Our garden languishes in vain expectation. It is somewhat aware that spring has arrived even if the symptoms are pathetically faint, for it has nudged lilies and irises, tulips and hyacinths sufficiently out of their long winter slumber to raise their tentative green shoots out of the garden soil finally released from winter's icy grip.

Which doesn't necessarily mean that the soil has warmed to any significant degree. More likely that anxiety to prevail over the reluctant-to-leave cold of winter has prompted those early-risers to make a show of defiance.

The tedium of a winter that will not leave is disheartening. Not only for us but for the flora and fauna around us. We feel badly for the robin picking away under our ornamental crab tree, seeking out sustenance. When night closes in and the temperatures once again drop below freezing we think of the early returnees in reverse flight and shudder for them.

Our local raccoons no longer semi-hibernate and now once again visit our compost bins nightly. Picking away at the food waste that we regularly place there comprised of inedible fruit and vegetable skins, coffee grounds, tea bags, eggshells but also leftovers that won't be used by us that they delve into; stale bread, bits of leftovers. They delicately pick through the offerings and zealously clean up afterward so we won't have to. They have been exceedingly well-mannered.

A pair of crows regularly comes around to the front of the house to take part in the morning picnics comprised of left-over toast or pancakes. They enjoy the offerings but as birds generally disliked, have been subject to abuse, and are very flighty; any movement they detect from the interior of the house sends them immediately aloft. Unlike cardinals and doves.

The local squirrels don't mind their presence, and while the crows are settled on the rail of the balustrades on the porch where cubed toast sits, squirrels place themselves on the porch floor and take their fill of whatever offerings are present. Jackie and Jillie don't think much of the presence of other animals outside the house, viewing that 'outside' as part of their territory, barking and carrying on when they spot those 'intruders'.

The moment we utter one word they recognize as referring to our outdoor guests our puppies zip off through the house in a flurry of activity to the front or the back to peer out windows to see who has come around that they can loudly chasten for their impudence in daring to tread on their territory.

"I dig out my Canada map and scan the country to the east. A few hundred miles away, on the Mackenzie River, I spot Fort Simpson. Now I'm more than pleased that I loaded extra fuel at Tagish Air. After crossing the Mackenzie Mountains, I'll intercept Canada's "Grand Canyon" of the South Nahanni River and land at Virginia Falls, a 315-foot-high spectacle that eclipses Niagara Falls. Perhaps I'll stop at Glacier Lake, a wilderness rival of Banff's Lake Louise, or, if the weather holds, camp beside a lovely beach at Little Doctor Lake."
"The Cub climbs at full throttle toward the peaks of the Selwyn Range, where I cross the Continental Divide and return to the Northwest Territories. In dreamlike serenity, the Cub floats past 9,000-foot Mount Sir James MacBrien, soaring above sculpted snow fields as pristine as those of the Coastal Range until a glittering finger of water at Mount MacBrien's base finally slips into sight. I throttle back, letting the Cub slalom down to Glacier Lake, the crown jewel of the Ragged Range. S-turning through sweeping turns, the Cub and I descend through valley-cradled air."
"As I coast to a stop beside a placid stream at the edge of a quiet beach, a stellar jay flits toward the mountain's vertical face. My eyes follow the jay, then climb six thousand feet of glistening rock to the pinnacles far above. At the foot of the mountain, a meadow bathes in sunlight, green and soft as a fantasy."
"Spotting an odd-looking object protruding from the reeds, I remove my boots and socks, and wade through the frigid water toward what becomes a set of moose antlers. I'd love to take t hem home, but they'd never fit in the Cub, and they'd raise aerodynamic havoc if I strapped them to the floats. Still, I can't ignore such a find, so I haul the antlers back to camp and hoist them onto the Cub for a unique photograph. Backed by MacBrien's towering columns, the yellow Cub gleams at the edge of a sparkling stream, sporting a dark brown moose-antler hood ornament."
..."Immersed in mountain silence, I stand at the end of the float, trout in hand as a majestic array of snow-capped peaks spreads mirror images across the lake's opalescent green. At the head of the lake, the highest peak in the Territories guards the Cirque of the Unclimbables, an amphitheater of vertical faces that are sought by skilled climbers from around the world. Surrounded by such Macchu Picchu-like beauty, I understand why so many native Americans honoured the land and rejected the white man's heaven."
"An appallingly thin lynx walks into camp in the midst of my supper. Long-legged, with big feet and pointed Spock-like ears, the lynx strolls calmly past, not far from my hissing stove. It must be aware of me, but the scruffy animal hardly gives me a glance. Perhaps it had just passed through the depths of the endless ten-year-long boom-and-bust cycle of hare and lynx populations, and it isn't about to let pointless distractions sap its strength."

