We left the house before breakfast as has become our usual-new deep summer routine of late, leaving behind us a thirsty garden where it was more than evident that a little bit of water would be appreciated. Feeling just a twinge of guilt, we carried on, up the street, into the ravine and down into the forest with Jackie and Jillie.

As we neared a stand of thistles at the top of the hill, there was a flurry of activity that just couldn't be ignored. At the very bottom of that hill, three-quarters of the way up a venerable old pine, we long ago noticed a wild bee hive with bees coming and going constantly; obviously a thriving colony. So the bees don't have far to go for pollen they swiftly return with to the industrious little hive of frenetic action.

Bees everywhere, it seems, are struggling against incursions into what was once their territory, with the effects of pesticides, and wild bees facing competition from imported honey bees, not native to Canada, but which have long been introduced for commercial honey-production purposes. These bees, representing a minute portion of the hundreds of different varieties that exist in the wild in Canada alone, likely have no near competition, so we can hope they'll manage to survive.

One imagines they don't mind at all flying about and performing their assigned duties, despite the heat and high humidify -- but who knows, really? They don't have far to go for water, since the creek meanders its way through the forest just behind the tree that is their home.

What a time it is in the forest! There's a wild crabapple tree that has formed its tiny apples, quite a bit ahead of the wild apple tree production; very colourful and vibrant. The colour of the tiny crabapples not entirely dissimilar to the bright red of the Staghorn sumac candles now matured and decorating all the sumacs. From looking up toward the sky, to glancing down at the forest floor, and there we see dog strangling vine creeping over all the vegetation it shares space with, aggressively claiming more than its share.

Here and there, appears a tangle of cowvetch among the yarrow and Queen Anne's lace and the goldenrod and asters approaching maturity, but not quite prepared yet to bloom. In the place alongside one of the forest trails where jewelweed has found an accommodating environment because it tends to be very wet for a prolonged period of time in spring, it has colonized a fairly wide swath, and we've been on the lookout for the appearance of the orchid-like flowers.

Yesterday we were rewarded with the blushing sight of one sole flower in the wide sea of jewelweed vegetation, and likely there won't be too many of the delicate bright blooms whose exquisite presence explains its name.

The compass plants that we also know as Pilotweed and which have grown their presence throughout the forest are now fully mature and blooming well, their bright yellow heads a lovely counterpart to the ambient green of the forest.

On our return home we promised the garden we'd be back out to water if no rain fell within the following few hours. And then -- the expected-unexpected, rain fell, almost like a mist, then a penetrating drizzle, and finally along came a downpour. We could almost hear the garden sigh with deep relief. Or, on the other hand, that could have been me.

Gorgeous, hugely luscious Hibiscus blooms in the garden!

At the top of the ravine, just a little further into where the forest begins, where it meets the street we live on, there were really tall, robust mullein plants growing last year among the poplar and maple saplings, and while the plants were in flower, myriads of bees were always seen to be busy flying about -- hoverflies and butterflies as well.

The mulleins are no longer there, just the corpses from last year and they've been grown over as other wildflowers take their place. Primarily, this year, compass plant (or pilotweed as it's also known by). And it too has surpassed the normal height of this wildflower which also grows in many areas around and about and in the ravine on the forest floor. They have even managed to surpass last year's mulleins for height, towering above six feet, rivalling the height of the fast-growing poplars still in their infancy.

Wildflowers move around quite a bit in the forest. Where you've seen them the year before and the year before that isn't necessarily where they'll plant themselves a following year, although some do. To my everlasting regret we no longer see flowering grass where we saw one lone little plant come back several years in a row, delighting us with its miniature, perfect iris-like flower.

Where once we could be assured of seeing flowering bunchberry, also called dogwood wildflower they suddenly disappeared one year even though they had covered quite a wide swath of territory, and re-appeared in an area that had never before hosted them, to our recollection. Jack-in-the-Pulpits whose sole flower on a single plant is so mysteriously exotic with its large single petal arching over to hide its pistils or stamens at one time would be found only along one of the tributaries of the ravine, now years later, they're absent there, and have made their appearance everywhere else.

