Despite the discomfort of carrying a backpack on hot, humid days, we've been prudently doing so when we embark on our daily woodland hikes with our two little dogs. A small backpack to be sure, containing only rainjackets for us and for Jackie and Jillie. Truth is, we can take being soaked far better than two very small poodles. So we take the jackets along for insurance, just in case the skies open up on such weather-iffy days.

We've felt reassured having the rainjackets with us that though we wouldn't come away entirely unscathed if a thunderstorm hit, there would be some comfort in not becoming utterly drenched, particularly for our little pups. On each of those occasions we only resorted to pulling on the rainjackets once, and beyond a pale imitation of a heavy rain, only temporarily, since the rain soon stopped and we doffed our raingear to continue on our circuit along the forest trails.

On all other occasions rain failed to materialize until, magically, we exited the ravine and headed home. Until yesterday. The forecast was for rain and for thunderstorms throughout the day. We decided to head out to the ravine in the early afternoon. And decided, given our experience that we'd eschew the backpack/rainjackets and just give it a go. When we left, the mostly-dark clouds were shifting continuously under the influence of a powerful wind.

It was hot, and it was humid. We had dressed for the heat and humidity and if the rain happened to come down, big deal, we'd be temporarily cooled off. Twenty minutes into our circuit, light drops. The canopy is dense enough so that we were hardly impacted. And then, the drama of thunder clattering and clamouring nearby, above. And we could hear it coming closer as the rumbling became louder.

We decided to forge on while shortening our usual circuit. And rain began to fall in earnest, and we picked up our gait. The puppies dislike the sound of thunder. We could see they were uneasy, even as we moved ahead, picking up speed as we did. The rain would plop down and then lift and this occurred on several occasions. While we did feel raindrops falling on us on the rare occasion where the forest canopy thins somewhat, we were still dry.

What drama. We have, in the past, been caught out in the ravine, taking shelter under dense foliage as a thunderstorm raged about and rain fell copiously, but that was not the situation this time. Plenty of sturm und drang but those periods of rain/no-rain, meant we were spared a full drenching. Granted, we sped through the circuit fairly quickly, and as we neared our exit point, Jackie raced on ahead, anxious to get home, so he had to be leashed to prevent him from dashing up the last hill and onto the road in his anxiety.

We were miraculously still dry, and envisioned that we would emerge into heavy rain, as we've experienced on other occasions, once out of the protection of the forest canopy and onto the street. In fact, the street was weeping rainwater, great puddles on the sides here and there, but the rain had stopped. It seemed that the full force of the thunderstorm was realized not in the forest but out at street level for some strange reason; sparing us but not the landscape of the streets beyond.

These are days of smothering, sky-high humidity, with temporary relief occasioned by heavily overcast skies that sometimes release their burdens and drench the landscape. The humidity persists, however, well into the night when daytime temperatures in the 30Cs, rise only to 24C during the night hours.

On our hike through the woods yesterday, all the signs of autumn -- despite the heat and the moisture in the air so thick that your clothing feels damp and then the vigour of your hike uphill and down in the ravine takes its toll in expended energy leaving us with moisture streaming down our faces -- were there to be seen.

From the ripening of apples and hawthorn fruits to the growing proliferation of fungi in all shapes and sizes, colours and permutations of shadings. We've managed -- and others like us reaching for ripe apples on low-hanging branches -- to exhaust the availability of ripe apples within reach. Even those that a well-aimed stick can bring down. Now, what's left is those hanging temptingly red and ripe from overburdened branches, but beyond reach.

Since the wild apple trees grow on the top edge of the ridges overlooking the ravine slopes we can see those red, ripe apples littering the forest floor below, loosed by the wind in their ripe, ready-to-pluck stages, but alas, not by us.

Jackie and Jillie are curious about everything, sticking their muzzles into thick layers of vegetation on the forest floor, ambling through the thickets of ferns and other bracken, and invariably coming away from the experience covered with tiny prickles, some of which annoy them, sticking to their nose, their pads. We extract those we can while out on our hike, but it's when we return home that the real work of pulling them free from the thistles that cling takes place. Just as well they're slated for a grooming next week; shaving their hair will make them less vulnerable to picking up those things.

