Bob is one of those people who thinks about others, he has empathy in spades. He's thoughtful and kind, among those of our neighbours whose presence in our lives however casual in his case, we so much appreciate. He and his wife live on the street behind ours, his backyard is several over from ours. We know some of the people who live on that street and they're all very nice, but Bob is special. In his working life he was with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, since retired. It's surprising, actually, how many people in the neighbourhood were employed with some police service or the military.

The first time we saw Bob in the ravine surprised us; to our knowledge he's never in all the years we've known him, made it a destination of choice. But there he was, months ago, struggling to pull a stroller up one of the hills. The ravine and its forested environment does have flat areas, but it is also rife with hills, plenty of physical challenges to ascend and descend those hills. We were speaking with an acquaintance at the top of one of the hills when we saw him, slowly pulling himself and a child-stroller, not one of those with heavy, large wheels meant for rough landscapes.

When he finally reached the top, we were introduced to his 14-month-old granddaughter, an infant with a beaming, round face, excited at the sight of two little prancing dogs. We spoke awhile, and he informed us that they were now daily custodians of this child, their daughter brought her over early in the morning and picked her up after work. Day-care is expensive, about $50 daily, he told us.

We looked after our granddaughter for the first nine years of her life while her parents worked, and we were 60 when we started that routine. It wasn't easy, but we managed. She was eventually enrolled in a primary school a fifteen-minute walk from our house, but from age four she was picked up each morning or afternoon by a school bus and then dropped off back in front of our house, until she began full-day classes. Before that we had enrolled her in a pre-school that required us to be there on certain days to help look after the children and clean up after them.

But before she began walking we would take her on our backs in a child carrier into the ravine, from seven to eight in the morning, and then we'd have breakfast. That backpack had its purpose, and it's odd that Bob hasn't made use of one rather than relying on the stroller. He is nowhere near as robust as he once was, and we've come across him several times since that first encounter, each time struggling up or down a hill. Yesterday he observed that he had made it a practice to take the child out for a ravine stroll at four in the afternoon, but because dusk begins falling at that hour he's had to venture out earlier.

The little girl, he said, is just now beginning to experiment with her first steps. We introduced our granddaughter to walking on the ravine paths pretty early. But for years during the winter we'd haul her on a sled, the easiest way to get along on the trails with a very young child. She's now 21, in her third year of university.

When we exited the ravine and were on the street walking down to our house, we heard the unmistakable call of geese heading south. It was overcast, a low ceiling of grey, the sky marbled with shades-of-grey clouds, and under them was the typical formation of geese, leaving us for the winter.