It's like fluffy, pale snow floating about everywhere, the release of the poplar seeds being conveyed on the wind after other types of poplars dropped their catkins.The light, fluffed seeds gather on the forest floor and resemble small piles of snow. And out on the street, those airy fluff balls are everywhere. Looking out the windows we see them floating hazily about. Open a door and in they come. It's like this every year at this time in spring. And it explains why there are so many poplar seedlings about. They're ferociously swift growers and they're everywhere. Not only do we pull up weeds in the garden but also maple and poplar seedlings.

The garden is busy showing off its seasonal offerings sequentially, bit by bit. And although it's been a cool spring, other than for the heat wave we've recently emerged from, vegetation in the forest and in our gardens is off to a good start; there are more flowers in the fruit trees than we can ever before recall, and wildflowers on the forest floor have outdone themselves this year in the production of blooms. And nor is the garden lagging for that matter; our decades-old pink-flowered tree peony has put out more flower buds than we've ever before seen, and the allium bulbs also planted many years ago have proliferated as well.

Now that we're no longer languishing in the extreme heat of 33C -- 35C days, we're wondering at the wicked humour being expressed by nature in the return of winter-like temperatures. The thermometer is set to dip to 4C tonight, and likely we'll have rain as well, as we have for the past three nights and days. The high today is 13C, but winds at 40K/hr make it seem even colder than that, alternating with sun and rain.

For their part, Jackie and Jillie feel the return to cooler temperatures as preferential to the exhausting heat, and they're far more lively now on our ravine hikes. The wind and the cooler weather has also put a damper on mosquitoes, they're nowhere near as evident, although now that it's colder we're also covering up against the cold.

We're on the lookout for fungi making their appearance now that high humidity and incessant rain appear the order of the day, and did indeed find a colony of fungi helping the decay of some old fallen tree branches close to the creek where it's always damp. Heaps of little mushrooms appear suddenly around the tops of old tree stumps, and just as suddenly deteriorate and disappear. They're not the attractive colourful ones we look out for, in bright orange, red and sometimes purple.

The trail system, once dry and firm underfoot has once again become slippery with mud, a result of the bits of wood fibre, dried foliage and needles having been swept away by the sheer water power of heavy rain events. But now that I trimmed Jackie and Jillie's little pads of their long-grown-in hair they pick up far less detritus and are easier to clean off on our return back home from the forest.

I decided for dinner tonight to prepare a casserole, simple enough, to use the leftover chicken that my husband had barbecued on Sunday for dinner. Cutting the chicken into chunks, I set a chopped onion and diced garlic to saute briefly in olive oil, added the chicken, paprika and cumin powder, then dusted it with flour, added hot chicken soup to thicken, then a cup of frozen green peas. Meanwhile, I had boiled potatoes along with a small clove of garlic which I mashed together, added pepper, parsley, sour cream and powdered Parmesan cheese, to top the chicken and its gravy. It will bake for about 40 minutes in a 350F oven, and we'll have it with broccoli alongside, and clementines for dessert.

Everything it seems, is out of kilter under the dark, sinister shroud hanging over the world in the name of a novel coronavirus. A call came through after breakfast yesterday that my scheduled echocardiogram arranged a year and a half ago prior to an examination by my cardiologist, was cancelled. For that matter, my meeting with the cardiologist is also cancelled for some later date in the unforeseeable future. Last time I saw my cardiologist that long ago, he was scheduled for open-heart surgery himself. As for the cancellations, a sigh of relief.

No longer do patients see their doctors unless there's a dire necessity, under this grim new world we inhabit, nor do hospitals invite people to return for scheduled tests of any kind, other than for emergencies. For me, it's like a reprieve. All the tests and the poking about are grave irritants to my sense of well-being. And since I feel well, for me it's preferential that none of these appointments must be held.

Yesterday the day had started hot and humid and windy, losing the sun as the day wore on, to bring rain. My husband had decided to barbecue a small broiler chicken we'd had for far too long in the freezer downstairs. Ours is a direct-connection gas barbecue. So, despite the rain, which was light, and because of the metal canopy he had erected years ago over the deck, we were able to sit out in comfort with Jackie and Jillie and read, nicely sheltered, while he wheeled the barbecue under the canopy and prepared the chicken. Actually he has a smoker he sometimes uses with the barbecue, one that has given us excellent service for the past 30 years.

