He is a corpulent man, almost egg-shaped. Where other people walk, he lumbers along, his gait made distinctive by his size. He speaks slowly, deliberately, with the authority of someone who has great confidence in themselves. His smile has a wry twist. He is the kind of man who, if a neighbour is planning to work on something he will be the first and often the only one to offer to help. He is a man bursting with energy, and with the strength of an ox. 

His dog is large too, a part Bernese Mountain dog. A dog that is also quiet and tends to be unobtrusive, despite its size. We see them both from time to time, not often. We first met him and his dog quite a few years ago. He lives in another neighbourhood fairly distant from our own, but also like ours, abutting on the ravine. In the past he has taken pains to haul lumber into the ravine at places where few others tend to take themselves, to build fairly basic but very useful bridges to cross areas that can become swampy at times.

 Invariably someone complains and the municipality responds by sending out a crew to destroy the bridge. He doesn't hesitate to rebuild, and sometimes it becomes a tug-of-war between him and the authorities. He once asked them how many people had complained and the response was, one. He is such a good soul that he will often take a neighbour's dog out his forays into the ravine, an old arthritis-ridden chocolate lab.

His patience with the dog is endless, because he is determined to see that the dog enjoys its elder years, and the dog does, he ambles along the pathways  makes the occasional detour into the forest interior and swiftly reappears when our friend calls. His own dog tolerates the presence of the other, tending to be a little standoffish. As though he's not quite offended by the older dog's presence, but prepared to accept it as long as it is no bother.

So we were a little surprised today when our friend told us that he had been out with his dog earlier in the week and suddenly it disappeared. It's unlike the dog not to respond when he calls. He thought he heard off in the distance a bit of yelping, but it didn't sound like his dog. When the dog eventually reappeared, it was as though nothing had happened. He assumed that his dog had seen a coyote and had  tracked it, and he was right.

It was only later that he came across someone we both know whose backyard is adjacent the ravine walking his own dog. Its known that there is a den nearby this man's backyard and he often sees coyotes around and about it. Did you know, he said, your dog was in a tussle with a pair of coyotes? He'd watched as the dog chased one coyote into the area of the den and then two emerged and began threatening the dog who then trotted off, the two coyotes chasing after it.

A bit later, the same day, he saw two coyotes in the distance, seeming to watch him and the dog. He's often seen them about and knew his dog on occasion would decide to chase them. Some dogs, in fact, are known to briefly join up with a coyote and they run together in a comradely fashion, playing, no harm coming to either. What our friend described seemed more like a vendetta in the making. He's unperturbed about the situation, he feels that his dog can handle anything he embroils himself in.

We enjoyed our time in the ravine this afternoon, a darkly overcast, and snowy day. Snowy, but not heavily snowing, so when it's over it won't have amounted to much, but the snow layer makes a visual difference in the forest, inordinately pleasing to the eye. Moreover, when it's so dusky in the forest the white landscape acts as a lighting source, quite apart from the beautiful spectacle it presents.

When the trees are covered with newfallen and still-falling snow, there's an exquisitely ethereal look to the landscape, intriguing, mysterious, beguiling. Today also there was hardly any wind and the temperature had risen to -2C, so it felt almost balmy as we strode along, the snow of a sticky character, mediating between the icy pathways and our cleated boots.

Just in time, too, since tomorrow marks the winter solstice and the day following the shortest daylight-day of the year.