Fleabane, daisies, trilliums, Queen Anne's lace, yarrow, asters, goldenroad and foamflower have their presence everywhere, just as cowvetch does. But trout lilies and jewel weed seem to cultivate specific areas they return to and continue colonizing where the conditions are just right for them, year after year. So, for many of the wildflowers it's a movable feast for the eyes, while for others their presence is predictable. Regardless, every time we come across any of them it's like greeting familiar old friends.

Yesterday morning when we set out for our walk through the forest trails with Jackie and Jillie it seemed like the most humid, hottest day yet, and there've been plenty of hot and humid days. The always-present breeze strove mightily to make a difference for us, and occasionally we felt some short-lived mild relief as we trudged through the pathways, making our way around our usual circuit, but for the most part it was meltingly hot, unrelievedly humid. Again, no rain.

There has been some stress on the vegetation, there always is at some point during the summer when there's a brief rain deficit, and random foliage on trees lose their green to resemble fall and tumble from their perches. When we pass the raspberry shrubs now and poke about for ripe berries for Jackie and Jillie the pickings are slim to vanishing. That ship has sailed. Now, we can look forward to ripening thimbleberries but they're a long way off yet.

Arrived back home, a pang of guilt at the sight of the garden pots flush with blooms and begging for a drink. Something else needing to be tended to before the day is out.

We seem to be marooned in a spate of quite hot temperatures. In the low 30s, with lots of humidity which is usual for the Ottawa Valley, though we're still waiting for the rain events we're informed every day are likely to occur, but fail to. And as long as the temperature remains so steamy-hot we'll be resigned to early morning walks in place of our usual afternoon forays into the ravine, through the forest trails.

We do on occasion -- not often -- see others whose presence we've long been familiar with -- who like us find daily rambles through the forest irresistible -- these early mornings. But it's also occurred to us that we've been coming across a different set of people who don't normally venture out in the afternoon hours, preferring their treks to take place at some point in the morning.

Similarly, Jackie and Jillie, our two little dogs who simply cannot refrain from barking furiously at any dog they haven't had previous acquaintance with, are now recognizing a different set of dogs companioning the people we've been coming across. Mostly, they're large-breed dogs who tend to ignore the commotion our two raise on sight of others. They could, if they'd a mind to, simply take a swipe at the irritating little yappers, but none do, preferring to simply side-step them.

The intense outpouring of -- we don't quite know what it is -- insecurity of small breeds perhaps? gets tucked away into the bad-behaviour file, thank heavens, once J & J become accustomed to the presence of the other dogs and they're no longer unfamiliar, and perhaps in their opinion, potentially threatening figures. And thank heavens for that. It's not a good combination, extreme heat, uncomfortable large dogs encountering irritating little dogs; some have been known to exhibit their annoyance aggressively resulting from even less provocation from small dogs.

As much as we call them to obey, to stop barking, to walk directly beside us, their agreeableness to heeding us is iffy; if they obey, they soon set off again repeating the same uncivil actions, needing to be recalled and scolded. Jillie is the more serious offender and the most likely to repeat her offences, not the least bit fazed by our displeasure unless we really emphasize it.

A quiet, restful stroll through the trails can be guaranteed only when we don't come across anyone else -- or those we come across are well known to all of us as familiar figures whose presence will not elicit suspicion or trepidation from Jackie and Jillie. And that's when we can give our full attention to simply enjoying ourselves as we look around, and see burdock growing to a truly impressive size, and beginning its bloom.

When we pass the area where wild apple trees grow, it's evident that the fruit is beginning to mature as time gets on into later summer. Under the trees there are always small, green castoffs that will never mature and that serve as little provocations when thrown for Jackie and Jillie to race after; when only Jackie responds. Surprisingly, though the apples are still quite small, some have begun to blush a distinct shade of red.

The staghorn sumacs are now proudly sending aloft their flaming torches, and that makes quite a colourful statement of colour, texture and architecture, as the candles have reached their optimum colour. The pearly-white of yarrow here and there in the general melee of vegetation provide their colour contrast to the brighter shades evident in plants like chicory whose bright blue flowers catch the eye, though very few of the plants have arisen from the forest floor.