There is one place on the trail where, year after year, tiny pop-up mushrooms appear only to disappear the following day. They grow around an old stump almost level to the ground, feeding on the cellulose of whatever is left of its roots, underground. The little colony we saw yesterday represents the sixth iteration of that colony, this year alone.

As though to mimic the fact that butterflies are now flitting about through the forest, we came across a newly-emerged fungus that has the strange appearance of a butterfly, even to the spots on its 'wings'. Nature is always full of capricious and entertaining surprises.

It's a melancholy turn in the seasons, inevitable and stealthy -- but autumn is approaching. Our breakfast room where we have most of our meals, sits at the back of the house, lots of light emitted  from the sliding glass doors at one end of the room, and a view of the deck, standing above our back garden, the land partially sloped. A few days back, there was an exquisite hummingbird suspended in the warm, humid air its wings beating as frequently as its heart, intent on the potted hibiscus plant sitting high on its pedestal.

We had planted bleeding heart in another of our garden urns, sitting on its own pedestal in the front garden, for the delectation of hummingbirds, but there have been few we've been fortunate to sight this summer for some unknown reason. Our daughter, in her rural eastern Ontario home, sees many of the delightful little creature, returning year after year. And our son in his Vancouver home sees them routinely, even on occasion during the winter months, so clement can the weather be there that there is scant need for them to migrate.

But migrate they must from this region of Canada which will be plunged soon enough into colder temperatures, steeped in icy cold with the arrival of winter, and migrating birds will embark on their nighttime journeys for the songbirds, while birds like geese will be seen in their orderly formations, honking instructions as they pass overhead, to those who break ranks.

And now, Monarch butterflies have made their entrance to our area on their way south while the weather is still moderate enough for their survival, preparing to commit to the aerial passage that will bring them to various stages on their trip back to Mexico, an ambitious years'-long instinctual survival mechanism. They are a sight. And when we see them, mostly making their way through the forest, they take our breath away. Alight on a tree branch when they close their wings, they 'disappear'. When they pulsatingly open their wings it is as though a minuscule sun has suddenly appeared, the orange of their lovely wings a blaze of light.

Fascinated, our eyes follow them as they lift again into the air, lazily steering themselves in swoops to other branches, twigs, foliage, to briefly alight, opening and closing their wings, then swooping away again. How such frail and beautiful creatures, so infinitesimally small and delicate have been equipped by nature to undertake such fearsomely fraught trips is quite beyond our imagination. But certainly not beyond our most profound admiration.

Puppies learn fast. All the more so when learning involves a treat, something that tastes good that someone is offering. And so, whenever we come across Nova -- or more correctly, when Nova comes across us, since invariably he approaches from behind,'catching up' to where we might happen to be, uttering his little yelps of friendly discovery -- he stops beside my husband and waits expectantly. And it just depends on where we happen to be that he has his reward.

If we've stopped at the location where the wild apple trees grow, with their burden of ripe, red apples then he'll be rewarded with little chunks of deliciously sweet and moist apple. A relatively new discovery for him.Since now that they're in season, Jackie and Jillie know from their own experience that there lie treats and stop beneath the trees awaiting action from my husband.

 But if Nova 'catches up' to us (his human, allowing him some independence, walking behind trusting he won't stray far from his voice) any time after we've passed the apple trees, he's out of luck. He can smell the apples on my husband's hands, but they're not there... Life is full of mysteries for a puppy.

Disappointed, but maintaining his good nature, he wanders off into the woods while his human catches up to us, where a chat follows; boring for dogs.

There are always things happening during our walks and yesterday's was no different. A glorious day of sun and clouds in a wide, blue summer sky; as in: what more could anyone ask for?

For starters, a longer summer; this one is waning. It can be seen in a feather moult of crows that have returned to the forest. And it can be seen in the as-yet-anomalous shedding of the occasional poplar leaf, already turned colour in honour of shorter days, cooler nights.

There are other hints; a more frequent sighting of mushrooms, including my absolute unfavourite; the corpse-like blue fungi that tend to congregate at one part of the forest, off the trails on the forest floor. These are large, flattish mushrooms with a quite notable blue tinge and it always struck me that they had a mortuary look about them in contrast to the yellow and bright orange fungi and the purity of the virginal white ones.

Aside from ripening apples to herald the entrance of fall, there are other familiar sights as well. A copse of Hawthorn trees, as an example, their bright, dangling haws red and ripe for fall's arrival. Sigh. Are we ready? Are you kidding?

