Well, it has been cold these past four days while we've been in the throes of a lengthy winter storm that began on Friday and continued on to Sunday. We've been averaging -7C, which by Ottawa winter standards is about right for the month of December. But the  howling winds gusting up to 80km/hr certainly have made it seem colder. And with the incessant snowfalls we've done quite a bit of shovelling.

 

The snow plowing crews have been answering so many calls they can barely keep up. Our driveway was stuffed high with snow yesterday. Usually it's cleaned up by early morning, along with the other houses on the street that contract with the same company. Just as well the combination of snow, wind and snowpiles kept us home yesterday. It would've been quite the effort even to wade through the snow on the driveway, then tackle the road, to get up to the ravine entrance.

 

And we speculated how difficult getting about on the forest trails would be while the storm was raging. It didn't take too much imagination to convince ourselves we'd better give an outing a pass for another day. We'd also missed going out the day before. Dinner last night consisted of hot soup packed with vegetables, grilled cheese sandwiches and blueberries drowned in yogurt. 

 

When we woke this morning it was -7C again, and snow was falling. Lightly at first and then surging to heavier snowfall. After awhile we were incredulous to see the sun come out, lighting up the house, but its presence made no difference to the snow. It just kept falling even while the brilliant sun lit the atmosphere. We decided for French toast for breakfast and that warmed us nicely.

 

We thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of the sun's presence, so an earlier afternoon walk made sense. On our return we could tend to the other things that demanded attention. Because of the wind and the temperature we dressed with a bit more care. Wind like that has a tendency to probe icy fingers through inadequate exterior clothing. Setting out earlier also meant we would avoid encountering the arrival of dusk before we're halfway through our circuit, as usual.

 

We didn't know what to expect. Whether the trails would be passable, given the amount of snow that's come down in the past three days. And whether there would be additional damage to a forest that already suffered more than enough casualties back in May when a derecho passed through, blowing down mature old trees. But we found the trails well tamped down by others who had been through before us. And apart from a few extremely tall, thin trees that did blow down, and plenty of twigs littering the snow, not much damage could be seen.

 

We came across a few other people out to enjoy the sight of a fresh cushion of snow. Most of the snow that would normally, after a snowfall, pack the canopy with thick layers of snow was absent, though. The effect of the wind blasting through everything. The snow that had been plastered all over tree limbs in thick layers of plush from an earlier 40cm storm was also plucked off the trees. Resulting in uneven surfaces where they fell.

 

These were thick layers of both ice and snow and when they fell, new snow tamped them down securely to the forest floor. The result was seen in an uneven surface that twisted and turned ankles making their way along the trails. The constant twists for a prolonged period was felt in  hips and feet afterward. But this is winter, and a fairly typical one, at that.

 

 

 

It's hard to tell whether Jackie and Jillie remember other times when they've been with us on trips to the New Hampshire woods of the White Mountain National Forest. They have accompanied us for years, a week in the spring, and another in fall. Dogs have fairly good memories and it's quite feasible that they do find themselves familiar with a landscape visited infrequently.

 

 

In any event, once we were ensconced in the cottage we rent at those times in the Waterville Valley, they make themselves right at home. They find all the places where they can be comfortable and more or less claim them as their own. Entitled little pups, they are. Of course we'd have it no other way. Sharing with them is part of our own pleasure in removing ourselves briefly from the familiar.

 

 

We decided we would return to Smartsbrook for another hike there. Before we did, though Jackie and Jillie made a friendly trip over to say hello to the three miniature goats that our host houses behind their own large traditional country home. And nor did they intend to ignore the presence of the tiny white bunny which was quite unfazed at their presence.

 

 

The hencoop chickens now, that's another story altogether. They're mixed breed hens, raised from chicks. In fact, the last time we were there three years ago, before the Pandemic, the chicks were being warmed by a heat lantern in their very early days. They've turned out to be excellent layers, the eggs they leave for our host to pick up are coloured in beautiful soft shades of ivory and brown. We were given a gift of a half-dozen and enjoyed them; fresher than any eggs acquired in a supermarket. 

