Much would be missing from our lives if we were deprived of our daily rambles in the woods. When we first contemplated the purchase of the house we've lived in now for 25 years, it was with the thought that a stone's throw beyond where the house stood was the presence of a woodland. All of our lives together, from the time we were together in our mid-teens to the present time, exposure to nature was important to us.

When our children were infants Toronto was experimenting with the creation of natural woodland settings surrounding the city, buying up land and converting it into parkland and areas where forest settings invited people to use for recreational purposes. That was over a half-century ago. We made use of those wonderful areas for just that purpose, most often finding ourselves alone in the vast expanse of the acreage open to all.

When we moved to the nation's capital at a time our children were entering their teen years there was very accessible Gatineau Park, a great preserved forested area in Quebec that took a mere half-hour drive to get to, and there we and our children experienced the pleasures of hiking, berry-picking, picnicking, canoeing and snow-shoeing. There wasn't a week in the summer where we wouldn't hie ourselves off for a long hike, and we became familiar with lengthy old trails whose markings had long since faded.

Needless to say we'd be the only people on those trails; it was but rarely that we would come across anyone else. We had the pleasure of seeing deer and raccoons, all types of wonderful birds, snakes, toads and frogs, squirrels and porcupines. We all treasured those excursions; sometimes after my husband returned from work we'd load the canoe onto the car roof, take along a picnic dinner and set off for the evening at one of the lake sites; Meach, Philippe or la Peche.

Now, we seldom make the trip to the park. It is invariably stuffed with people on popular trails. Not the distant, long and little-known remotely accessed trails we used to take which now present too much of a physical challenge for us, but those nearby, and relatively short. We have an alternative now, in the Bilberry Creek Ravine forest a two-minute walk away from our home.

There are consequences in store for our enjoyment of this year's proliferation in the forested ravine adjacent our home of wildflowers, as a result of the copious amounts of rain we've received throughout the spring and summer, encouraging plant life to emerge and flower earlier than usual, in greater numbers and overlapping blooms.

Those flowers inevitably die, become desiccated and take on a new form; burrs large and small whose tiny prongs are meant by nature to become dispersed throughout the woods, proliferating future outcrops of wildflowers. They are carried by the wind as they dry and become lighter, and they adhere to the feathers of birds and furry creatures who inadvertently pick them up on their bodies as they brush by the drying plants.

Later to be deposited here and there where they establish themselves in the rich humus of the forest floor and in the spring go into action to colonize new areas.

And some of those furry creatures are more than usually susceptible to picking up those burrs as they wander about through the bracken curious about everything they come across. Small dogs like our two with their silky, long hair in particular attract the burrs that have a habit of burrowing deep into their haircoats.

When we return from our daily woodland hikes a ritual ensues whereby we lift our two little fellows atop the laundry pair in the laundry room and proceed to wash their small paws of the detritus they pick up in the ravine. We run our hands along their legs and bodies looking for ticks, and we invariably discover the presence of burrs that have infiltrated their haircoats.

Which means the process becomes more complicated, as we attempt to pick them out, irritating our little guys no end, at times. Some of the larger burrs prove impossible to tease out and away and those have to be cut out, taking some of their hair along with them. Others, small and pervasive, cling in clusters or closely dispersed, and we pick-pluck-pick-pluck until we think they've all been captured.

And this is just the beginning leading into fall; there will be far more of those drying flowerheads turning into burrs in the months to come....

We've wondered for years where the mysterious apples come from. Whose backyard is it where a cultivated apple tree grows and its fall burden of beautiful apples are ultimately discarded? Why not ask neighbours if they'd like some of those apples for their own happy consumption? Someone obviously regularly wheels along a full wheelbarrow load of apples up the street we live on and into the ravine where they dump the apples on the side of a hill.

No idea who they might be. On the other hand, they must live north of where our house is, either on our street or the one behind, in fairly close proximity to the ravine entrance. These days when we enter the ravine, the gorgeous aroma of ripe apples reach our nostrils. And there they are, scattered in a great pool of green and red over the ground below the trail. Apples that could be eaten by anyone who appreciates fresh fruit.

Apples that could be used to make applesauce, apple pie, packed in children's lunches, you name it. With such an abundance of fruit there is no reason why they couldn't be regularly contributed to the local food bank. Those people who need the assistance of the food bank would most surely welcome the addition of fresh fruit to their diets. On our weekly food shopping expeditions we buy non-perishable food items, boxes and tins of fish, beans, spaghetti, meat products, to bundle into the large bin accepting donations for the food bank. Fresh, perishable items are obviously not a good idea there.