We're moving into warmer territory again, with yesterday's high of 28C and today's 29C. Fortunately, we can never complain about an absence of moderating breezes, even though the Ottawa Valley is well known for its high humidity level which has been in 30s territory the past few days.

Only one of us opted for the use of insecticide against the mosquitoes. I shrugged on a light cotton long-sleeved shirt and long pants. And paid for it in feeling warmer than everyone else, but came away with few bites. The cooling effect of the breeze and the overhead canopy of the forest, however, ensures that we trot along for the greatest territory we cover in shade and that makes a huge difference.

Jackie and Jillie chose not to spurn offers of water and drank greedily as they tend to do when they feel the need. They certainly enjoyed ripping through the trails, and so did we, taking our time after them. We stopped for the now-obligatory picking of ripe apples from one of the wild apple trees, where Jackie and Jillie now tend to pause when they reach them before we do. And were rewarded amply with the treats they were awaiting.

 Dragonflies and Monarch butterflies drifted through the air. A raven's hoarse call off somewhere not too distant. Goldfinches swooping about in charming little groups. We stopped briefly to wonder at one old pine whose trunk was covered in sap; in essence bleeding its life away, though it looked otherwise sound. We speculated what kind of injury or insult from an infestation it might have sustained to have that effect.

And, glimpsed through an almost complete screen of leafy shrubs, a garden's boast of jewelweed mixed in with asters on the forest floor, surrounded by trees, the sun managing to find a gap in the canopy, shining benevolently down on the grouping. The jewelweed we're accustomed to seeing on one part of the trail they grow on, is much shorter and it has now even been reduced further in size, due to the damp ground they proliferate on having dried. But this colony was flourishing delightfully.

We noted the ripening berries dangling from elderberry trees. And thought with satisfaction that we had been gifted by nature more than sufficiently for our woodland hike yesterday afternoon.

She was raised rurally by a father who was a professor of English literature, so she had exposure to both the benefits of living in natural surroundings and parents who expected she would want to pursue higher education. From Nova Scotia she travelled to Ontario to attend the University of Toronto which was where she met our older son, involved in music as she was also and a student of Medieval history at the same time.

So that when we walk through the woods with our daughter-in-law and our son there isn't much vegetation growing there that she cannot identify, and know the purpose of. Sometimes I can show her something different, but most often I will be on the learning edge of the casual dispensing of regional botany.

On our circuit through the woods yesterday we enjoyed a temperature high of 24C, with a nice cooling breeze. We shared apples from the wild apple trees, and chatted as amiably as family is wont to do, re-united after an absence. And Jackie and Jillie took turns romping ahead of us and waiting from time to time until we caught up to their enthusiastic little trots beyond us.

Their retinue has expanded by double the number they are familiar with, but they take everything in stride and all's well with their world. The house is a lot busier with two extra, younger people than ourselves rattling around its rooms. There's a lot of talking, a lot more wandering about, a lot longer time spend sitting at the table at mealtime, and Jackie and Jillie think it's good sport to see if the others will respond to their requests to share at the table, despite that we don't.

Ambling together through the woods as we routinely have done through the years on countless visits with our children there have always been little companions to enliven the proceedings. Before Jackie and Jillie there was Button and Riley, all of them with their very own, inimitable personalities. Interested in everything around them, anxious to be with the people they know and regard with extraordinary fondness.

Aware of many things that elude us, and unaware of many sights that delight us, our companionship is intact and valuable to all of us. Their powerful sense of smell tells them  which of the other dogs they're familiar with may have been along those same trails of late. Our aesthetic permits us to identify delightful little gifts of nature, like the ripe, red haws hanging from the Hawthorn trees in the forest.

The realization has struck that summer is on its waning ebb and before too much very longer fall will arrive. It's only in the last week that we have recognized the inevitable symptoms of approaching fall. Not that the fact that apples are ripening on their overburdened branches, and wild berries are almost depleted of their offerings, but we felt more than a little shock to recognize the lamentable fact that the days are rapidly growing shorter.

At the height of summer dusk didn't arrive until well after nine in the evening. Now, by eight o'clock the emerging darkness is more than evident heralding the dark of night. We simply lacked awareness that the daylight hours have begun slipping by all too quickly. Perhaps, on the other hand, we felt that it was premature to even notice the change.