 

And then we returned to Smartsbrook and this time it wasn't raining, so no one needed rainjackets. The roar of the mountain stream tumbling over rocks and boulders has its own pleasurable cadence and loud though it may be as the trail edges closer to the streambed, it is also soothing and tranquilizing. The constant spray of the stream moisturizes the air; reason enough why vegetation on the forest floor grows to great size, and why there is copious lichen of various colours and forms clinging to the trunks of trees and hanging from their branches.

 

We hear song sparrows in the forest, and see yellow Admirals fluttering about the trees. Underfoot the trail is wet and on either side grow straw lilies, lilies-of-the-valley, and false Solomon's Seal in abundance. Only one lonely Ladies Slipper comes to our notice. Jackie and Jillie forge enthusiastically ahead, and we follow. The footing is fine for the most part, but complicated here and there as it narrows to accommodate ladders comprised of crossing roots and rocks liberally strewn about.

 

This also happens to be the day we've decided to drive south in the state, to mosey about what is called Antique Alley, a series of antique, memorabilia and frankly junk shops along the route. Where now and again we end up popping into shops, with Jackie and Jillie sitting in pouches slung over our shoulders. A not inconsiderable weight which guarantees we don't linger too long in any one place. It's part of the fun of being there. But there is disappointment when we come across one shop after another shuttered, the result of a downturn in the trade.

Our first day in New Hampshire on the 2nd of June was cold and wet. It was 8:00 pm before we were completely settled in, unpacked, shopping for the week's food  finished, and Jackie and Jillie fed. And then we had our own late-night meal. Beyond which we hadn't much energy and decided that 9:30 was a fine time to go straight to bed. Jackie and Jillie agreed, with their usual enthusiasm.  We were all tired and needed a good rest. 

Just before dusk, soon after our return from Hannaford's supermarket, we heard what sounded like a telephone ringing. Frogs' spring serenade, that's what it was, and we heard them in the forest behind the cottage at around that same time, falling dusk, every evening thereafter. 

An early bedtime deserves an early morning rise, and we settled for 7:30 am. The routine then ensued; first off, taking Jackie and Jillie for a stroll around the grassy compound that held the cottage we would be staying in for the week. We took the measure of the day; cool, overcast, wet. But as long as there was no heavy rain we'd make the most of the day.

Time to shower, feed the puppies and prepare our own breakfast. All at a leisurely pace. The cottage kitchen is well equipped with full refrigerator and stove, coffee maker, toaster, pots and pans. Despite which we tend to bring along our own utensils; plunger coffee pot, coffee grinder, tea kettle, teapot, and a few pots and pans, along with a set of knives and cutlery. It's why things get rather complicated, hauling so much around with us beyond necessity.

We cleaned up and Irving did the vacuuming. We've been coming to this cottage for many years and our hosts know we like to use a vacuum so there's always one awaiting us in the cottage. We had, in fact, bought a vacuum cleaner ages ago and left it there. 

Our destination for the day would be our favourite trail; Smartsbrook, where area mountain streams pour down mountainsides into the Pemigewasset River. Smartsbrook had been heavily logged out decades ago when we first came across it, and the result was a real shocker. Since then, the pines that had been deemed too immature to harvest have grown thick and tall. We've always noticed the predominance of hemlock and yellow birch, as well as spruce and maple, with moose maple and dogwood in the forest understory.

It's a picturesque trail, and so is the mountain stream, boulder-strewn and thunderous. Since the area had experienced quite a lot of recent rain there was no dearth of water tumbling over the erratics and into the gorge formed by aeons of water streaming down mountainsides. At one time we could be assured of seeing plentiful beautiful Ladies Slippers in bloom especially along an adjoining trail further upstream, Pine Flats. Every year there has been a diminishing number of those lovely orchids, and now we see mostly straw lilies.

The trails were sodden, but we've seen them much wetter at this time of year. It's a steady uphill climb negotiating root ladders and rocks and boulders but the effort taken has its rewards in the microlandscapes, one after another. We took our time, occasionally leaving the trail to move closer to the stream, marvelling at the striated, black-and-red granite and the depth of the stream as we ascended. Up to the last time we had visited three years ago we would hike the entire trail, leaving Pine Flats to enter the forest interior for a much longer trail commitment. This time, on our 76th wedding anniversary, we felt the need to pace ourselves, and turned back when we reached the end of the Pine Flats trail.

