Years back, surrounded by the Cariboo mountain range, we went to sleep that first night at the Bowron Lakes circuit, in the tent we managed to get up at our first camping spot just before torrents of rain hit. When we awoke the following morning the rain had lifted and our eyes probed the mountains around us which had been entirely mantled with snow.

It was mid-September and it was cold, even at the three-thousand-foot level where we were. We had brought cold-weather clothing with us and we needed it. The weather was unfailingly overcast and windy with constant rain episodes for the eight days we were in the Northern British Columbia site so popular with nature-loving foreign tourists.

As Canadians, this was our ultimate wilderness adventure and one we had relished even before arriving from Ontario to British Columbia to meet up with our youngest son who lives in Vancouver. The long drive from Vancouver to our destination took us through geology cut through by the mighty Fraser River, where we saw Dall sheep alongside the highway we shared with thundering-through timber transports.

We saw tumbleweed in the desert areas, and huge cattle ranches and saw vast tracts of land with sophisticated irrigation systems where ginseng was being grown. We saw some stupendous geology at Cache Creek, and the Fraser River Canyon took our breath away.

During the circuit we paddled furiously to arrive at one lake after another. Everywhere we looked, in all directions, there were the mountains. Sometimes in the early morning hours the lakes were glassy-smooth; by the time early afternoon had evolved, the wind was up and so were whitecaps. Most of the campsites with multiple areas to erect a tent we had to ourselves. Owls called out close to our campsites, and that was the first occasion that I'd ever heard the spine-chilling screech of Screech Owls.

Toward the last third of the circuit there was a river/creek that had to be transited. Trouble was, despite all the rain that had followed us through each day's adventure, the passage was made difficult by the fact that the water level was low. Which meant that only one of us could be in the canoe, steering it, with the weight of our baggage freight (food, camping equipment) through, while the other had to wade the watercourse. It wasn't possible to bushwhack our way through the undergrowth on either side of the river. It was too densely covered with tall, spiny Devil's club (think of Stinging Nettle on steroids).

At one juncture we suddenly rounded a curve on another, more readily navigable river course when we came upon a browsing moose cow. My husband and our son were hugely enthused while I cringed backward in the canoe, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, bedazzled in the direction of stark, primal fear at the presence of the monstrous-sized creature which, in fact, took little notice of our proximity.

At night all of our food had to be elevated to ensure they issued no invitation to the Grizzlies that we were cautioned would be about. The outfitter where we rented our canoe laughed when I asked if we would be advised to take with us pepper spray as a precaution. "This your mother?" he asked our son. "Hell, don't worry", he added, "you can easily outrun any bear while it's busy with your mum", he advised, laughing uproariously at his humour.

In leisure hours, during lapses in the rain, we would sit out on the trunks of beached old giants, musing about our incomparable adventure. And one of us would take the binoculars to play them over the mountain slopes before and beyond us to see if we could pick out the form of a Grizzly. We never did. But once, when we temporarily beached the canoe on a long stretch of shale, we saw the unmistakable and seemingly fresh imprints of wolf, alongside those of caribou.

And once during the trip we came across a different type of food storage at one camping spot; a huge iron safe, that had been unmercifully thumped by some irate Grizzly, denting the safe quite out of shape.

"In that outer world that hums so urgently over the wires, wars and disasters come and go. The names might change -- and sometimes not even those -- but the tones and platitudes of The Voice never vary. Of course, the victims are to be pitied, but there is far more horror that never comes to our notice in this way. Each civilization creates its own dogma of importance, its own values, its own needs, and its own fashionable veneers. The voices I hear are qualified by the subliminal conditioning of a city of a million souls in the mild, coastal climate of Western Canada. It is as simple -- and as specific -- as that. The announcers might shape their mouths around earth-shattering events but how little their platitudes encompass life beyond their walls."
But our planet is a small place and in my chosen corner of it I am curious about those of its human endeavours and triumphs that the media deem noteworthy enough to pass on. Without TV, newspapers, telephone or regular mail, the radio is my only contact with that world. And while the wars and disasters make little immediate impact on whether the water bucket or woodshed is full, they will in the long run, for there is no movement, no decision, no destruction in this world that does not eventually have some kind of environmental impact. I might prefer to live apart from those crowded, artificial satellites by whose standards most people measure existence, but I could not isolate myself from them even if I wanted to. Twenty miles from the nearest road and neighbour I can filter much of the detritus of modern civilization and absorb what I need, but I am still undeniably part of the confusion and wonder of this sphere that we call Earth."