Of course it's not just the sunlight with the sun dipping under the horizon at a much earlier time, but that night-time temperatures too are falling. It does make for more comfortable sleeping to be sure, but it arouses in us an inner lament for the summer days that are slipping away. Last night we had a low of 11C, with an urgent wind.

And yesterday's high was 21C, the wind bending the tree tops of the forest canopy more than vigorously; the combination of temperature and wind made for a really brisk day. Pleasant of course since we appreciate the cooler atmosphere, but leaving us regretful as well in an old familiar way.

The signature of impending fall is everywhere we look in the forest. Random foliage already turned from green to pale pink. Leaves falling to the forest floor -- not many, but the signal is there. Squirrels have been tearing acorns down off the oak trees, more for mischief, it occurs to us, than to store away for winter. This has been a bumper year for nuts and seeds for the forest wildlife.

And here and there we see fanciful and fascinating mushrooms and fungi erupting out of the decaying mass of long-buried vegetable matter as well as old stumps and dead tree trunks. The colours can be amazing; bright orange, deathly blue, perky yellows and pearly-white. The shapes are various, from perfectly round, to scalloped edges, trumpet shapes and toadstools.

All of which make our rambles along forest trails compelling in their visual treats, day after day, irrespective of the weather and the season.

One of the little realities of pedestrian life is that we all enjoy and crave edible treats, sweet or savoury. When children are young the cookie jar is the most exciting, exotic and pleasing object in their mother's kitchen. I still have the original cookie jar almost 60 years old that dominated our family's early-years-kitchen. I also have one that our younger son, one of whose hobbies is pottery, made for our latter-day kitchen about 15 years ago.

When our now-mid-to-late-fifties children and our 23-year-old granddaughter come visiting the cookie jars remain a favourite destination. A few weeks back I'd baked a batch of cookies in which I'd put oatmeal. I had remembered that our daughter-in-law is allergic to nuts, but hadn't realized she is also allergic to oatmeal. So this morning after I made a bread dough that we'll use later today to make a pizza, I baked a new batch of chocolate-chip cookies, no nuts, no oatmeal. They'll be returning from New Brunswick, passing through on their way from Nova Scotia visiting with her mother, to stay with us a few days before going on to Toronto.

Our daughter, of course, is adept at cookie making, and so for that matter is our younger son, though he rarely indulges. Our daughter-in-law is capable of doing anything in a kitchen that any skilled cook can produce, and more. It's habit, purely that, nothing more that generates interest on what happens to be nestling within a cookie jar at any given time.

Our two little dogs, Jackie and Jillie, have very similar habits, always willing to taste something new, and lately they've been eating ripe berries straight off the bush and vine in the ravine as we go through the forest trails. They know now where the place are that produce those tasty morsels and line patiently up as my husband does his daily search for ripe thimbleberries and blackberries, soon to be exhausted.

But the wild apple trees are at the point where their fruit is nicely ripening, and those that can be reached are plucked daily. They're fairly small, but make up for their size in the taste they pack; fresh, moist, crisp and sweet. There are different varieties, some resembling snow apples, some Mackintosh, and some we can't even guess at, but all appreciated.

Yesterday while we were ambling through the trail close by the apple trees a sudden figure materialized, Nova, the 7-month-old-and-growing-like-a-weed white German Shepherd. Happy to see Jackie and Jillie and emoting his pleasure, but curious about the ritual of providing bits of apple for them. So Nova lined up alongside Jackie and Jillie and was introduced to the taste of wild apple. She rejected the first bite but still curious, she tried a second and found it appetizing enough to keep munching on one offering after another.

It isn't just the apples that are ripening. We found to our delight yesterday, an assortment of fungi and mushrooms that aroused our own curiosity and admiration for their shapes and bright colouration. We'd seen all of them in previous years, but it still remains a treat to see their return, year after year. Sighting them is a reminder that summer will all too soon come to a close for yet another year.

And this is nature's habit, or ritual, the timeless regeneration of life as the seasons follow one another and we, like all animals and growing things, respond to those changes, habit taking over to lead us to our own changes in greeting the turnover of the seasons.