It takes time and patience, but I decided to bake a yeast-raised dessert for tonight. And of the various kinds of such baked products, Chelsea buns (cinnamon rolls) are Irving's favourite. Actually, I prepared two bread doughs; one a sweet type for the buns, the second a savoury dough for flat bread that I'll bake later in the week, and just keep refrigerated until then. I indulge in as many short-cuts as I can and pre-preparing things for various reasons to produce a finished product has become second nature to me.

The bun dough was comprised of milk, honey, eggs, yeast, butter, salt and flour. Easy enough to put together, knead, oil and cover for an hour to allow it to rise. Once that's done, it can be kneaded lightly, rolled out to an oblong, and the surface brushed with melted butter. Over that goes brown sugar, then cinnamon, finally a sprinkling of raisins. The filled dough is rolled like a jellyroll and sliced into portions, then fitted into a prepared baking pan where butter has been melted, brown sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over, and lastly broken walnuts. When the baked product is turned out of its baking dish the bottom becomes the top; glazed and sugary-caramelized.

Set aside to rise again briefly, it bakes in a 375F oven for 40 minutes. The fragrance of the baking buns tells Irving he'll be enjoying them this evening. It also tells us that we're finally free to leave the house to take Jackie and Jillie out for their afternoon hike through the ravine. An utterly irresistible weather day. Right from early morning onward the sky was an unblemished blue, not a cloud to be seen anywhere. So of course the sun beamed down, quickly warming the atmosphere from its overnight 3C to a bearable 10C. And we did our best to ignore the wind.

We came across that same tiny black mop of a miniature Schnauzer. At three months old, he is a bold, inquisitive little fellow who instantly falls in love with everyone. In particular he loves the presence of other dogs and even while some dogs can be pretty rough, after a bit of uncertainty, he gathers his courage and moves right in to mingle among them. Jackie and Jillie have adopted the little creature, named Ebony, with perseverance over his enthusiastic antics.

We met up with quite a few people familiar to us over the years; neighbours and people from the wider community, everyone aware that this wonderful few days -- yesterday and today -- have been sandwiched between days of incessant rain. The forest is still struggling to absorb the excess of the last several days of heavy rain. Deep puddles of rainwater remain yet on the forest floor. We've been warned through the weather forecast that the entire weekend will be one of ongoing rain. 

 

When we arrive back home, it's to a different kind of fragrance, that of chicken soup simmering for tonight's dinner. Jackie and Jillie get their little salads, and I set about grating potatoes and onions for a potato pudding to accompany the chicken breasts steeped in onion, garlic, bell pepper and sliced tomatoes with sweet basil and oregano. Separately, I prepared cauliflower to be roasted and served alongside the chicken.

 And then, out I went for a short while to fill up more compost bags with shorn perennials and some of the flowering plants that have given up their struggle to continue blooming. And finally, while Jackie and Jillie were informing me from the other side of our glass front door how displeased they were with me being out-of-doors and they feeling bereft and abandoned indoors, I planted the last of the daffodil and tulips bulbs.

I'm feeling a bit of a sense of relief that at last I can see myself completing the work of putting the garden to bed in anticipation of winter before frost sets in. When spring arrives and the newly-planted bulbs begin to erupt from the newly-thawed soil, it will feel like a balm over the wound of winter. That sounds pretty silly come to think of it, given that we're out every day in the winter months with few exceptions, admiring the snow-capped landscape and enjoying rambling the snowy forest trails with Jackie and Jillie.

 

Months ago my cousin was emailing me about how excited he and his wife were to be moving. The house they currently owned wasn't that long in their possession, and they loved it, along with the garden that came with it when they bought it. But they had decided they'd move from Georgia to New Mexico. Quite a decision in your early 80s. To move from the city where you were well rooted, where family lives, and friends of a lifetime.

One of their daughters lives in New Mexico, with a well established gynecological practise. She owns a ranch with a good large house. They've visited countless times over the years. And she persuaded them that they would enjoy living there just as she does, and they were convinced. Email after email, each more excited than the last ensued. Until the final week arrived for the move, and they were off! The euphoria lifted itself off the last email and enveloped me.

Nothing since. Not one little note. Silence. It's been months. The original plan was to live with their daughter until they were able to buy a house of their own. They're either beside themselves with joy, busy setting up household, or they're devastated by a decision that when carried through, has turned out to be a mini-disaster. And then, of course, there's COVID-19. The U.S. has been hit dreadfully hard. We in Canada on the other hand, are more fortunate.

