We really are addicted to routine. It's comforting and it's comfortable. And it doesn't take much thought. That's why it's referred to as routine. Something you do over and over again, a regular part of your day, so anticipated that it can take over your life. There are some routines that don't need to be changed. They're useful, predictable and pleasurable. As such with our daily treks up the street and into our nearby ravine with Jackie and Jillie. Though of course there are times when routine is upended.

Weather, for example, can make a difference if your destination is out-of-doors. And this morning when we brought Jackie and Jillie back into the house from the backyard they needed a good rubbing down to dry them off. It was raining. But by the time we had finished setting the table for breakfast, and making pre-breakfast preparations, rain had turned to drizzle.

Yes, it remained overcast and dark, but that's what raincoats are for, and out they came, one for each of us. And off we went, not really minding the drizzle at all. The air was cool and washed clean. The interior of the forest was still and dusky, and we conjectured it could be the calm before another storm. But no other storm materialized while we were out on the trails this morning. Which was rather fortuitous.

An email from our younger son this morning tells the tale of being camped at 7,000 feet several days back in perfect alpine camping weather, not far from Lilooet, British Columbia, when in the wee hours of the morning thunder began rolling across the sky. By counting the time lapses between each clap he estimated the storm could be about ten miles distant. And as luck had it, didn't move his way. But he did see some lightning in the distance. The lightning that lit the spark to become one of two wildfires a day later.

We, on the other hand, were simply moving in a drizzle, not too heavy, under a thick forest canopy that pretty well sheltered us, even while the vegetation surrounding us was well drenched from overnight rain events. And mushrooms were making their appearance on the forest floor. And we're beginning to see more indications of impending fall in colourful poplar leaves detaching and falling to the ground.

Down below us on the lower trail, we could see blooming colonies of jewelweed, bright orange orchid-like flowers on spidery, slim stalks bushing out over the creek, growing blissfully in perfect habitat beside the modest waterway winding its way through the forest. Back up at street level again, exiting after our morning circuit we saw a tiny woolly caterpillar on a thimbleberry leaf.

One of the large and stately bull thistles was in full flower, not just one of its bulbous buds in flower, but all of them, nicely synchronized for an emphatic statement of colourful pride. Challenging, as it were, the nearby Himalayan orchids to a beauty duel. Both win.

As does the landscape of our garden, moist and lacquered from the rain, lush from the copious hours of sun they preen under. Two different gardens; one nature's wildflower garden with its many little surprises, where an abundance of bees, butterflies and hoverflies gather to pollinate and take their due in nectar, the other a collaboration between a gardener and the master gardener represented by nature herself; each beautiful in their own way, each equally appreciated.