This, from the prologue of Chris Czajkowski's Nuk Tessli, The Life of a Wilderness Dweller. This is an account of life lived as close to the natural world as one can possibly get, by a woman whose personal convictions are so all-consuming that she easefully musters the courage to live in isolation but for brief -- and difficult to attain to -- forays into what she describes as the settled world of a gathering of people living in close proximity. But that world that she visits on occasion is itself located in a remote, northern area of British Columbia.

Chris Czajkoski lives in self-ordered isolation from the civilized world, in the company of two large dogs -- a company that revolves as nature takes its course with the life expectancy of canines -- who are both companions and work animals, helping her convey the necessities of travel, carrying packs containing food -- hers and their own -- fuel, tent, sleeping bag, stove and bare clothing necessities, including snowshoes when not being worn, sharing the burden with Chris herself. This when she and they undertake long, difficult treks out of the wilderness into settled, populated areas, however sparsely.

She is a transplant from Great Britain, who found in the coastal mountains of British Columbia her ideal home in close communion with the natural world that is her focus in life. Starting out as a seasonal tree planter, she moved from that arduous occupation into that of an artist-in-residence in cabins she built herself acquiring a facility with building and carpentry as she proceeded, so she could live among the splendours of her natural surroundings, enriching her life and eventually offering the opportunity to others to briefly share those surroundings with her, as a guide.

Her home is accessible by float plane from Williams Lake, where she travels occasionally to stock up on the necessities of living supplies; construction equipment, fuel and food when it is required, having it conveyed back to the small lake that sits in close proximity to her home cabin and the two she built to accommodate environmental tourists booking time to stay over with her in the environment that equates with the meaning of life to this woman and to the creatures whose habitat she shares.

We two resting on the ascent to Long Peak, at the Gates of Shangri-la

My husband and I had the opportunity to do some mountain treks across from the Stein Valley, years ago, when alpine camping was new to us, though we had for years previously ascended mountains in the Presidential Range of the White Mountain National Forest in New Hampshire with our then-young family of three children. It was our youngest son, long since occupied as a biologist, who took us to the mountains of the province in which he lives. The last adventure he shared with us was a week of canoe camping through the Bowron Lakes circuit, not all that far from Williams Lake.

Spurred by different occasions and met by vastly different weather patterns, we decided yesterday and today to venture out for our daily walks in the Bilberry Creek Ravine forest, in early morning instead of the afternoon, which is our usual practise.

I had a four-hour appointment at a regional hospital that had been scheduled months before, which meant most of our day would be spoken for. It just so happened that yesterday turned out a moody, sullen weather day, heavily overcast, albeit mild. And fog hung thickly on the street level but surprisingly, not in the ravine, despite a dusk-like ambiance.

Jackie and Jillie didn't seem to mind. To them, a stroll in the woods is an exercise in having fun and engaging themselves in play. They don't notice, as we do, that the creek we cross over with the aid of a number of bridges scattered throughout the ravine, is in full flood thanks to the spate of warmer-than-usual weather we've been treated to the last few days.

Today, oddly enough, Friday thirteenth has dawned much colder, but brilliantly-bright, a treat to the eyes. And so, because we knew the temperature would continue to drop throughout the day until it reached a point where our two little pups would need to wear boots in the ravine, we once again went out for our walk early in the day to avoid the agony of suiting them up with the boots they detest.

It's a visual treat, in fact, to view the various landscapes within the ravine at different times of day throughout varying weather conditions, and we make the most of those occasions. And despite that this morning we went out before breakfast, we did come across some others on the trails who had decided for reasons of their own that the morning hours suited them best for their daily commune with nature.