And we in particular feel ourselves to be doubly so. We hesitate to embark on any trips now, and haven't. It's been a stay-at-home summer for most people. There are no complaints from this quarter simply because there cannot be any. It's getting on to late afternoon. I've decided to make a seafood chowder for dinner and I can smell the broth simmering on the stove with its vegetables. The fish, sole and shrimp, will be added shortly before serving. 

My husband just came upstairs from his workshop. The latest of his stained glass windows is nearing completion. I've finished doing the laundry, no more loads to take out of the dryer and the ironing is all done; just linen mostly. Jackie and Jillie have had their afternoon treat of chopped fresh vegetables. Earlier in the day we were out in the back garden. 

The tomato plant that I first saw a month or so ago in the garden when it was several inches in height and I wondered where it had suddenly come from, is now five feet tall, and sprouting flowers everywhere. And finally, I'm able to identify it as a grape tomato vine, for there they are, the first of its fruit appearing. The mystery of how it arrived in the garden remains unsolved. Birds often drop seeds in their droppings ... and come to think of it, Jackie and Jillie have grape tomatoes in their salads daily.

When we went out to the ravine for our early morning tramp through the woods this morning it was cool, after last night's rain and wind, but extremely pleasant with full sun. Our house interior in the early morning hours looks like a lit-up ballroom, the light almost blinding on its east-facing side.

We saw lovely yellow toadstools that had erupted overnight on the forest floor and though Jackie and Jillie looked everywhere, there were no elves to be found. Unsurprising, they're shy creatures and don't like to make spectacles of themselves. 

After a prolonged traipse-about, returning home calls for a further pause in the garden before entering the house for breakfast. Jackie and Jillie are as patient as they can be, but we won't be rushed. They'd eaten some cheese before we left the house and we had taken a plum along to divide between them while we hiked the trails.

Any time we might feel put upon and slightly irritated by changes in our lifestyle occasioned by the entry of a threateningly malignant virus and the fear of contagion, we should just shift our thoughts over to the tragedy of human death on an unimaginable scale caused by the effect of this coronavirus and be properly grateful that we've been able, through the courtesy of merciful fortune to have avoided contracting it.

We can, after all, live with inconveniences in our lives. Some of which are painful for everyone; that in the present era of uncertainty generations in a family must take exceptional care not to transmit the virus to the most vulnerable among them; the health-impaired, the elderly, the young. It's an understatement to say that I feel hugely relieved and grateful that I'm long past the time of being mother to a young brood.

That our children weren't young at such a time in history nor grandchild, is a bonus beyond valuation, saving us from the aching concern over their welfare, both mental and physical, under prevailing conditions of ongoing virus transmission threat with school re-openings looming in a matter of days. Parents of children having to make painful decisions, whether to home school their children, one of the parents -- if an intact two-parent family-- having to remain at home, foregoing career or work thus diminishing the family's income and depriving one parent of normalcy. Much worse in one-parent families.

Or making the difficult decision to return their children to a school setting and hope for the best. It's a type of Solomonic decision that calls for a careful study of all sides of a problem, and this problem has many sides to it. This problem doesn't call for wisdom of choice, because there is no choice, simply a decision to go one way or the other and hope against hope that all will be well.

If matters fail to develop well, then all of society will suffer for it, since community transmission will increase and the chances for contracting the virus will increase with greater exposure in the general public. On the other hand, we're moving steadily toward a time when vaccine trials of candidates for a researched solution will pass their third trials, seek government approval and begin producing medications for inoculating the public. And that may result in a massive diminution of the threat.

No threats were on our minds early this morning when we set off under rain-threatening clouds, high atmospheric winds and cool temperatures, albeit with high humidity levels for our usual hike through the ravine before breakfast with Jackie and Jillie. It's always a relief to get out there. A feeling of freedom of movement, relaxation, fresh air and expectations for a good day ahead.

 Today was one of those days when we came across a number of peculiar fungi growing at the base of, or on decaying tree trunks that took our attention because of their oddities of appearance. From a large yellow 'splotch' that appeared at the base of an old dead Ash to a number of colonies of fungi marching up the trunk of other trees that had succumbed to age or disease, and other peculiar-shaped fungi here and there in the woods. 