Sometimes you read a book that so entrances you with the quality of its observations, its setting descriptions and the lyrical quality of the writing, you feel you know the person intimately who is writing his account of a solo months' long trip to the Canadian Arctic. Minnesotan George Erickson, a retired dentist and amateur bush pilot who flies a refurbished period Piper Cub loves flying, loves nature, loves wilderness and decided he'd take time to make one last protracted trip.

He sees and experiences all that nature is capable of throwing at him, from forest fires to wild winds, killer whales, muskoxen, caribou and polar bears. He is calm in facing quick-witted decision making, excited about unique exposures to events that he can immediately share with no one else. Casual and practical, his mind and his appreciation of the vast area he traverses from Churchill on Hudson Bay, Chantrey Inlet on the Arctic Sea, Northwest Territories, Coppermine and Yellowknife.

He fills his book with the thoughts that pass his mind, memories of past such excursions with friends, and you are left with the sense that this man in his mature years has planned this trip as one that will cap his adventurous soul with 'complete'. But apart from his wonderfully poetic writing style, he is also a consummate story-teller and an erudite student of history, both ancient and current, taking in philosophy, astronomy, science, biology, human nature and the nature of survival.

I do read quite a lot of such books. Of personal accounts of travel to the Arctic, Antarctica, the Himalayas in period narrative form and through biographies. This American man's passion for the Canadian North and his love of the wilderness, his casual approach to his responsibility to his own security are all impressive, but it is his writing style that is utterly captivating. After reading a book of this calibre it's hard to settle down to successive books because your mind tends to compare writing skills and the capability of another writer to bring you sympathetically into the circle of their thoughts.

I had to put aside two books I started after reading George Erickson's True North, Exploring the Great Canadian Wilderness by Bush Plane published in 2000 by Thomas Allen Publishers. Eventually I picked up another: PaddleNorth, Adventure, Resilience, and Renewal in The Arctic Wild by Jennifer Kingsley, a young woman who set out with five good friends, all athletic like herself, accustomed to handling a canoe under all conditions, and determined to paddle the Arctic's Back River.

Where George Erickson battled ferocious winds, heavy rain, soot-blackened skies from wildfires, Jennifer Kingsley and her crew also faced raging winds, sea ice and wild rapids. They saw grizzlies, came across wolves frequently and saw caribou in their northern wilderness adventure of a lifetime. Her style of writing is also very personal, but with a kind of intense quality to it that speaks of tension, in contrast to Erickson's, with the good-natured quality of a relaxed mind.

And while Kingsley also throws in ample anecdotes of a very personal nature, they have a jarring effect and seem unwelcome, reflecting a kind of bemusement of someone uncertain of themselves. She too brings in historical accounts of the people and places being passed through, all of which give perspective to the time and place but somehow there is a feeling their placement is contrived rather than casual, in comparison to the erudite Erickson.