Later that night, we briefly lost power again, during a really heavy rainstorm. We'd forgotten having left the patio doors open to circulate some fresh air into the house, and before we realized it, the floor beside the doors was drenched, the rain ferociously storming into the breakfast room. That rain left the forest in the ravine well hydrated too.

In the afternoon, while sitting out on the deck I had given Jackie and Jillie some trims on their hairy faces, and their paws. It won't be until mid-June before the groomers will be able to keep their appointment, having cancelled the last one, due to the COVID closures during lockdown. Now that things are more relaxed and commerce is beginning to open up, we can hardly wait for their hair to be lopped off for summer; they'll be a lot more comfortable. What I did in a light trim, despite their protests, released their eyes from all that hair flopping down, and made it easier to keep their little paws clear of detritus they pick up in the woods.

Blackberry shrubs beginning to flower

We woke this morning to a chill wind and a cool morning, with a high for the day forecasted at 16C, quite a change from the day before. The combination of rain and sun works wonders in nature. Already we can see the blackberry shrubs have begun to prepare to bloom, promising a good year for the berries, though they're the last to ripen.

This was a day that required a light jacket, and no need to take along a water bottle for Jackie and Jillie. The trails were sodden, and the forest floor sported fairly large and widespread pools of rainwater, not yet absorbed after the rainfall of the night before. Mosquitoes were down in number, but their numbers will be speedily restored, thanks to the presence of those rain-pools, the perfect place for mosquito larvae to develop.

We came across two young boys, pre-teens on bicycles, feeling a little lost, having no idea where they were in juxtaposition to neighbourhood streets in the community. So Jackie and Jillie gave them some directions on exit points where street accessibility is feasible, allowing them to find their way home. The network of trails can be confusing to anyone not familiar with where they lead; at least the boys had the good sense to ask, and the curiosity to get out into the forest to look around, to begin with.

When we arrived back home, it was delightful to see that the tree peony has begun opening its flowers, the petals thick-layered and lusciously pink, with purple-tinged alliums complementarily opening beside them. At the very front of the lawn where the long garden bed that snakes from the walkway to the house down to the street, we usually plant zinnias and marigolds after the tulips have bloomed. Not this year; while we were able to get marigolds, there were no zinnias to be found; everything in short supply and being snapped up by people anxious to plant gardens now that so many people have the jobs on hold temporarily or are working from home.

Jack-in-the-Pulpits in a bed of foamflower in the garden

When I got out into the garden later in the early afternoon it was with the intention of filling a gap in one of the borders, to separate a select hosta and re-establish that portion where I had weeks ago dug out an immature shrub that was doing poorly and to re-locate it to the back garden. While doing that, I thinned out the holly bush that has grown so huge over the years, as well as a few other ornamental trees, yews and a crabapple.

We bought the only 'annual' plants we could find at the one open market we had accessed which had plenty of violets and pansies and perennials but not the plants we were looking for. What they did have was a familiar looking option, plants that looked like Mandevilla vines with their distinctive trumpet-shaped flowers, and indeed close cousins to them, labelled Dipladenia. So we bought them and hoped for the best knowing that they'll grow vertically but not horizontally.

Although in previous summers we have on occasion decided to get out into the ravine at an early morning hour, shunting aside showers and breakfast until our return, this spring we appear to have embarked on a new personal trend. Jackie and Jillie have been willing accomplices to this new scheduling, knowing from the time we all haul ourselves out of bed, speedily dress, make a quick loop into the backyard, then set off for the ravine, what our destination first thing in the morning is to be.

When it's that early -- 7:30 a.m. -- rarely is anyone else out. The street, as we make our way up to the ravine entrance, is silent. Even at that time of day we can feel the sun's furnace rays warming our backs. The nice thing about that is that wind is always about, and this morning it was strikingly brisk, its cooling effect challenging the sun's heat, making us entirely comfortable.

We'd be the only ones, once again, traipsing through the forest trails, we assured one another. And then, as we approached the trail descending into the forest, a couple and their dog were making their exit, quite obviously they'd been out even earlier than us. And, as it happened, the young man recognized us from a decade or so earlier when he had lived in the area he has now returned to. At the earlier time he had a Bernese Mountain dog, now he has a much smaller schnauzer, a happy-go-lucky puppy. He had just returned, he said, from several years in Central and South America.