This photograph shows just how far it is that we have to walk up the street our home is located on, to access one of the many entrances to the Bilberry Creek Ravine forest. A short jaunt past about ten houses on each side of the street and there it is, beside the communal mailbox. Another short pathway into the forest itself and we're confronted with the first long somewhat steep hill descending into the ravined forest.

View from our garage door to the opening to the ravine on the left....

This morning we expected to see the creek running freely. Yesterday, when the temperature rose at its height to minus 4C, there was still ice on the surface of the creek. Today, when we ventured out this morning, the temperature had risen to an unbelievable 4 degrees, under an absolutely clear sky, the sun beaming its warmth down upon us.

Yesterday, the moderate below-freezing temperature seemed mean and icy, driven by a nasty wind. Today, by contrast, the wind is far more robust, shoving the tree canopy back and forth, with a very audible soughing through the trees as the 50-km bursts of wind blast the atmosphere.

And yesterday, despite the cutting wind, snow still remained on the trees, creating that lovely picture-postcard appearance we all so appreciate, while today's wind, augmented by overnight rain had cleansed the tree branches of their snow covering.

Yes, rain. Yesterday afternoon snow fell throughout the remainder of the day, for an accumulation of another ten cm. But as the afternoon progressed into evening, the temperature slowly rose above zero, and the ongoing snow turned to rain. Making the snow, needless to say, soggy and heavy. Even so, in the ravine it hardly seems as though there has been any snow melt.

An perception belied by the swollen, rushing creek, increasingly fuller from the effect of melting snow. Most years we have what we call a January thaw, and this could be the January thaw for 2017, or perhaps just an anomaly of a few days' moderating temperature. But hold on: Environment Canada has informed the listening public that tomorrow's high temperature is set to be 8 degrees.

Now that truly is unusual, and to think that last week the temperature refused to budge above minus-15C just goes to prove that Ottawa weather is truly incomprehensible.

Tuesday is always a lazy morning for me. I luxuriate in time stretching before me that hasn't been urgently tagged to get things done. I relax with my husband even more, lingering over breakfast, with no urgency to get up and going. This is because the day before, Monday, is cleaning day, the day when I go through the house dusting, mopping, vacuuming, washing floors. It's all done!

For another week in any event. So all I have to do is prepare meals, clean up the kitchen and the powder room, tidy up the bedroom, and the rest of the day is mine to do with in leisure as I would.

This morning I decided that I would prepare a cole slaw salad to accompany the stove-top baked beans I meant to cook for tonight's dinner. To that end, I had soaked white pea beans overnight in water so I could use them today in doing just that.
     

And then off we went into the ravine, for our daily woodland hike, my husband, me, our two little dogs. After a spate of icy days albeit with no snow events the past two days, today's high went all the way up to minus-four Celsius. Unfortunately that more moderate temperature came with a brisk wind. And we also knew that it might be best if we got out before mid-afternoon, because that's when we were informed another snowstorm would be expected to start.

We're expecting another ten centimetres of snow, to top off the considerable snowpack already down. Surprisingly, we found snow that had fallen on earlier days, continuing to cling to the forest trees, despite the wind. No complaints, it makes the landscape more beautiful.

But we did note that the creek, briskly moving along, had frozen at its sides closest to the banks, while the middle portion remained open, the water moving businesslike down and onward, and looking cold, very cold indeed.

Also notable was the amount of detritus from the forest trees surrounding us. The extreme cold and the wind combined to make them more brittle, and so branches, some dead, others with ample green needles firmly attached, have continued to litter the forest floor.

Although the ghosts of Button and Riley, our two beloved little dogs haunt us still and likely always will, it has now been two years since we brought Jackie and Jillie home to live with  us. Just as humans have diverse personalities and idiosyncrasies so too do our canine companions. We see some traits that are common to all in a general way, but there are many others that distinguish the characters of individuals.

One cannot help but contrast what we were long familiar with, in the traits of our little miniature and even littler toy poodles with the two who now live with us. An interesting mental project, since our two current companions are twin siblings, the only two in a litter of poodles and their personalities are each quite different from one another's.