But baskets of freshly picked apples, ripe, juicy and ready to be eaten? How is it preferable to collect them and trundle them over to the ravine? Mind, a minuscule portion of them would be nibbled by squirrels and birds. They will soon begin to rot. Making them more desirable to wild creatures. In the past we've seen wobbly robins after a feast of such rotting food. The raw stupidity behind the casual dumping of ripe fruit in the forest to get rid of their presence is mind-boggling. Biodegradable, the discarded apples will form part of the forest humus. But they're a waste there, and it's a pity.

The drive over to the depot for the local food bank where all collected donations are distributed from isn't that far. They're grateful for all donations. It's the least that can be done for those among us needing that help. Apples? Everyone appreciates apples!

For our part, fall is enhanced by the ripening of the wild apples dangling just out of reach on the wild apple trees in the ravine. There are several copses of such trees. Their presence is a boon to the forest. The fruit grown on these wild species is much smaller than the cultivated varieties, but when fully ripe they're tart, sweet, juicy and fragrant. Those we can reach, we polish up (on our clothing), and share with our two little dogs who know exactly what they are, and appreciate them just as much as we do.

These waning days of summer have their impact on the garden. The Cranesbill geraniums have quite outgrown themselves, the Monarda have finished their bloom, and the daylilies are getting to that point as well. On the other hand, the Echinacea are still going strong and the Japanese anemenes are coming into their own as late-bloomers. The Ligularia beside the large shed is finally blooming, the Morning Glories are soldiering on, the black-eyed Susans in their own glory and the annuals keep putting out their blooms.

Not much to complain about, given the minimal effort that goes into the garden upkeep. Once a week there's tidying up to be done, cutting back and restoring some semblance of order. Aside from that the garden pretty well ignores this gardener's ministrations and gets on with its summer business of glorifying the landscape.

The results of which we're more than happy with. First thing in the morning, last thing at night before hauling ourselves up to bed, a peek out the glassed front door onto the garden, flush in the dawn of sunlight, or bathed in the glow of the porch lights greets us with the colourful array of flashy tones, textured architecture and overall cohesion. It's a wonderful vision to greet the day with, or take up to bed with us.

Hard to believe it will all soon be drawing to a close. I'll have to decide whether I want to plant any more bulbs this fall for springtime enjoyment. For some reason or other I don't have, and never have had, all that much success with bulbs. Although if you count begonias as bulbs, harvesting them in the fall and overwintering them to be replanted in spring has always been rewarding. It's all the others, tulips, daffodils and the like that don't seem to appreciate being planted in our gardens. With the exception of the always-flourishing grape hyacinths.

Although we seldom see snakes -- garter snakes -- in the ravined forest, we know they're there in fair numbers. It's usually only in the spring or the fall that they make their presence known. Then, cooler temperatures impel them to seek out the comforting warmth of the sun. So they tend to situate themselves wherever the forest canopy is lightest, and where the sun penetrates, and that will often be on rocks or bare areas like trails.

And the odd thing about their presence that we've long noticed is that though we're excited to see them out of curiosity, they're excited too and swiftly retreat, winding their way through the underbrush and out of sight. No, it's not that we think is curious, but rather the reaction of our dogs. Like Button and Riley, Jackie and Jillie pay no mind to snakes. It's as though they cannot even see them, though we know they're instantly aware of and usually react to, anything that moves.

We've spoken to others of our ravine-walking acquaintances about their dogs' reactions to the presence of snakes and they're in agreement; dogs don't appear to evince any curiosity about the presence of snakes unlike the attention they give to squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons, even birds.

That fall is introducing itself to the environment is unmistakable. Soon we'll be hearing geese flying their formations overhead, calling down to us. We can see that juvenile crows and robins are beginning to assemble. We see and hear goldfinches once again in the woods, passing through. Birds are returning from the boreal forest to begin the process of migration, making their way south for the winter hiatus.

In the meanwhile, hiking through the woods it's the fall floral offerings of wildflowers that remind us of the fleeting summer season. The proliferation of goldenrod, fall asters and pussy-toes not seen earlier in the season, for example.

Pussy Toes

The small trees whose presence puzzled us back in the early days of summer which we'd never before seen in the ravine with their white floral panicles that have since transformed themselves into berries and which we now know are elderberries no longer present as a mystery to us. A species better known to grow in southern Ontario they're clearly extending their range. And just as clearly they're able to proliferate, swiftly colonizing the area alongside the creek at the ravine's bottom.

Yesterday too we came across a seldom-seen sight; a clump of white baneberry. It's red baneberry that we see most often growing on the forest floor among the forest's understory residents like dogwood, serviceberry and honeysuckle, among the hawthorns and the sumacs and wild apple trees, interspersed with maples, poplars, willow, hackberry, oaks, ash, beech, cherry, birch and evergreens like cedar, pine, spruce and fir.