Similar to the presence of the Himalayan orchid, confined to a select area only, though it's a vigorous and intrusive plant whose bright and dainty-pink blossoms are now achieving their maximum flowering stage.

Although there was no question yesterday morning that we would venture out to the ravine for our daily walk before breakfast, even at that time of the morning the heat was oppressive, the humidity close, albeit slight relief from a reliable little breeze. If there could be found any consolation in the prospect of the day becoming even hotter by afternoon, it was that Environment Canada had assured its listeners that rain was on the way; imminent even, the probability was that high.

We were happy enough that no rain fell while we were making our way through the forest trails with Jackie and Jillie. They seemed comfortable enough preceding us through the trails, happily picking up detritus and manipulating little twigs to chew on while they waited for us to catch up to them. There were, in fact, times when we felt like just lingering at certain spots where unaccountably, the air seemed cooler, fresher and the breeze more aggressive.

Our puppies showed no such inclination and in fact when you're in motion and steadily moving along the impulse to make the most of a cooling breeze and a momentarily-entered cool spot doesn't have quite the compelling attraction as it might have if we were inclined to dawdle, which we are not; neither we nor Jackie and Jillie.

Movement, after all, is part of the attraction for us to seek out the pathways drawing us into the forest. And curiosity about what we'll see there each time we venture forth keeps us on the move. And as usual there was plenty to draw our attention. At that time of the morning there's a luminous quality to the light and it is so bright that it's dazzling. Looking off into the distance through the foliage of the forest, clarity of vision kind of disappears and in its place there is an overall glow of bright light.

Yesterday, we came across wild bellflowers, a beautiful shade of pink tinged with the slightest bit of mauve -- or was it carmine? A single plant, showing off its lovely flowers crowding the top third of the stem. Beside it was another immature plant, almost ready to flower. But that was it, in the entire length and breadth of the ravine, just those two lone plants of a single type.

Contrast that with the yarrow that pops up everywhere among the bracken, between trees, on the forest floor, competing with Queen Anne's lace for attention, the two having their similarities at first glance, the yarrow slightly less impressive in the size of its flower panicles, but noteworthy nonetheless. References to yarrow in English country gardens of 19th century literature give it a romantic essence.

And the sunflowers, they too with their broad, straplike foliage that have been maturing for months, suddenly shooting up their flower stem and ripening the flower buds, are now opening to reveal their bright yellow flowerheads reaching to the sky, and the sun that is responsible for their eagerness to have and enjoy their seasonal show of entitled conceit.

By the time we've gone most of the way through our hour, hour-and-a-half-long circuit, we feel rather exercised, and no little bit warmer than when we started out on our day's hike. And that's when we re-acquaint ourselves with the sprinkling of Himalayan orchids that have appeared this summer where they never have claimed territory before in our memory. Their bright and beautiful insouciance more than rivals any cultivated flower stock; they are delicate and exquisite, ill-matched however, in size to the actual plant that carries them.

Then, on to home and our own garden which we like to pretend we're responsible for, when it is nature that generates all growing things. The California poppies are now in successive bloom. As annuals they behave in a sense like perennials, self-seeding themselves year after year. I cannot even recall how long ago it was I had scattered their seeds in one part of the garden, but ever since that first flowering they've taken the responsibility of ensuring their yearly summer return. No need to gather the dried heads to preserve the seeds for the following year; it is a job they've volunteered for on their own.

So, though we have no orchids in our cultivated garden, we do have several hibiscus shrubs. We're still awaiting the ripening of the flower buds of the bright pink hibiscus, but the one with the red blooms has been more than happy to accommodate our hunger for the sight of its huge, bright flowers, each one a wonder to behold.

Yes, the garden. The various beds and borders are now decades old, well matured. And our favourite plant, the hosta, is present in countless variations. Their shape, form, colour, size and floral stalks are so numerous, each delights us with their variegated presence, one type melding into the territory of the other. In fact, they present as the very picture of rampant vegetation making the most of the heat, the sun and rain.