On we plodded, on a most pleasant of mornings where, despite the young man having warned that the mosquitoes were particularly blood-thirsty this morning, we found none about. Until, that is, much later, when squads of mosquitoes zeroed in on us and with barely audible shouts of mosquito glee did their best to completely drain these hapless humans of their blood supply.

But by no means were we four the only creatures being set upon; we soon discovered that others besides ourselves had brainstormed getting out before the heat of the day. And every one of them were people we know as regular ravine hikers. Which leads us to suspect that finally, all the casual community hikers that had been coming through for the past several months during lockdown have decided to forego mosquitoes and energy-draining heat and humidity, now that they can once again access area parks, albeit with some restrictions.

Jackie and Jillie met up with some friends, and we in turn engaged in some distanced conversations with their friends' human companions. Clouds began to gather, though the heat seemed to deepen. We're hoping that, as the forecast suggested, there may be a few rain events through the course of the day. We had an unexpected rainfall last evening, but not enough to really refresh the vegetation, although truth to tell, even with a recent paucity of rain, vegetation everywhere is eclipsing expectations.

When we arrived home, we caught up with the shelved necessities. Then my husband mowed the grass after breakfast. I had earlier grated the zest of a lime, and my husband had applied male power to coax the lime juice out of the two halves of the lime. Which left me ready to bake lime-coconut cupcakes, one of our favourites.

Jackie and Jillie lined up later in the afternoon, right on schedule, as I was busy in the kitchen, parking themselves beside the refrigerator. They were expecting to be served little bowls of cut-up cauliflower and we wouldn't for the world, disappoint them out of their favourite afternoon pick-me-up.

Later on, we all circulated around the front of the house, on one of our regular inspection tours of what's coming up in the garden. Both the tree peonies and the ordinary peonies have set their blooms, as has our most favourite and beautiful clematis. One little rhododendron is in bloom. The foamflower are blooming and the Jack-in-the-Pulpits, giant ones appreciative of the garden soil over that of the forest floor, are in grand display on their way to becoming even larger.

We've planted all the garden urns and pots. Differently this year than most, in reflection of what we've been able to acquire in this most unusual situation we're mired in, where given the coronavirus threat, access to garden centres has been difficult and the wide sphere of offerings we're so accustomed to in bedding plants has been severely reduced; in fact any plants at all have been in short supply. But all's well, we had girded ourselves for a poor start to summer gardening three months into lockdown. No complaints with the results at this stage.

We both agreed it made good sense to set out for an early morning walk today given the forecasted heat in the 30Cs range again, with high humidity. Jackie and Jillie are becoming accustomed to these unexpected early morning jaunts. At least they haven't complained. The thing of it is that if we wait for an afternoon walk through the woods they seem to take little pleasure in the enterprise, even though we bring along ample water for them; just too hot and fatiguing; they're not puppies any longer. Which is one reason why we find it so perplexing to the point of cruelty on such hot days when we see people jogging or running with their dogs in hot pursuit.

With everything being closed, and no opportunity for us to have them groomed as previously, our two little fellows  don't have the relief to be gained by having their haircoat sheared to help counter the heat. And since they're black little guys, out in the sun they become very, very warm. We've never encouraged them to make for the creek to cool off, because our little miniature Poodle Button once got badly cut by broken glass lying on the creek bottom.

But Button loved water, and we had a little kiddie backyard plastic pool we used to fill for her to play in. Neither Jackie nor Jillie have any particular affinity for water. Jillie will go to heroic ends to bypass water, and her brother is just indifferent to it as a cooling agent, much less a potential medium for pleasurable playing about with.

Dogwood

As we meandered through the forest trails it was clear we wouldn't be delighted with any landscape anomalies such as those that met our eyes yesterday, resulting from  copious rain from a violent thunderstorm the night before, and the mist early morning that followed rising from the forest, and overhead the sun slowly coursing across the sky sending wide beams of heat and light to burn through the mist; that bewitchingly mysterious, almost mythic quality was absent.