"Levi and I climbed the banks in silence until we could see unexplored ponds and steams, Lower MacDougall Lake, and the girls' abandoned camp in the distance. Turnaround time. Nothing to report."
"When I finally took my eyes away from the horizon to look down at the hillside below us, I slowly reached for Levi's arm. He looked at me, then followed my eyes. Four wolves were climbing straight toward us, padding easily over angled boulders."
"We stood still at first, mesmerized by the casual rhythm of their gait. Their legs chose each rock blindly yet never missed. Yellow-white twists of fur lifted and dropped with each step; their eyes fixed me in place. They climbed straight for us and showed no sign of stopping until two broke off to our right. Are they flanking us? Levi and I shrank back on our haunches behind a boulder, I unholstered my bear spray -- just in case -- and we waited for the wolves to crest the rise. After a few moments, Levi and I stood up again, but the wolves had vanished. I scrutinized each rock with my binoculars, picking out lichen and cotton grass, but we never saw those wolves again."

Clearly, Kingsley is no slouch in her observational skills and writing abilities. Yet to me there is something almost magical about Erickson's writing skill, his absorbing accounts of his activities, his thoughts and preoccupations. When he casts back to retrieve memories they somehow fit the narrative, whereas I found Kingsley's somewhat jarring. Perhaps a result of revealing a tad too much about her intimate thoughts; no one's concern but her own.

As Canadians we know that winters can be harsh, and certainly can seem to go on forever, well described by the word 'interminable'. Spring does finally arrive to rescue us from the winter doldrums, but in the Ottawa Valley it certainly takes its time. We must surely, every spring, repeat the same weary mantra: spring is on its way. There are signals, of course, even though snow is reluctant to depart the scene because the cold won't.

The song sparrow that companions our outdoor garden life, spring, summer and fall has returned. Its sweet melody brightening and sifting through the air and momentarily lifting our expectations. And when we're trudging through the still-ice-packed trails in the forest nearby our house we now hear the unmistakable gathering of crows, see robins grouped around the creek prematurely searching out live bugs, and above all, hear the sound of Canada geese returning north.

Yesterday the cloud cover was too widespread and dense and low to spot their famous V-formation trek through the sky, but we knew they would be settling on the Ottawa River before taking on the balance of their journey further north. When we were out in the ravine with our two little dogs there occurred some random light snow flurries. And as though to typify the flightiness of nature's sensibilities, we were also exposed to sudden, brief warming rays of the sun; felicitous but inconsistent.

We decided, after our ravine ramble to get in the truck and drive downtown to Byward Market where our favourite magazine and cheese shops are located, so we did just that. Jackie and Jillie were happy knowing that they would be accompanying us since we'd left their collars on after their ravine wash-up. Otherwise, as happens when we prepare to do the grocery shopping, they mope in the family room while we prepare to leave.

The drive along the Eastern Parkway revealed the vast expanse of the Ottawa River freed of its ice-and-snow cover, and the forest surrounding the parkway a sere, black-and-grey landscape of bare trees under an increasingly darkening sky. But it's always a pleasant drive, to sit back and enjoy, and that's what I did. I left it to my husband, who has now recovered from his chest cold, to do the shopping at the two places we meant to visit, while I remained in the truck with Jackie and Jillie, nursing my own version of the virus that had finally visited me as well.

Rest in Peace

The bus carrying the Humboldt Broncos hockey team collided with a truck en route to Nipawin, Sask., for a game Friday night, killing 15. (Jonathan Hayward/Canadian Press)

Imagine a large prairie province in Canada with a population of one million people, where the prevailing culture is dominated by its rural, farming heritage. Where, during the last provincial election no fewer than five candidates in the 2016 election stated up front that they had in their background convictions for impaired driving.

Among those people who chose to reveal all upfront rather than having zealous reporters search out such embarrassing details about personal choices and consequences thereof was the man later elected premier of the province. He had an impaired driving conviction dating from age 18. Oh, and another driving event unrelated to driving drunk when, in 1997, he was responsible for a collision in which a woman died.

Fast forward to a bus carrying 29 young hockey players and their coaches on a rural highway on Friday, 6 April, when reaching an intersection with another unpaved but well marked highway, the bus was demolished by a semi-trailer that evidently failed to obey the stop sign, driving right through on flat terrain, in full daylight and good weather, killing 15 of those bus passengers, leaving 14 hospitalized, most in critical condition.