White baneberry among ferns

We do indeed commune with nature; of course that should be reversed. Nature informs us of her moods her intentions, her landscape interventions, and we pay heed. The process prolonged, informative, entertaining and inexorable.

Jewelweed

The signs are all steadily emerging. There is no evading of reality. Summer, the most fleeting of nature's seasons, is preparing its departure. The unavoidable reality is that we have lost at least an hour of daylight in the past few weeks; dusk descends now at eight in the evening whereas formerly we had light until nine-thirty. The suddenness with which we encounter this loss never fails to take us by surprise.

Last night, while taking our two little dogs out to the backyard before we made our way up to bed for the night, my husband was startled to hear the unmistakable familiarity of warblers flying through the dark night sky, already beginning their southward migration. Its a shock to our sensibilities.

So soon? Already?

But yes, the time has arrived. I've notice of late that the forest floor has begun to subsume a good portion of its green ground cover. And we've seen quite a few bright orange or red leaves littering the trail; well not all that many, but their presence is nonetheless notable. As is the occasional sight of a branch on a tree sporting little red flags of fall.

We're now noticing the occasional colourful fungus on the forest floor where none had been before. Even shelf fungus is beginning to assert itself on old snags.

The trails themselves are becoming overgrown with spent wildflowers. Some of which are stubbornly living on past their allotted bloom time; we see disparate buttercup or daisy flowers among the vanishing Queen Anne's Lace and Yarrow. Soon the milkweed plants will begin to develop their late-season flowering stage.

We're still picking blackberries and thimbleberries, sweet and juicy, but they too will soon be gone. Asters are proliferating everywhere; the proverbial fall flower of the forest.

It's always tough to say goodbye to summer. Fall has its own nostalgic allure, and its wonderfully colourful displays of fall foliage, but it's a time of sweet sadness.

There's a venerable, stately maple standing behind the main house of the complex where we annually and briefly rent a cottage in the Waterville Valley of New Hampshire's White Mountain range, that we have long admired. The owners-operators of the complex are proud of that huge old tree. Just as they take pride in the other portions of the mostly-evergreen forest on their property.

We've been going to that particular site, which is pet-friendly allowing us to take along our little dogs to share our mountain-hiking vacation, for quite a few years. Over the decades we've travelled there, first when our three children were pre-teens and for all the years of their growing into maturity, we stayed at quite a number of different places.

Now that we've ourselves grown into elder-maturity we seek out hiking trails that we can still manage, rather than the mountain hikes we once sought out with our eager-to-go children. We're so familiar with the proprietors of the cottages we've latterly been using that we consider them to be personal friends, and the feeling is reciprocated. We watched, over the years, as their own children grew beyond their teen years into adulthood.

Their parents, aside from maintaining their motel-cottages complex, also work other jobs to ensure that they had sufficient funds to help their three children attend university. This pair is the most efficient, industrious set of people we've ever met. Byron, like my husband, can turn his hand to just about anything, from electrical-mechanical to carpentry. He and I enthuse about gardening because he's an avid gardener, as well. A trait he inherited from his genial, knowledgeable father.

Byron does all the maintenance on their property, while Donna, his wife, looks after all the demanding day-by-day upkeep involved in renting out their units; the labour of cleaning each one when vacated is hers alone. Fresh towels are provided daily and kitchen waste is disposed of daily as well, for those cottages with fully-equipped kitchen facilities.

Byron has full-time employment at a fairly local enterprise totally geared to tourism, which operates a steam train and ski lifts. Byron's specialty aside from being a Jack-of-all-trades whom the enterprise depends upon, is the running and care of the steam train. As busy as he is he never tires of satisfying his curiosity about how things operate. Occasionally Donna takes work there as well, but she specializes in sewing draperies, and she also does real estate.

When we were last there in June, he proudly presented us with a jar of maple syrup that he had himself produced, tapping that majestic old maple. This morning, I used the rest of the maple syrup, left over from the many uses I'd had for it up to now. I thought I might experiment and bake a maple syrup-blueberry pie; something different, a combination I'd never before thought of.

We were quite mystified about a month or so ago when we saw, for the first time, an immature tree that seemed to have suddenly grown in an area of the ravine we've long been familiar with, but we just couldn't make out what it might be. It drew our attention primarily because of the panicles of white flowers that it sported. At first I thought it might be related to sumacs because of its foliage. So I tried to do some sleuthing on line, but came up empty.