People wonder and worry what they'll do in their retirement years. The working day in the paid workforce takes up such an enormous part of a weekday, leaving weekends two days of frantic efforts to pack into stay-at-home days so many other things; running various chores; catching up to personal projects; spending time with family and friends; hoping to have leisure time for sports or shopping, or eating out or entertainment, it's little wonder people are perpetually rest-deprived.

This becomes normal routine and in anticipation of no more days dedicated to travelling to and from a workplace and spending 7 to 8 hours there for five days a week strikes people as abnormal leaving them concerned over how they will fill in the hours normally spent in a workplace, once retirement is achieved. It's when people are finally able to devote hours to doing things that matter to them, whether it's attention to a neglected hobby or becoming more involved in activities that always seemed interesting but the time to devote to them simply wasn't available.

Invariably, most people find their imaginations and aspirations strained when they try to visualize how they'll be employed when they're no longer employed at paid work hours. And for some people who had little interest in anything outside working hours it can be a problem; they feel rootless, aimless, deprived of direction. While for others the freedom that comes with those opened leisure hours can be meaningful; travel to unknown places beckon, there are dance classes, advanced educational courses, social groups that attract many people. And others discover a hitherto-unrealized talent that can be exercised and expanded in producing objects of art; painting, sculpture, or furniture-making; whatever appeals.

We've never been short of things to do. More reading hours at our disposal for two people addicted to all kinds of literature. Writing, to fulfill an ambition to one day devote oneself to writing, feeling you've plenty to say and describe and finally realizing it can be done. More time in the out-of-doors, hiking in the forest, travelling and indulging in traversing mountain trails for the sheer enjoyment of the energy expenditure and the opportunity to share with one another nature's wonderful landscapes.

For those who wrack their brains and are able to think of nothing they are interested in, all those hours when they can choose to do what they please are wasted. For those for whom so many opportunities beckon to expand knowledge, experiences, and enjoy those hours and days open to such a wide variety of options, retirement can mean an expansion of life's enjoyment and experience, not an hour to be wasted without indulging one's every whim.

Friday was a rainy, rainy day. No use waiting for it to stop entirely, so what we did was venture out when it had reduced to a drizzle, and made our way into the ravine where the forest canopy kept us nice and dry, even though the foliage was well drenched from overnight and daytime rain. Jackie and Jillie didn't mind ambling along and nor did we.

Truth to tell, it was comfortable enough, because the ambient temperature was cooler as well, at 21C, a nice, but brief cooling-off. By the time we had completed our circuit of trails through the ravine the rain picked up substantially to become; what else? rain. So we did get rather wet, but nothing compared to the drenching we'd have received in a thunderstorm, best avoided.

Saturday brought mixed sun and cloudy conditions, a bit warmer but, again, being on the forest trails also brings relief from the hard glare of the sun. It's a strange phenomenon we discover, that when we're enclosed in the forest and the sky overhead is banked with clouds, there is still a sun glare that manages to be evident to the eye glancing up at the sky. It's only when the overhead clouds are ragged and dark that the glare is absent. And where it's hot up on the street, it is conventionally cool and breezy under the shade of the forest canopy. It's only when we acquire the effects of the energy expended on clambering uphill repeatedly that we begin to feel warm, warm, warm.

The changeability of the weather has been constant enough that all growing things have had their fill of both sun and rain, encouraging rampant growth, and making for some pretty interesting sights. Like the low-to-the-ground single dogwood shrub we came across yesterday putting out fresh new flower panicles, long past their late-spring flowering season. And not far from that surprising sight, there was another; a tall ash sapling whose every leaf had already turned to autumn colours.

At a juncture as we exit the forest where the ravine's creek is close to where the hillsides crumpled last year requiring extensive and expensive remedial work by the municipality (related to its multi-functional use as a storm-sewer for nearby new housing tracts) goldenrod alongside pilotweed, both of equal height and colour of flower but vastly different flower shapes, are thriving nearby giant globe thistles.

As if in contrast, we also came across exquisitely delicate, minuscule pinks, the first we've seen yet this season on the forest floor.

As for Jackie and Jillie, they came across some of their friends, a nice surprise for them, since it's now become a rare occasion when others come out with their canine companions, the heat, rain and mosquitoes convincing even diehard ravine- and forest-hikers that they're better off giving the trails wide berth for now. How wrong they are.