Saturdays are our leisure days. They always have been. When we were both still working, Saturday was the day that, though there were some things that still had to be done, time was set aside for a hike in the woods. Not the woods that we frequent daily now in our retirement and elder years. We would drive the relatively short distance, no more than three-quarters of an hour, to get to one of the trailheads in that wilderness preserve that is such a national treasure, over in Quebec.

We'd been exploring and enjoying Gatineau Park, its forests and hills and lakes for forty years. It's where we and our three children learned to paddle a canoe, make use of snowshoes, pick wild berries, indulge in long, uphill clambers and truly appreciate the wonders of nature. And it's where, when our children became adults and we were left on our own, we continued to visit and be charmed by semi-wilderness areas embracing us on hours-long hikes.

When we moved to our present home twenty years ago, the frequency of our drives to the vast park's natural settings was gradually reduced, to the point where it's been at least a year since we set out for that destination. We'd seen foxes, coyotes, bears, porcupines, raccoon families, skunks, beaver and deer there over the years, as well as loons, great blue herons, owls, green herons, pileated woodpeckers, muskrats and many more creatures; various kinds of snakes and hares and ferrets and otters. Each time we saw these animals we were thrilled at our good fortune to advance our experience and knowledge and comfort in nature.

Now, mostly hiking along the far more limited forest trails in the ravine nearby our home, we still see animals and birds whose habitat we 'borrow' for brief periods of leisurely relaxation in stretching our limbs to their fullest, expanding our experience with the peace of being at one with nature, allowing our minds to wander and being mindful at the same time of animals besides ourselves and our two little dogs who enjoy their place within nature just as we do.

We're increasingly alone in the ravine these much colder days with this week's return to sub-zero temperatures when any kind of wind motion becomes icy and the ground below our feet has been thoroughly penetrated by frost. The remainder of the last snowstorm is now mostly a treacherous layer of ice overlaying the leaf mass on the trails, so that when we're treading uphill and downhill care must be taken to ensure our icer-strapped boots don't slip, carrying us to a thumping and sometimes painful smack on the hardened  trailbed.

Although the screws on our cleats are still sharp, at a temperature of -7C with no new snow fallen means there will be some slipping and threat of involuntary prostrate (alternately upright) contact with the frozen forest floor if we're not sufficiently careful. More than adequate reason for some, even devoted trail-hikers, to remain out of the ravine until conditions improve. We remain committed to getting out there regardless, we just take extra care.

There is a snowfall expected to begin this afternoon and go on through the night. So chances that we'll have yet another snowpack initiated for winter, given it's December first, look fairly promising. And with fresh snow on the ground, and temperatures hovering around -6 and below, Jackie and Jillie will have to be outfitted once again with their tiny rubber boots to keep their little footpads from freezing.

Yesterday, when we returned from our afternoon hike in the woods my husband decided he would use his bread machine and bake a rye bread with lots of seeds. And did just that, and filled the house with the fragrant aroma of fresh-baked bread, while I set about preparing a cream-of-asparagus soup that I use sour cream with, and we both enjoy tremendously. What could be better for a cold winter day than hot soup and fresh bread, slathered with ripe avocado? 

We've been visiting Sabbaday Falls, a scenic waterfall site on the Kancamagus Highway in the White Mountain National Forest of New Hampshire for decades. Ever since we discovered the wide-sweeping magnificence and beauty of this wonderful natural geology of mountains, forests, lakes and rivers. When our children were in their teens (our oldest son will be 60 next month) we bought a White Mountain guide and began, year after year, to explore the area, both in the Franconia and Crawford Notches.

Soon we began climbing the mountains, our family of five eager to take in the views at the summits, considering each of our forays an adventure to treasure. Each of those ascents represented a day's activity, up the mountain, then descending. Eisenhower, Little Haystack, Clinton, Mooselauki, Lafayette, Lincoln, Cannon, Willey. One day, studying the guide, we came across an interesting site called Sabbaday Falls, where it was explained, early area settlers would gather after church services to gather and view the spectacular run-off of mountain streams into the falls.

At that time many years ago, the hike over to the falls and to the trail beyond took place in a completely natural setting, without added aids such as the infrastructure of wooden stairs, railings and balconies that now exist there, encircling the falls area. They were built decades after we had already become familiar with the area. More recently, the site itself was shut down for remedial work and it remained that way for several years.

And then it reopened once again for tourists and nature lovers in general to feel free once again to roam about the area, through the forest trail and up to the granite cliff where the falls spill over into the Swift River which continues to run its course through a granite, boulder-strewn spillway into the Rocky Gorge miles away.

These days so many years later, our children have long been on their own, busy with their lives, and so have we. These days it is our two little dogs, Jackie and Jillie who accompany and companion us on these trips, as they did a week ago when we visited Sabbaday Falls to watch with the same old awe, the forceful volumes of water that tumble over the falls from its height to the river below.