That rain we were expecting yesterday? It failed to materialize, disappointingly.

But we didn't feel too badly that in expectation of rain throughout the day we hadn't bothered watering any part of the garden and had done just a few pots. Because we felt certain that, as the forecast had foretold, there would be any number of rain events, even thunderstorms during the night-time hours. That forecast too turned out a dud....

It seemed sensible to revert once again to early morning walks on the forest trails in the ravine, with the repeated expectation of afternoon high temperatures in the low 30Cs, so that's just what we did yesterday morning. Friday mornings are busy for me, it's when I plan a slightly more elaborate evening meal than usual, and it's also the day that I do a quick vacuuming in preparation for the lazy weekend coming up.

Off we went, the sun beating down on us during the short walk from our house to the ravine entrance. We'd be awhile in the ravine, I knew, because we take our time to make the most of each of these daily excursions. They're peaceful, the forest floor soft underfoot, birds singing, the occasional Damselfly, butterfly or dragonfly flitting past us, even on occasion, beetles careening madly through the lower atmosphere. And the air we breathe there is clean and fresh and cool in comparison to street level.

We're often serenaded by robins and cardinals, and hear the steady thumping of woodpeckers in the near distance, but not yesterday. It was shaping up to be hot, which made us grateful for a prevailing breeze and the occasional cool spot we would come across on some parts of the forest trails.

For the second time in a row of days we encountered the same two large, bumptiously-happy poodle mixes thumping their way through the trails, back and forth; greeting us, then turning back toward the two young women who walk them, Jackie and Jillie yapping at their heels. These large dogs are silent, not a sound is emitted, in sharp contrast to our two puppies' loud, sharp exclamations. The commotion breaks through the serene quality of the landscape until we finally part, each group going its separate way.

On our way we pass parts of the trail adjacent raspberry bushes which have daily for the past week provided Jackie and Jillie with tiny pick-me-up treats. The size of the berries, on the other hand, seem quite appropriate for them, given their own small presence. As soon as my husband stops and begins selecting the ripe-and-ready berries, Jackie and Jillie station themselves beside him, ripe and ready themselves to gobble up the proffered treats.

An infestation of ash borer beetles of the past several years had finally killed many of the ash trees in the ravine. As the trees began their severance with life, tiny offshoots began struggling at the base of the trunks to survive this existential threat. In other instances, trees that had been cut down by municipal works crews in hopes of stabilizing the steady march of destruction, began sprouting new life around their stumps years after they'd been cut.

We marvelled at the determination of growing things to survive despite calamitous circumstances afflicting them. And we wonder how it is that old trunks of trees that have been dead for a decade suddenly sprout seedlings, like an oak close to the trail that last year did just that and this year once again is coddling sprouts in hopes of reproducing, as has done a nearby maple which started the process several years earlier and now is well on its way to preserving the life that was lost.

In today's newspaper there was an ecology article of naturalists in New Jersey, the Sierra Nevada, British Columbia and other areas, studying the phenomenon. Evidently two ecologists in New Zealand have discovered that stumps remain connected in an underground congregation of tree roots where they share water resources. Trees once thought to be dead, all that's left of them a stump, evincing new life because of water circulating through their roots.

Jackie and Jillie have been introduced to Labradoodles, often resembling themselves but many times larger on our daily hikes through the forest trails. They're invariably good-natured dogs, and playful as well. They're certainly graceful in motion and their appearance is beyond pleasing. For the most part when poodles are interbred with other breeds what seems to predominate is the poodle genetics.

Which is just as well since poodles are celebrated for their high canine intelligence, companionship and attractive appearance, all with good reason. Mind, Labs, though not high on the intelligence scale are quite wonderful family dogs reflecting their excellent, laid-back temperaments.

Yesterday, however, was the first time that we'd come across two dogs which, like Jackie and Jillie, look quite similar to one another. Another pair of siblings. A cross between an Irish Setter and a Standard Poodle. Just as with our own two little siblings. Both black, one was taller and more robust than the other. Jackie is taller than Jillie, but she's built like a tank and his conformation is on the thin side.