There are 24 members of the Humboldt Broncos, with members of the team ranging in age from 16 to 21. (Humboldt Broncos/Twitter)

Something dreadfully amiss in Saskatchewan with its attitude generally toward driving entitlements. Where drinking and driving doesn't appear to carry the stigma of preventable accidents that it does elsewhere. Not that, on this occasion, the driver of the semi-trailer was drunk, merely careless and as a result 15 young men and their mature hockey mentors travelling together to another town for a competitive game will never go home again.

Saskatchewan's rate of high fatality accidents is double that of another agricultural province, Manitoba; double the rate of British Columbia and Alberta. In fact double the national average for such critical road accidents year over year.

The accident claiming the lives of much of the Humboldt junior hockey team was yet another of a series of tragic events that left Saskatchewan and the rest of Canada in deep contemplative mourning for an "if only" preventable loss of life. Previous examination of such accident-prone intersections in a landscape that is flat, where sightlines are unobstructed, but which nonetheless are the sites of dreadful accidents, recommended amber flashing lights, turning lanes and rumble strips.

The intersection where 15 lives were violently destroyed on April 6 had those flashing lights and a stop sign, only the rumble strips were missing, though they're common on many such prairie intersections.

Thinking back, I'd estimate it's been twenty years that we've been getting flu shots seasonally without fail from age 60 forward. This year, the flu inoculation has been far less than successful; the formula missed targeting the strain, a more serious variant than usual. As a result, the number of cases of confirmed flu have skyrocketed, in some instances with dreadfully dire consequences to both young and old.

I'd been mentally congratulating our good fortune just recently that we've managed to get through another winter where neither my husband nor I have come down with a cold or flu virus. Not all that unusual for us, actually. Although it's also true that for as long as I can remember my husband acquired some kind of debilitating virus around the arrival of spring. And I rarely 'caught' that virus, whatever it was, from him.

Enter spring of 2018 and suddenly he was struck with a sore throat and running nose. As the days progressed his symptoms began to resemble that of the flu with respiratory and fatigue symptoms  and a night-time chill, just as his nasal passages were drying up. All of which meant that his daily forays into the ravine for our regular walks on forest trails with our little dogs had to be suspended.

He's been steadily improving, while I did in fact, become infected with that virus bringing me a sore throat and lots of coughing up phlegm. Yesterday turned out a wonderfully pleasant day with full sun and not even a whisper of wind, and fairly warm at 2C, so he decided he'd had enough of seeing me off every afternoon with Jackie and Jillie as I headed out to the ravine. It was time, he said, that he resumed his normal activities.

So, after I'd cleaned the house (Monday is regular cleaning day), we gathered up our little dogs, dressed them in their little sweaters, not the winter coats they'd had to wear on previously colder days, and off we went. We were neither of us in top physical shape, but we took our time up and down the hills, and decided that a short circuit, not the longer one we usually take, would suffice to air us all out sufficiently and give us the opportunity to make the most of such a spectacularly lovely day.

We've a spate of milder days ahead, according to the folks at Environment Canada, though we had light snowflakes coming down this morning followed soon afterward by sun. Eventually the forest environment will succumb to the inevitable; the snowpack will melt, the forest floor revealed and the tree canopy will begin to treat us with visions of light green appearing like a mist of verdant shading throughout the forest landscape.

Good news, right? Antarctic scientists declare that more snowfall events are occurring in that frigid land of ice crystals, icebergs and otherworldly sights of a frozen continent. Think again: those same researchers tell us that the icebergs and ice packs on that land where the geology is packed hard and deep with aeons' worth of snow and ice remains a scene of receding ice.

The bad news, evidently, is that warming creates a more humid atmosphere which accounts for greater snowfall, and all the while that snow continues to fall and cover the world's fifth largest continent that contains this planet's South Pole, its ice pack is still receding. Well, that definitely is a problem of frightening proportions; whatever melts of course raises the level of the ocean. And the warming trend has vast consequences everywhere on Earth.