Jackie is high-strung and emotionally needy while his sister is calm and although given to cuddling more than her brother, holds her emotions in a more stable, moderating manner. Each can be excitable, however, since they're still in puppy-mode, and like many small dogs may be like that for most of their lives.

Because they're small we tend to baby them, which isn't unusual. But it does lead to certain inconveniences such as their puzzlement should we ever lead them to believe we expect them to exit the house into the backyard on their own to evacuate. When we slide open those patio doors they expect us to accompany them. Sometimes they leap all about us, wanting us to run and play with them, an expectation dashed soon enough.

Most often, they turn to one another in challenge-mode and run about excitedly, racing at top speed to outdistance one another, then turn back to physically clash in mock wrestling matches. Their acrobatics and athletic physical prowess provide for us a front-row entertainment.

Now that it's very cold and wintry and a firm snowpack covers the ground they don't spend much time outdoors. And never any on their own, though from time to time when the sun is out they'll ask to go out on the deck on their own to bask in the sun briefly. Their major time spent out-of-doors is during our shared daily hikes in the winter woods adjacent our home.

Jackie knows when we're prepared to dress to gird ourselves against the cold, and he becomes excited with anticipation. Jillie knows as well, and she hastens to hide under the coffee table although why she does this is beyond us since she enjoys being out in the forested ravine fully as much as her brother so obviously does.

They have become reliable company in the kitchen when food is being prepared. When they hear me chopping up vegetables their expectations are high; they'll eagerly consume whatever is on offer; green beans, celery, broccoli, cauliflower, tomato, bell pepper, strawberries, mangoes, apple, pear, you name it.

When they've been out to the backyard in a newfallen snow and their little paws are packed with snow as well as their hairy flanks from colliding with snowbanks, they enter the house and immediately leap onto the settle we have positioned against one wall of the breakfast room which we line with towels, to await a towelling to remove the snow before leaping back down again and resuming their normal routines.

Funnily enough, when we return from one of our hour- or hour-and-a-half treks in the ravine, even though they'll have come across other dogs being walked and race about a bit with them, on our return home, soon as they've been wiped clean of snow, their coats and halters removed, they initiate a game between them of madly dashing about the house, sliding on small area rugs, leaping onto sofas, boxing and wrestling, with Jackie, the vocal one, emitting emotional little sentiments as they struggle with one another.

We thought yesterday that it was about time our puppies had a bath. Oddly enough, when earlier in the morning I was in the spare bathroom doing a routine cleaning, Jackie followed me and became quite excited when I scrubbed the bathtub in there. The strangest expressions issued from his throat, leaving me wondering whether he was trying to tell me he too thought it was time for a bath.

He does, visibly enjoy the warm water being laved over him, and the gentle scrubbing of his haircoat. He is more sensitive to ambient cool air while he's still damp from the bath but it hardly matters since, as soon as both he and his sister have been bathed and towelled dry they become imps of unimaginable energetic fury, dashing after each other up the stairs, down the stairs, all about the house. Stopping only for brief wrestling episodes of ferocious intensity.

While Jackie is being bathed (he's done before his sister usually) Jillie is curious but at the same time tries to make herself scarce. She does not evince any anxiety over Jackie, who, unusually for his high-strung temperament, submits docilely to the process and just loses himself in what we assume to be enjoyment of the moment.

Once he is bathed and is in the process of being towelled dry, and the tub is being refilled with warm water for Jillie's bath, she sits by pensively awaiting the inevitable, but quietly resigned unlike her brother who, while she is in the bath and being soaped up keeps lunging, beside me, trying to reach her.

And when her bath has concluded and it's her turn to be towelled off, Jackie expends an enormous amount of energy leaping up toward where she is standing on the bathroom vanity top, loudly vocal and seemingly anxious on her behalf, as though we are busy tormenting her in some way and he, her brother, is coming to her rescue.

Once they're both released, as dry as towels can make them, the pandemonium proceeds, challenges and barking and stampeding everywhere, and in the process completing the drying job.