At one point I happened to mention its presence to a woman unfamiliar to us who had been walking by the trail at the very time we had paused briefly to consider it yet again. She told us she had one growing in her backyard, but it had appeared spontaneously and she had no idea what it was. Which seemed strange, but these things do happen; gardens sometimes welcome strangers.

Now, however, we know what that tree is. We were walking through the woods with our oldest son and his wife and I asked her if she had any idea what it might be? She thought about it for all of a second, and then said from the berries it hosted (developed from the flowers we'd seen a month or so ago) it was likely an Elderberry. We had no familiarity with the tree though the name was familiar.

Our daughter-in-law has a robust knowledge of wildflowers and trees, and she recalled seeing them fifty years ago as a child on her parents' farm in Nova Scotia. When I get the chance, when they happen to be visiting with us, I often consult her on such botanical matters; sometimes she solves my puzzles, sometimes they remain puzzles. On this occasion she extended my botanical reference guide.

And I was delighted. The flowers, she later informed me, were used for making Elderberry wine. Unless they were allowed to develop into berries, and then jam made of them. Or they were baked into pies. Her store of knowledge about all manner of arcane subjects never fails to impress me.

From Google I was informed that the Elderberry tends to grow wild in Southern Ontario. They must be extending their range thanks to climate change, because Ottawa is in Eastern (south-eastern) Ontario and the weather experienced here is much harsher than what southern Ontario normally basks in.

Goldfinches fly through the gardens, and robins and cardinals sing their hearts out in the early morning. I had been bemoaning that we hadn't seen hummingbirds this summer, and lo and behold this morning, as I was looking out the front glass door, there was one of those tiny, flighty creatures hovering over the large paniculata hydrangea for the longest time, whirring its impossibly swift wings from branch to branch and then hovering over the petunias, thrusting its sharp, minuscule beak into each trumpet-shaped flower. A wonderful sight to behold.

Yesterday we had a series of thunderstorms rage through the area. They were loud and harshly violent, the rain they brought drowning the landscape in huge volumes of water, drenching everything. And making the garden quite, quite happy. Although yesterday the flowers took a while to recover their perky poses in between the storms, this morning they've fully recovered, under morning sun.

The clouds have moved back in however, and the day will soon enough once again veer between episodes of rain and brief hiatuses where the rain holds off and the atmosphere attempts without success to shrug off the excess. In the ravine, the forest once again inundated beyond its capacity to absorb all, has developed the usual complement of puddles on the forest floor.

But the garden shines in a triumph of emphatic colour, form and texture, exulting in this spring and summer's inordinate rainfalls. No harm done to the garden, by all meaningful accounts. Growth has been accelerated and so has bloom time for perennials.

Each time we glance out a window of our house, or take a leisurely walk around the garden to see what needs to be done in small incremental tidying up chores, we're struck anew by the splendid appearance of beautiful foliage and plants thriving beyond expectation.

On their way back from Truro, Nova Scotia visiting with our daughter-in-law's family there, our oldest son and daughter-in-law stopped in Quebec at a provincial park so he could set up his special sun-viewing telescope with its filters appropriate for the partial sun eclipse yesterday. While they were viewing the sun reaching the apex of the moon's traverse across it, people took notice as they passed by, eager to have a similar experience, and our son, whose specialty is historical astronomy was happy to oblige.

Long before they arrived last evening we had our own uneventful eclipse day, trekking into the forest at the very time that the sun was meant to be 60% covered at which time the process would reverse itself. I had cleaned the house on schedule earlier in the day which turned out to be clear and bright, but looking out throughout the early afternoon hours it seemed to me that the light cast by the sun was somehow different. Hard to say, though, whether that actually represented an aspect of what was occurring, or whether it was merely psychologically suggestive.

In any event, once we were in the forest, there didn't seem to be anything unusual happening. The landscape was brightly illuminated as it should be on a sunny day. We experienced no epiphany of discovery or feeling of anything unusual as the filtered sun shining its rays through the canopy of the forest appeared bright and very familiar.

Since it was also a Monday, we had the entire trail system to ourselves, coming across no one at all. There was a lovely breeze interrupting the warmth so the temperature never did rise to its forecasted high, though it was warmer than the day before. Jackie and Jillie were free to nose about, revelling in the messages they pick up about other dogs having done their daily circuit; their daily gossip column as it were.

There are already, all-too-soon signals of change however, with bright red leaves seen here and there. And it does seem as though some of the bracken on the forest floor has disappeared, subsumed at this late summer stage. Despite which, we're still coming across the occasional buttercup which obviously is oblivious to the fact that its bloom season has passed. Daisies are still about, mingling with the now more-prevalent fall asters. The Queen Anne's lace is shrivelling; goldenrod is prevalent, and now joining it ragweed, which affects so many people with its allergenic qualities.