The overcast light, though making the forest interior appear dusky-dim seems somehow to illuminate these strange growths so they stand out from the surrounding landscape. And notice them we do for their peculiarities in presentation, part of nature's complex scheme in the finality of discrete life forms and the continuation of life as it renews itself.

And then home, to dawdle briefly in the garden, admiring form and colour that overcast conditions never fail to highlight, flattering the garden in a way that a full sunlit day never seems to. 

It's been a busy day. Mondays are always busy. Cleaning day. Just as well I don't mind spending hours cleaning the house. Actually, it's a fine way to notice everything you've assembled around you during a lifetime. Ownership of all kinds of things to look at, crowded into every room of the house. And fact is there's a memory behind every one of those objects. So it's an interesting exercise. You're on autopilot doing the dusting, the mopping, the vacuuming, washing the floors. All the while your mind is free to wander. 

And then finally it's all done for another week. There's satisfaction in that. Getting through the process setting everything to rights, cleaning and tidying. An orderly  home is one that can be enjoyed to the fullest. Jackie and Jillie think so, they're absolutely thrilled when I'm finished because they can gain entry to the kitchen when the floors are dry. They leap around me in a joyful swirl as though something special is awaiting them. And then my husband remembers it's time for their snack, a tiny bowl of fresh vegetables.

We had one of those lovely pink sunsets last night as the sun was tucking itself below the horizon. I'd baked croissants to go with our dinner. This time when I was preparing the bread dough I dumped a quarter cup of sesame seeds in and kneaded it thoroughly into the dough. They were cheese croissants, lots of old cheddar grated and sprinkled over the croissants as I rolled the dough over and folded it and rolled it out again.

 It was meant to accompany cream of cauliflower soup. I thought they'd make a good combination. It's our little dogs' favourite vegetable, and one of ours, as well. Tonight I'll make a light, quick dinner; fresh vegetable salad and cheese omelletes with sliced fresh Ontario plums for dessert. Easy and filling; that should do the trick.

I would have been a little faster finishing up the house cleaning if I hadn't gone out to do a little gardening when I was  halfway through dusting. My husband was doing the vacuuming and I had asked Jackie and Jillie if they wanted to go out for short while, so I accompanied them, and took the opportunity to cut back some rose shrub canes. And while I was about it, straightening out one of the garden beds by removing some of the colourfully intrusive Harlequin vines.

We had been out hiking through the raivne pre-breakfast as usual, this last day of August. A truly beautiful day, comfortably cool and sparkling bright. There were scintillating drops of morning dew on the bright pink petals of the Himalayan orchids that we passed, catching the rays of the sun and catching our eyes as well. They'll soon enough be winding down when the night-time lows turn the corner into frost-zone.

Last night we had a Zoom call with our younger son. Today he was heading out to the east side of Vancouver Island on a week-long kayaking trip around the countless islands there. He usually makes those trips on the west side, more readily accessible for him after he ferries out from the mainland, but he's decided to explore elsewhere this coming week. We talked for an hour and it seemed like a few minutes. It seems almost miraculous that the medium takes us directly from home-to-home, Ottawa to Vancouver face-to-face.

Our explorations are pretty well confined now to our handy forested ravine, but last night we reminisced with him about some of our trips visiting with him and what a fascinating time that was for us. Our exposures to the natural world were gradually reduced as time wore on and the steady increase of our years. We're more than grateful we have this leisurely natural resource so close to our home. Things just seem to have come together for us, in this last house we bought thirty years ago, since part of its appeal to us was its proximity to the ravine.

We ambled the trails this morning, following Jackie and Jillie as they made their own explorations here and there, stopping repeatedly to interpret the 'fragrances' left behind by dogs and other animals as they marked the usual 'Fido was here' for anyone interested, and our two puppies are always interested. It's amazing what their refined and powerful noses can scent and the messages delivered to them.

Touring the ravine through the forest trails is nothing if not relaxing. We never hurry, taking our time, using the time it takes to traverse a circuit to discuss what we see, and talk about anything that comes to mind, and usually there's no deficit of subjects that erupt for discussion. And when we return home there's also no rush to enter the house as we dawdle briefly along the walkways to the garden beds and borders. As idyllic a life as conceivably possible.