This is the new world of medical care during the time of COVID. A scheduled 'appointment', aka a 'remote consultation' with my cardiologist. A man who worries far too much, and allows his concern for his patients to take a dreadful toll on his own health. The last actual physical consultation I had with him was two years ago. And two days after that in-person consultation he was himself scheduled for cardiac surgery. Now he's back in the saddle again, but the horse has bolted.

His clinic at a local hospital has been shuttered. No in-person consultations other than for very unique circumstances, and mine is neither unique nor needful of any attention. The call would be received between half-past ten and half-past eleven in the morning, which would give us ample time for our usual ravine ramble, a shower and breakfast. So we thought.

On with rainjackets for everyone. It has become a ritual of necessity. For not only has nature set a pattern for us this month of afternoon rain, evening rain, all-night rain, early morning rain, and the occasional thunderstorm in between, she also dictates when we may emerge from our social isolation on a daily basis. Not that we see many others out on the trails these days, and that's just as well. Unusual seasonal cold has set in, reminding us of October.

The rain had been reduced to light drizzle by the time we got out and then it stopped entirely. And we stopped too when we got to the top of one of the hills we mount after descending the first long hill for entry to the ravine, swooping around the trail taking us to the first bridge, to satisfy Jackie's insistence. He can smell the cut-up apple in my husband's pocket, and he wants it. Instead of having his nose to the ground, he keeps leaping up at the pocket.

So the small pieces of apple are doled out, and then we're set to continue our ramble. But though it isn't raining again and doesn't look as though it will anytime soon, we decide on a shorter hike just to be certain we don't miss the call. Along the way we note the soft shades of the colour beginning to alter the landscape. Mushrooms gleaming up at us from the forest floor. Foliage here and there changing against the greater backdrop of rain-slicked green.

Today there are lots of Fly Agaric scattered about. Some newly emerged from the sopping leaf mass covering the forest floor, some flattening out as they mature, some have been knocked over, and a surprising number have been nibbled. So we speculate that there may be some squirrels in a very good mood stumbling about, and hope that the coyotes and owls deal kindly with them.

And we begin to come across other fungi aside from the pedestrian white ones and the tiny-capped brown colonies. These are a bright orange. Not the bright red ones that we've seen previously, but bright orange. Not the bright orange splotches that appear here and there, their shape looking as though they've been poured onto the forest floor, but well-formed, arch-capped bright orange mushrooms. And when I look them up later on the Internet they appear to be of a family called Omphulotus.

From a distance off the trail into the interior of the forest my husband espies a very large mushroom protruding out of the ground and I dip and weave my way through the vegetation and low-slung branches to come to a stop before it. It somewhat resembles a potato, it is brown and large and almost oval shaped and its cap bulges here and there in smooth bumps. And it most definitely is not attractive, but it is interesting.

Later, at home, we're showering (we've a two-person shower) and though I don't hear it, the telephone rings. It's not quite ten. My husband leaps out of the shower, drips himself into the bedroom and it's the doctor. I finish rinsing away the shampoo and hurriedly cover myself with a towel and take the phone. Questions. Answers. Reassurance. I'm well, and how's he? Surely not dripping wet, standing beside his bed as he lobs questions and I bat them off. All's well. He would like an ecogram, blood tests. 

We wish one another well. Perhaps next year things will be better. As for me, I couldn't feel better if I thought I should. How to convey that? We dry ourselves off, wipe up the floor, the rugs will dry themselves. Throughout all of this Jackie and Jillie are sprawled out on our bed, snoozing. Thank heavens they didn't have a barking contest between them. 

And then it's breakfast time. Relaxation. The newspaper awaits. So do melon, banana, soft-boiled eggs, toast and tea/coffee. We're set for the day....