half-hour drive from where we stood.

The dogs we came across are far more sensible and attuned to the natural world than most humans, thank heavens. Lilly, the white German Shepherd, kept plunging herself into the snow, swimming in it, luxuriating and glorying in it, to the puzzlement of our two little black poodles which, though bred originally as water dogs have demonstrated no interest in water, though they love the frozen stuff.

The bridges in the Bilberry Creek ravine forest are groaning under the weight of accumulated snow. Which is to say I imagine them groaning, they haven't yet actually communicated their agony of discomfort. Normally, with these bridges, built a year and a half ago, following on the gradual decay of those that preceded them (in our time trekking through the ravine, we've seen a succession of no fewer than four replacement bridges; these are the stoutest), the top rail is around shoulder-height for me. Now, they're at hip-height, and that's a considerable difference.

The trail proceeds through the middle of the bridges; the sides are piled much higher. Still, in the interests of full disclosure I can recall one winter when the bridges were piled so high with the season's snowpack that we were traversing them at a height equal to the top rail, and that was an extremely strange, vulnerable-provoking sensation.

Now, however, we've turned into a spate of much milder weather, and the snow is beginning to melt. It can be heard melting off our roof and down the rainspouts. This mild weather is supposed to stick around for at least several days, so the melt, by the time it's finished, may be substantial. Although at ground level the cold radiating upward will likely keep the forest trails from subsiding into a slushy mess at this early stage, it would be different if the sun's warmth could reach those trails, rather than be filtered through the tree canopy.

In the meantime, the ravine and its forest remain beautiful, lathered deep in snow, for our full appreciation of the spectacle we're exposed to. Not only we, to be sure, for yesterday on our woodland ramble, we came across far more ravine trekkers than we normally see, and everyone was happy to be out, people and dogs alike.

Other parts of the world on a geographical parallel with Canada are already enjoying early spring. Even on the Canadian West Coast, despite British Columbia having experienced a colder, snowier-than-usual winter, spring is scrambling to present itself.

Here in eastern Ontario, not so much. The days still spring back and forth between extreme cold and moderation, with more than ample snowfalls to remind us -- should we somehow overlook that we remain deep in winter -- that spring is yet a far way off.

Having lived at one time on both the mainland Japanese island of Honshu, and the American deep south in Georgia, I know what it's like to experience an environment that is moderate, where extreme cold and heavy snowfalls simply don't exist.

Truth to tell, that was when we were younger, and at that time we almost missed Canadian winters. And when we returned to live once again in Canada, we welcomed the winter months, because we valued the beauty of them including nature's emphasis on polarized seasons with their particular and special visual beauty, as well as the opportunity to enjoy life in a winter climate, inviting us to get out and make the most of them.

That was then. Now much older, much, much older, the cold seeps into our very bones in a way we were never aware of, when younger. Requiring greater care in dressing for it, and preparing us for less outdoor exposure, time-wise. And when spring eventually does arrive, it is welcomed with gratefulness.

Yesterday's ravine walk was an exercise not without considerable effort. It will take a few days yet to tramp down the trails, since the last snowfalls, but the medium-range weather report assures us we're into a warming trend. It seemed 'warm' enough yesterday at minus-6C, but there was a stiff wind. Mind, the wind created its own spectacles, blowing down curtains of snow off the overloaded evergreens. That's a beautiful sight; snow-motion in slow-motion ... or so it seems.

We're conscious that we're walking on our usual trails representing treaded-down snowpacks elevating us quite a bit higher than we would normally be, without the accumulated snow. On the street one can barely see the houses for the depth of the snow banks.

And the view of our gardens bear no resemblance whatever to what we had been enjoying in the summer months. The gardens are a sea of plush, dazzling-white monotone. It's hard emotionally to credit those areas with their seasonal gifts of green and colourful plants and flowers whose texture and shades so delight us.

But we are on the downward trend of winter. The days will become gradually milder in temperature and we may begin to have fewer snowfalls as the months progress into April, when snow can still be expected, but not necessarily. And it's hard not to appreciate that we have incrementally longer days of light before twilight sets in and night falls so quickly.