Hawthorn

Still, the bright, fresh green of the forest itself, so newly filled out presented as a gift of a landscape view in and of itself. The many dogwood shrubs in the forest understory are slowly beginning their bloom period. The Hawthorn trees, not to be left out, have also begun blooming. As have the pin cherry trees. Even as we noted that the trout lily foliage is so quickly yellowing and drying up, the lilies-of-the-valley are finally flowering in abundance. 

Lilies-of-the-valley

Unlike yesterday's solitary tramp through the woods, we came across quite a few people this morning, all of whom were old familiar faces. Good for a chat and brief re-connections. Others besides ourselves had the very same reaction to these hot, close days; to get out into the ravine to enjoy a hike before the heat of the day strikes.

Cherry tree

Although we took ourselves out for our daily amble through the forest trails earlier than usual yesterday, it was still too late, we hit the heat of the day. And yesterday's heat index went up to 32C. Wherever the sun penetrated through the forest canopy the atmosphere was truly overheated. We had planned to drive downtown from the Eastern Parkway to the Western Parkway to pay a visit to a shop we have frequented for many years, but haven't been at for quite a long time.

In the process we passed the Parliament buildings, now under years-long renovation. Due to the COVID pandemic and people advised not to travel, we were treated to the unusual sight of the complex of buildings devoid of the usual crush of sightseers. No packed buses parked inconveniently all over the place, no hordes of people from abroad come to look at the Gothic Revival architecture of the House of Commons.

At the stained glass store my husband picked up the lead he needs and looked around at the coloured glass to supplement whatever he has at home in his workshop, then we headed back home again. On the way, looking out over the broad expanse of the Ottawa River, we saw Canada geese and their young on the greensward. Despite the months of lockdown there's a lot of construction going on in the national capital.

Hot, it was hot and the air immobile, so we were hoping for rain. And rain we got. In the form of a thunderstorm, a fairly violent one, with ample clapping of thunder and bursting of electricity, and roaring waterfalls of rain. It began at five, and the rain continued on for another three hours, falling ferociously, accompanying winds roaring through the landscape. Our dinner barbecue plans had gone awry. For that matter so did our evening leisure of reading and watching old detective series when suddenly around 9:00 everything went dark and remained that way long after we'd gone up to bed.

My husband is nothing if not resourceful and prepared for all exigencies. He immediately thrust a flashlight into my hand, then got out candelabra and candles and brought up a couple of old 19th Century glass kerosene lamps and set them about to once again light up our world. No electricity but batteries and good old-fashioned lamps with wicks and chimneys to throw us enough light to peer at the printed word.

When we awoke in the morning my husband suggested, since we were heading for another hot day -- this time 34C -- that we venture out for our daily ramble through the ravine before breakfast. So, Jackie and Jillie hauling us in tow, off we went into the steaming ravine, well and truly drenched from hours of heavy rain the night before. Steaming it was, for it was already hot at 28C at 7:00 in the morning, and mist rose everywhere in the forest. The sun, penetrating the now-leafy canopy struggled to burn off the mist.

The resulting scene of mist and broad shafts of sunlight cutting through the mist was one of ethereal, breathtaking beauty. To which Jackie and Jillie were oblivious, but we were not. They are constantly on the alert to determine whether there's anyone or anything else moving about through the forest. We did come across one couple evidently not averse to getting out early, with their dog, a playful cross between a boxer and perhaps a pit bull we've seen before, curious about everything, still a pup at just a year old.

Other than those three doing precisely what we were determined to do, avoid the real heat of the afternoon and still access an enjoyable daily tramp through the woods into our itinerary, we saw no one else. All was still and serene. A ravishingly beautiful landscape, vibrant and green and sunlit yet mystically veiled in a delicate grey mist.

We realized when we woke yesterday morning that overnight rain had fallen. Rain that the landscape badly needed, and quickly soaked up. Although there were ample signs in the backyard that it had rained, we had our doubts about how much had fallen. The amount of water in the birdbath usually gives us a good idea since I had emptied it the day before. And it was barely a quarter full, not even that. But looking around the garden there were a few surprises; for one thing that the snake's head fritillary that I'd planted so many years ago, had been spreading its territory a bit in the rock garden. There are now three plants, and the original for the first time has sported two flowerheads.

