The difference a day makes. In that my perception is that there is a notable difference from one day to the next at this point in mid-fall where the transformation is in such full swing that the difference can be noticed visually day-by-day. More pine needles have fallen to cushion the trails. And there is an increasing amount of foliage joining the pine needles.

The forest floor is increasingly absent the green bracken that crowds it familiarly throughout the mid- to late-summer months, as the soil absorbs plants whose presence has notably diminished to the point of vanishing.

Autumn is seriously engaged in the task that nature has prepared it for.

We had two perfectly wonderful, mild sunny fall days last Friday and the following Saturday, enabling us to fully enjoy this hiatus between fall and winter. And for me to get started on the big job of wrapping up the gardens in preparation for the entry of winter.  And then, on Sunday, although the forecast was for some rain, the weather turned into an all-day rain event. That rain and the winds that accompanied the rain convinced the forest that it had better be more serious about shedding the season, and it heeded that advice.

So today when I entered the ravine with our two little dogs I could see and smell and appreciate the acceleration of the changeover. There is more colour, to be sure, and some trees have succeeded in shedding their foliage, while others have barely budged, but in time all will join the mass shedding and the forest will take on its spare, bare, monochromatic appearance heralding the entry of winter.

It is their natural habitat. Beavers don't mind the proximity of humans. They simply settle themselves where there is running water, and poplars in abundance in a natural setting in the middle of a forest. And for the decades that we've observed them it seems obvious enough that they appreciate an environment similar to one we take pleasure in, but for them their very existence is inextricably involved. Why should we begrudge them their vital opportunities to take advantage of what nature has prepared for them? We are the interlopers, not they.

Although we'd long been accustomed to coming across beavers when we so frequently hiked in the Gatineaus and came across various small lakes where dams were evident, and when we were canoeing in one or another of the larger lakes we would experience the fascinating sight and sound of a beaver in relatively close proximity to our canoe slapping its tail on the surface of the lake in typical beaver warning, when we ventured too close to its home.

Here, in Bilberry Creek ravine, just a short walk from our home to access, beaver now and again settle themselves in quite particular spots well known to anyone who often rambles through the woods. They build their dams, they forage for food to store in their lodges, and they feel comfortable where they are. It is only when people complain to municipal authorities that beavers are cutting down trees in their neighbourhood forests that action is taken to remove them, and in their removal the community is poorer for its relations with urban wildlife.

In the last few months we've noticed the return of beavers. A few years back there was a little colony and once, a severe rainstorm that brought flooding to the ravine and elsewhere sent the bewildered kits out of their lodge to amble up and down our street to escape the inundating water, kind of a surprise, since we surmise it's their natural element. As usual someone must have complained (it takes merely one complaint for the municipality to act; perhaps someone feared for the safety of their children or the family pet in an potential altercation with beavers) and the lodge and dam were destroyed, the beavers hauled off somewhere else.

But of late, the unmistakable sign of beavers back in our locality has been noticed by us, by regular ravine hikers. Small to middling-sized poplars have been tumbling apace. The beavers will go to some considerable distance to find the tree specimens they favour, both for building material and for food. It's amazing to think that these industrious creatures emblematic of Canada itself live within our midst. And we're convinced we're the better for their presence.

Up until the first frost that arrived two nights ago, the garden still looked presentable. The hard-working annuals were still flirting with the notion that the atmosphere was pleasant enough to allow them to bloom, extending our pleasure in observing their form, colour and presentation. Now, when we awake in the morning it is to the spectacle of frost on rooftops and the garden is visibly struggling to maintain its fresh appearance.

It is, of course, a losing battle. Appropriately enough, some plants indigenous to far warmer climes than ours are visibly wilting, like potato vines. Yesterday I decided it was time to begin cleaning up and tidying the backyard. There will be more than ample work involved in plucking annuals out of the varied and many garden pots that thrive in our gardens and which are responsible for so much of our admiring pleasure through the spring, summer and early autumn.

So while we appreciate how hard they have been working to produce colour and texture and fragrance for our enjoyment, it's time they had their well-deserved rest. I will save what I can of the corms that can overwinter, the canna and calla lilies, and the begonias, many of which have been brought back and forth from their winter storage in the basement, to the spring planting in the pots and gardens, year after year.

While Jack and Jill cavorted in the backyard I snipped back hosta foliage, lilies and irises, Japanese anemones and geraniums, among other perennials, in preparation for winter's onset, not all that long into the future. It's a start, one of many efforts dedicated to bring the garden into shape before it seriously considers its long winter period of hibernation.

It remains an offhand pastime for many of us to critique the weather, knowing that it is pointless to criticize it, for the weather is immune to the effects it has on the biology of its environment; nature completely oblivious to the manner in which her creatures are affected by her moods and tantrums. One such tantrum in the guise of a harrying wind allied with copious rain occurred several nights back, stretching into the daylight hours and we discovered anew when we ventured into the woods that mid-October is right on tap for its fall assignment.

In the woodlands of the ravine there is no wholesale change of colour to be seen at close range. Rather, one must look up, up and over to see the occasional red steeple-flags of maples turning, or look below them, at the forest floor to see the confetti of colour that has fallen under the influence of the chill atmosphere, shorter daylight hours, rain and wind events.

The sumac foliage has turned their usual bright crimson and for some reason they haven't produced a generous number of red 'horns' this year that name them staghorn sumac. And there's an extended copse of maples that hasn't yet begun to turn, but soon will. Their foliage turns a brilliant yellow, not the red of other maples in the ravine. The haws of the hawthorns are bright little spheres of red and most have already lost their leaves.