But there remains good news on a local level, thank heavens, leaving our concerns for the future, the great unknowable future. This Monday dawned cold at -6C, but it is steadily warming and quite benign with full sun and scant wind. Lucky us!

We've got the balance of the day ahead of us which will include a lovely ravine walk in excellent conditions. Yesterday, being Sunday, meant that we came across quite a few people, including young families with young children who have never ventured into the winter forest before, and others taking their dogs for an unusual walk along forest trails.

Most of whose we came across we'd never before seen on our daily tramps through the woods. Some are friendly, some appear not to know how to be. It doesn't, after all, take that much of a personal toll in civility to acknowledge the presence of others in such a glorious atmosphere. And it was; full sun, slight wind, albeit fairly cold, hovering at freezing.

One group of young girls, lively and beautiful to behold were walking three dogs along the trails and having a whale of a time. One of the girls, perhaps 16, dark-haired and lovely as only young girls embarking on maturity can be, offered Jackie and Jillie treats from her ready bag. And our two were more than ready to accept. A situation of making 'friends for life', since dogs do so much appreciate attention, particularly when it is accompanied with treats.

It never fails to surprise me that so many people who appreciate nature and enjoy taking their leisure walking through woodland trails, take so little notice of the details around them in the forest. They cannot identify the kind of trees or shrubs they look at, they fail to see what the forest offers from season to season on a micro-scale when seasonal wildflowers bloom and the presence of various types of birds and other wildlife is but of passing interest to them.

In the close to thirty years we've been making the ravined forest close to our home our daily target for exercise and relaxation and entertainment, we have long since become familiar with its various and numerous landscapes and the growing organisms -- bracken, mosses, fungi -- that make up those landscapes. There are natural signposts everywhere that we can readily describe to one another to identify position and areas that we discuss relating to events occurring there.

So I wasn't surprised three days ago when Dan -- who walks Charlie, his goofy, affectionate, large and shambolic female dog, taking pains to keep her out of the creek because she returns home full of detritus that Dan's wife doesn't appreciate -- informed me that the high winds of the day before had blown down part of a tree. What kind of tree, where it was, he couldn't explain. But I knew we'd come across it sooner or later.

Later, as it happened, since I'd been shortening our circuit lately for a number of reasons. Yesterday, though, I decided since the footing had improved vastly from the days previous, and the sun was full out, the temperature risen to 2C, that despite the icy wind, we'd venture much further and embark on a really long ravine ramble. Our two little dogs Jackie and Jillie were amenable. They, like me, were well dressed to withstand that icy, probing wind, and off we set.

There are now areas being freed from the grip of the winter snowpack, growing day by day as the warmth of the spring sun and relenting temperatures help the process along. On the other hand, for the most part, the forest seems intent on retaining the snow and ice layered firmly over the forest floor. Eventually we'll have, temporarily, areas quite free of snow and ice and others that will have encouraged it all to linger yet awhile.

I wasn't really thinking of my conversation with Dan as we loped along the trails. Still it came as a shock to see that the tree he had been talking about was a lovely old spruce with a double trunk, a tree much older than me and which had the appearance of being really sturdy and in good health despite that a decade ago a pileated woodpecker had taken the notion it would penetrate the tree's bark and leave great gaping holes. Obviously it was seeking out grubs and possibly that part of the tree had been failing for years. It was at the point where the two main divisions parted way on the main trunk that those furious gusts of wind had cracked off one of the trunks, a sad and sorry sight.

But in the many years we've been making this forest our daily destination for an hour or so, we've seen the results of micro-tornadoes ripping through the forest taking down majestic old pines, and lesser winds ripping less stable firs out of the ground. We've seen the results of ignorantly disrespectful area teens setting fire to the hollow split of one of the oldest, largest pines in the forest. And we've seen the ravages that occur to tree species like elm and ash when disease and the grubs of beetles create their carnage.

Every time a mature and dignified specimen yields to stern adversity it is sad, a loss, but one that time and the fecundity of the Earth replenishes in endless renewal.