A look around at the pots sprinkled around the gardens at the front of the house revealed hearty, happy plants recently 'watered' by nature, and no complaints were heard from any of the luscious begonias or any others occupying space in the varied urns and pots. I've been anxiously peering at the garden where our three hibiscus shrubs are located, one of which I transplanted to the back garden a month ago, but nothing yet to be seen indicating they'll soon spring into life.

Entering the ravine with Jackie and Jillie we soon discovered an entirely different landscape; everything, the trails, the forest floor, the full new foliage, completely drenched. Leaving us to wonder how that might be possible. It appeared as though the rain that had fallen concentrating its volume within the precinct of the forest, permitting lighter rain to fall outside its confines as a bit of an afterthought; however absurdly unlikely that might be.

And oddly enough the hordes of mosquitoes that had been devouring us in the last week under the glare of the sun on dry days and no humidity seemed to have retired their immediate ambition to drain us completely of blood. They were few and far between. We never use mosquito repellent and though the stings are excruciatingly itchy and we try not to scratch, by the time we return home from one of our daily outings there is rarely a time when we feel the impact of countless mosquito bites; no longer do they itch, and nor do we see signs of having been bit, no raised little lumps, nothing. We have inured ourselves.

Wild apple blossoms

The rain that appeared to fall so heavily in the ravine, produced quite a few surprises for us. That old, surprising overnight phenomena again, for suddenly where we weren't even aware of flower buds appearing on the wild apple trees, yesterday their branches were flush with fresh new flowers. And the same for the cherry trees, beginning to drip with their compound flower heads.

It was a hot day, the temperature reaching to just a tad under 30C, but in the shade of the forest canopy the heat was tolerable, especially with the presence of a gusting breeze.  The surprises awaiting us continued to show themselves. And as I bent closer to obtain a better impression of what I was witnessing, and drew my camera close, I discovered where most of the mosquitoes were biding their time. Striding along the forest paths the mosquitoes were somehow kept at bay.

Wild ginger

Bending over a wildflower flaunting its lovely form and wonderful colour was an invitation for the mosquitoes to suddenly emerge, swarm and attack, and they did, with a vengeance. So each of the photographs I took came with a price. One I was temporarily willing to accept, although not with a glad heart. In fact some pretty foul language found its place in my mind. But nature is nature.

Red Baneberry

Clumps of ginger are now fully formed and beautifully green. They're preparing to flower as June approaches. And though I've tried year after year to find one of those flowers, dark wine-red, small, fuzzy and growing very close to the stem of the plant, shielded from view by their foliage, they're shy and difficult to see. It takes determination, to hazard a guess in early-to-mid-June that within and under, hugging the forest floor, a flower  may be hiding. Once in my memory my constant peeking under the foliage resulted in the discovery of one of those flowers. But I keep trying.

Lilies-of-the-Valley

Red baneberry produced a sudden burst of growth, bouncing out of the soil and speedily taking shape.  And almost overnight, it seemed, their white compound flower heads were appearing. Where before they seemed almost anonymous in the growing crowd of green bracken on the forest floor, suddenly they're easily distinguishable, thanks to their flowering.

White Trillium

I clambered down one of the hillsides to look for white trilliums in the expectation that I would finally see some in full mature flower. And though there are much fewer of them this year than the last two years, my expectation was well met by a proud few plants flaunting their brilliant white flags. Foamflower too this hear are fewer in number. Where previously we had seen good-size colonies, this year those colonies appear to have been reduced substantially.

Foamflower

And lilies-of-the-valley too are finally sending up their little tinker-bell floral stalks, the most delicate, easily-overlooked tiny sprays that in garden plants are far more robust and exude the most divine fragrance for the brief time of their flowering. I've taken quite a few photographs of Jack-in-the-pulpits, with their distinctive floral 'hood'. But the thing about that single-petalled flower is that it bows gracefully over the bowl of the flower and in so doing, hides the beauty of its purple-green striped interior.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit

So I carefully bent over, gently extended thumb and index finger to grasp the top of the petal and raise it to open the interior to view and reveal the treasure within. Then, as mosquitoes did their utmost to reward my enterprise, converging on my face and my hands, I took the photographs I sought, released the petal to fall back to its introverted position, and shooed the pests away.