The hornbeam and the beech and the hackberry haven't yet begun turning, but the poplars have and the patterns of colour on some of the fallen foliage is fascinating, some with a staggered green trim on the leaf perimeter and bursts of yellow and orange on the body of the leaf. The birch are just beginning to turn bright yellow and they'll all soon be bare of foliage, while the understory dogwood and honeysuckle still await colour. The tender ferns have been dispatched, but not yet all the others, which predominate on the forest floor; much other bracken has turned pale yellow and appears to have 'dissolved' into the soil.

Yesterday it was windy and extremely cold during our walk. The temperature had plunged by mid-afternoon after an overcast sky with mild temperatures had transitioned to sunny skies and bitter cold. The cold certainly doesn't affect Jack and Jill; yesterday they ran free and frantic with speed chasing one another through the trails, with Jackie pirouetting and committing to fabulous leaps of joy.

The deep pleasure we always take in our ravine rambles has been diluted enormously for me. I find it difficult to engage as I normally do, to fully appreciate our surroundings, since I am temporarily unaccompanied by my husband to whom I can always point out things that I notice, when he's with me, sharing the landscape experience. In his absence I grieve silently even though I know this is a temporary situation. As he progresses in his recovery from that critical surgery he will slowly regain his strength, energy and stamina. In the meanwhile, we both must have patience.

Yesterday he felt well enough early in the day to feel enthusiastic about the wonderful sunny day with its mild temperature, and he wanted to go for a lengthier-than-normal stroll. So we walked down the street, leaving the puppies at home, and though I remonstrated now and again that we'd gone far enough under the circumstances, he urged that we continue. We walked too far for his endurance. We did rest awhile on a bench at a little parkette located off the street next to our own, but our return home was a lethargic affair. After which he found it difficult to recover that good feeling. Leaving him feeling anything but good for the remainder of the day.

He is finally eating well, though not as much as I would like, to regain his muscle mass and energy levels as his body heals itself in its gradual fashion. I come across people we are acquainted with on my daily walks in the ravine with our two puppies, and since they're not accustomed to seeing me without my husband by my side, I'm obliged to satisfy their curiosity, and am met with an incredulous response, everyone seemingly finding it difficult to believe that the man who has always been so vigorous and healthy had to undergo such a critical surgery.

When he is recovered, returned to his normal self, they can marvel anew at the capacity of a healthy man of eighty years to return to an optimum state of health and well-being.

That I don't drive can be qualified as chickens coming home to roost. I'd never been interested in driving. Not that my husband didn't encourage me and try time and again to teach me over the years. Not even when I took a driver's ed course finally at age 65, and afterward when I'd had a number of driving sessions with the instructor and my husband kept going out with me in the driver's seat, expressing admiration for my driving abilities. I just surrendered to my unwillingness to drive, and never proceeded to obtain my permanent driver's license.

Now, fifteen years later, when it would be eminently convenient for me to drive while my husband is slowly recuperating from open-heart surgery, I am unable to fulfill a necessary function. Yesterday morning Mohindar, one of our wonderful neighbours, drove us to the nearby medical laboratory for another blood test required by the surgeon to evaluate how the blood thinner is impacting on my husband to avoid the potential of a blood clot after mitral valve replacement. But the clinic was so crowded with people the wait would be over an hour and he was in no condition to sit there, waiting, so we returned home.

I tried to make an appointment on line but the nearest possibility was Saturday morning early or failing that, two Fridays away. I booked the Saturday appointment. Later, outdoors cleaning up the gardens preliminarily to complete clean-up, I was cutting the grass on the front lawn when Serge came over and informed me that from now on he intended to cut our grass whenever he did his own, two lots over. I thanked him and invited him to push the rotary mower I was using; a breeze. I didn't need help cutting the grass, I said, and then related to him our experience of the morning.

Serge suffers from jaundice, among other ailments so he often goes along to the lab for blood tests and it was his experience, he said, that the best time to go would be just before they lock the doors, at four. He offered to return us to the lab, to pick us up at 3:30 so we'd arrive no later than 3:45, when, he said, there would be no one waiting and we'd be accommodated quickly. And that's just what we ended up doing.

We're missing his 54th birthday by just a few days. Yesterday afternoon he flew back to Vancouver after spending the last several weeks-plus with us. And his birthday coincides with Thanksgiving. Without his presence things would have been infinitely more difficult for us. As always after one of his visits we were left feeling emotionally drained at the geographic separation that exists between us, his parents and he, our youngest child.

He had flown into Toronto first to spend a few days visiting with his older brother and his wife, our daughter-in-law. He'd gone over to spend one of those evenings with my sister and brother-in-law, before taking the train from Toronto to Ottawa, where we picked him up at the train station. The following morning his father was scheduled for open-heart surgery.

There was only one day we missed taking the puppies into the ravine for their daily ramble and that, of necessity, was the day of the surgery, a hellish day if ever one existed. I got through that day in a haze of disbelief and eventual gratitude. Gratitude that we have the experience and professionalism of practised surgeons and other medical staff at the Ottawa Heart Institute.

Getting out into the woods in the days that followed while my husband was receiving closely supervised care was a relief, helping to ease the fear and trepidation, the profound sorrow and tearfulness that settled over me; lending hope the opportunity to make its way into the confusion of emotion that so overwhelmed me.

Our son is a comfort and a joy to us. He took the opportunity during our walks to investigate the creek in the ravine to see how the aquatic life is bearing up; his curiosity as a scientist never stilled, propelling him always to investigate these phenomena that we rarely give a thought to. He never ventures out without a backpack, to serve in any number of contingencies that might arise and these little excursions were no exception.

He also borrowed my camera briefly to take photographs that I would never snap, turning the tables as it were, on my everlasting proclivity to photograph so much of what I come across because so much of it appears worthwhile, notable and appealing to me.