The two large dogs looked like poodles, their Irish Setter genes giving them long silky black hair however, not curly hair. Without doubt, it's likely that if they were groomed, their hair cut short, it would turn tight and curly, the poodle strain of genetics asserting itself. Despite their size, actually super-sized versions of our little pair, they looked quite cute.

Our introduction to the two was as brief as their interest in remaining in any one spot for an extended period. They were there, disporting themselves, challenging the playfulness quotient in two very small versions of themselves, then galumphed on. As large as they seemed to us, they have still time to continue filling out since they were only 9 months old.

We continued on, deciding to descend a bit further toward a deeper portion of the ravine, where a tributary of the ravine's creek runs. And there we saw the sole, lonely bit of meadow rue that seems to come back year after year, and it was in flower. It badly needs company. Originally there had been two, but somehow only one managed to survive and it's hanging in there, nowhere near as robust as the plant should be, its flowering top fallen over toward the ground.

Going off in that direction gives all of us a greater physical challenge of increased numbers of ascents, but we're so long familiar with the terrain, as are Jackie and Jillie, that it mostly fails to represent much of an extended energy output. It does tend to have a slightly different micro climate; usually wetter and cooler. Jillie has a tendency to run on ahead, while Jackie tends to remain closer to us, though nothing deters him from leaving our proximity and dashing off into the woods after an alluring squirrel, while Jillie usually just remains on the trail awaiting his return.

As usual, we stopped briefly in the front garden to assess the moisture conditions needing some attention before the heat of the day set in. It seems unmistakably that for this time of year, just approaching midsummer's leap into the dog days of summer, that the garden has filled in enormously, reminiscent of how it should look a month later in the season.

Headline weather news is that parts of Europe have unwillingly, helplessly, grudgingly welcomed the return of an unprecedented, record-breaking heat spell. They can hardly have had time to recover from the last debilitating spate of extraordinarily hot weather. Now they're plunged right back into it. So we've nothing, absolutely nothing to complain of.

We too had a respite of several reasonable days when the temperature failed to rise to 30C, and it was very much appreciated. The consequence of which was that we delayed going out to the ravine, setting aside our new ritual of breaking with long tradition in this family to embark on our daily foray into the forest with Jackie and Jillie in the afternoon hours. We did, however, revert to habit in the past few days and resumed setting out to the ravine in the early afternoon.

One of those days we came across our old friend Rod, with Nova, now a year-and-a-half old, but still behaving like a puppy, despite his size. Jackie and Jillie are always glad to see their friends, and they had the additional challenge of rousting about with big Nova and then another two large dogs who came around while the three were cavorting on the crest of one of the hills.

Each day we come out now we forage about for ripe raspberries alongside the forest trails. Because they're so small and because most people have no idea of the presence of wild berries in the ravine, we're able to pick them on successive days as they ripen, as though they've been reserved especially for us. They provide a bit of a taste pick-me-up that our two little dogs look forward to. Mind, there's always the possibility that the shrubs may have been irrigated from time to time by passing dogs, so they fail to appeal to us as much as they might otherwise.

Opposite the portion of one of the trails where the most abundant raspberries are ripening we've been awaiting the flowering of wild sunflowers that tend yearly to make their presence there. Wildflower types, that grow to the height of six feet and show off their large flowers as yet another presentation of what the forest floor is capable of hosting.

It's been dry this week, no rain though the forecast always mentions the possibility of pop-up thunderstorms. Despite the copious rain we've been inundated with, when the forest goes for a week or so without rain, the Leda clay base reacts by creating cracks as though to appeal to the sky for rescue from an imaginary drought.

The combination of summer heat, sunshine and wind, does create conditions of exhaustion for plants, though and we haven't been tardy in recognizing that with the need to water our garden pots at least twice weekly, more frequently for smaller pots more exposed to both sun and wind than the large ones that sit on the patio partially shielded from the sun when afternoon shade arrives at the front of the house.