The icy blasts of wind that struck us head on as we made our way up the street toward the ravine entrance quickened our steps notably. The shelter the ravine provides from the worst excesses of a nasty wind on winter days is very much appreciated. We execute a little detour now to access the trail leading into the ravine, since the supporting incline to the snowpack was sheered away leaving a step-up onto a narrow ice-and-snow platform a tad too ambitious for even my good balance.

So, we make our way past it, as we go toward the group mailbox whose platform has been cleared post-snowstorm by a contractor, and onto a brief narrow path more readily accessed. Not the least bit unusual an adjustment we have to make at some point during the late-winter season when access to the ravine is blocked in by an excess of snow and ice toward season's end. Younger, nimbler limbs no doubt find it no problem to overcome. Slips and falls may bother them less, as well. For me, once is enough.

So in we went and the relief from the wind was instant. Not, however, relief from the cold itself. It could be felt stealing its way through our layers of sweaters under our down-filled jackets. Damp, Irving says, combined with the cold and the wind, always does it. Descending the first long hill, we see the creek is now fully open despite the cold, the water dark against the prevailing snowpack heavily tucked in all around it.

In the distance we hear a Pileated woodpecker furiously banging away at a tree, chipping off great shards of a trunk commensurate with its size and the strength of its beak. I keep hoping we'd get close enough to one of them some day for a good photo, mindful of the time years ago when one of the birds was really close and seemed not the least disturbed by our close proximity. That was before the age of the digital camera.

We also saw a robin down near the creek and felt pangs of pity for the bird that is a  live-feeder normally. At this time of year we more frequently see robins, sometimes in little groups over the past few years. Some, it seems, decide not to migrate south for the winter any longer. We also, for the first time in the winter, saw a rose-breasted grosbeak down by the water. The forest is awaiting spring release from its too-long winter sleep.

The trails have been broadened, the snow tamped well down after the last several snowfalls early in the week, so footing is really excellent. Gone, the enchanted look of the entire landscape, including the forest canopy, covered in a deep frosting of newfallen snow. Gone, for the time being, that is. It's still early March, and throughout the month and into April we'll be treated to more snowfalls until the weather is fully committed to warming into spring.

Jackie and Jillie nose their way along the trails they are just as intimate with as any corner of the house they live in with us. They're looking for thin little twigs to take possession of, irresistible to little chewing maniacs. But they're also alert of course to a multitude of 'messages' awaiting them here and there and everywhere; wherever a raised surface presents itself.

Jackie's progress is particularly mesmerizing as he moves left and right, right then left repeatedly, endlessly in his regular devotion to detail. He is intent on ensuring that no message goes unsniffed; all the neighbourhood dogs' little notes of ownership as stewards of all they survey as they make their way through the forest trails.