On our way to the ravine yesterday morning, our neighbour who lives at the top of the street beside the ravine entrance, was just trundling a child's stroller down the street, in it her little dog, getting along in years. He is still active, curious and bold, so she's babying him a bit, but one tends to do that with such small dogs, and Newton certainly is a small dog. Neither of our two would stand for such an indignity; they'd instantly leap out of a conveyance like that, indignant that we would even contemplate strolling them along instead of their strolling along.

No one was to be seen on the street when we set out this morning, and made our dip into the ravine. A routine has been initiated, began last week and will now continue throughout the rest of the summer and into fall. Before we plunge downhill into the ravine, the ripening raspberries at the edge of the forest invite us to pluck their sweet red fruit, and we do. Amazingly, a few of the thimbleberries are also ripe enough to pick. And Jackie and Jillie are most appreciative.

It was so hot and humid last night yet again that my husband hauled another two fans upstairs from the basement. Their judicious placement gave us all a bit of respite from the heat and we slept more comfortably than the previous few nights. We still keep the bedroom windows open to catch any stray breezes. Even so, when Jillie awakens she tends to pant with the heat. Lately, we've been suffering a bit of sleep-deficit syndrome. In the late evening when I'm at the computer writing, and then edit what I've written, I keep falling asleep and jerking back awake. An obvious sign that my body is telling me it isn't satisfied with the amount of sleep I'm getting.

We were wide awake to the cool, breezy ambiance of the forest this morning, however, loping along the trails, seeing all the vegetation striving to outdo themselves. More rain fell this morning, to give way to clear skies and a beaming sun, perfect growing conditions for all that flourishes on the forest floor. The Staghorn sumacs appear to brandish their bright-red candles much earlier this year.

The bright, white berries of the dogwood draw the eyes to the contrast between the dark green of the dogwood foliage and the cool white of the berries. The berries start out with thick, round clusters, then gradually become diminished in size as birds begin consuming the berries. Butterflies seem to be fond of the berries as well, but it's hard to imagine those delicate creatures chomping down on the hard berries, though perhaps that happens while the berries are still immature, small and soft.

Every  time we pass the old apple tree at a juncture of several trails, I automatically now look up and under the branches above to see whether the little amusing trinket that someone hung there is still to be seen. It is, a perky little doghouse complete with dog, a tiny, hidden jewel, someone's puckish idea of humour that anyone can appreciate.

Where the sun manages to penetrate, pilotweed is flourishing in bright yellow bloom. Hoverflies and bees tend to make the most of their bloom period, though it seems to me that there are fewer of both this year by far, than what we've encountered in the past. They're far less visible, so obviously there are far fewer of these little pollinating helpers-of-nature than there should be. This, despite that just down at the bottom of the hill, above the creek, an old pine hosts a hive in a hollow in its trunk, and we've watched for years as wild bees fly in and out of their little colony.

This winter, on a number of occasions, we saw hundreds of bee corpses that had been discarded, hauled out of the hive and thrown down on the snow packing the forest floor below. There's no end of wildflowers blooming in succession for the bees and the hoverflies to feast on, including wild alfalfa at the top of the hill, growing among thimbleberries, raspberries, clover and poplar striplings.

An hour and a half go by quickly when we're out in the ravine with our puppies. We're comfortable in the shaded confines of the forest, and when we emerge at street level the heat and humidity can seem overwhelming, the glare of the sun blinding, as we amble back down to our house, where our hidden oasis deep in shade awaits our return.