Hot and humid.  That is what greeted us the first four days of our week away in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  I had checked the ten-day forecast for the Waterville Valley only a few days before our departure and at that point there was no hint whatever of the record-breaking temperatures awaiting the residents and visitors of that geologically remarkable area in the next few days.

The forecast optimistically predicted cool weather with occasional rain.  No whimsy; an educated, theoretical estimation based on previous years' weather occurrences at roughly the same time of year.  But that is not what occurred.  When we had visited a month later last year with our granddaughter we had been similarly greeted with steamy hot conditions; these were somewhat worse.

Even knowing that in advance, we would not have changed our plans.  We're committed to returning year after year, to be temporarily within the grand magnificence of nature in the raw.  It wins hands down for us when compared to the western Rockies where we've also climbed and done alpine camping.  That scenery is awesomely magnificent, but stark and raw in a way that the more modest White Mountains are not.

We prefer them to the Great Smokies where we have also done our share of mountain climbing, and the Adirondacks which were grand, but not comparable.  And the mountains and trails surrounding Tokyo and its distant environs were different, and enjoyable, but nothing near to comparison.  Reason enough to return year after year.

The heat, between 95 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit ensured we would not make any snap decisions to undertake climbs that would be certain to exhaust our abilities to endure long and difficult climbs, so we contented ourselves with quite modest ones, enjoying the cool shade of the forest canopy and the sound of rushing water as mountain streams made their way downstream.

Forty years ago, when our children were young, no summer would be complete without a week's stay in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  We would rent a housekeeping cottage, sometimes one on a lake that would feature loons, great blue herons, and boat around the lake, swim in it, take nature trails and thoroughly enjoy our close commune with nature.

As the children became older we became bolder and began to explore the mountain trails in the Presidential Range, gradually becoming accustomed to long hours of uphill climbing to finally reach a summit and look out on the mountain range laid out before us, one mountain top after another, the sky looming large above.

And then there were tamer, far more accessible places where little-to-no energy output was required to enable us to view nature's infinite grandeur and beauty at close scale.  Like Sabbaday Falls off the Kancamagus highway, between Lincoln and Conway, at Albany, New Hampshire.  This is a site not to be missed.  With little effort one walks alongside Sabbaday brook on a wide, well-travelled trail that takes the traveller to the gorge and a series of stairways leading to wonderful views of this powerful and lovely fall.

This time around, it was one of the places we returned to with memory guiding us.  It has changed quite a bit since we first observed it so many years ago.  Not the elemental geological features of the falls itself, nor its surrounds, but the access points that have been thoughtfully built around it to enable people to view it at closer range through a series of rough log stairs and open fencework.

Little wonder early settlers in the area used to congregate at the falls after church attendance, to share with one another this awesome spectacle of nature's beauty.

The spectacular views of nature's primal creations take no effort and are worth planning for.

It was good to get away for a week, despite my initial reluctance.  He won me over, he always does.  And so, off we went to the Waterville Valley of New Hampshire.  Re-visiting some of the trails we've been long accustomed to hiking through.  No longer embarking on the mountain climbs themselves, an activity that originally brought us to the White Mountains decades and decades ago, when our children were in their teens.  At 75 years of age my energy level and endurance for physical exertion no longer remotely resembles what I was capable of, even not so long ago.  My husband's physical capacity remains relatively intact, mine infinitely less so.

So there we were, on pleasant excursions to familiar places.  And there she was, a small black-ghostly figure, flitting about among the trees as she so often did, in the almost twenty years that she was our companion in that setting, as in the rest of our lives, during her time with us. 

  

She climbed so many mountains with us, from Mount Clinton to Little Haystack, Eisenhower to Mount Mousilauke and finally, when we could no longer manage those heights, repeated annual climbs to the twins, Welsh-Dickey.

When Riley was added to our little family compact we were reduced to more modest climbs, and there was no lack of enjoyment for all of us.  And then, eventually, when our granddaughter reached her teens, she too joined us in our mountain perambulations on a number of occasions.  But with us always was Button, through the years.

Last night, two days after we had returned home from the trip, I had a peculiar dream.  I was somewhere unfamiliar, and Riley was with me, my husband off somewhere, and we were awaiting his presence.  Looking out a window I saw someone walking by holding a small black dog, and it was Button.  I ran out after the person, desperately pleading with him to surrender her to me. 

I expressed my tearful gratitude to him as he handed her to me, and ran off with her, to await my husband's arrival, anxious to show him that she had returned to us.

Montreal was a pain to traverse as usual last Tuesday morning, but the drive to the cottage we had rented in New Hampshire was pleasant otherwise, under lowering dark clouds.  And then we reached the Derby Line border, saw there were a surprising number of vehicles waiting to get past border security, and my husband made the choice to go with the middle line-up.

Never one to suffer from indecision, he made a snap judgement, barely reason to even think of it, driving into the line-up, all three of which seemed to host a similar number of waiting vehicles.  And then, we waited our turn.  Giving us ample opportunity to witness which of the lines were moving expeditiously, and ours was not.  Obviously, the border agent was taking his time with each of the cars he motioned to move forward, while on either side of us, the line of cars stopped briefly and then swiftly re-commenced their journies.

When we eventually made it to his station, he accepted our passports for scrutiny, asked what's this? when he was handed the card from the veterinarian clinic testifying that Riley had all his shots.  Brusquely informed my husband his hat was to be removed, closely scrutinized our passport photos, returned them, and began questioning us. 

Earlier, we'd watched as the car directly before us had been halted interminably, the occupants questioned, orders obviously given for the trunk of the car to be lifted, watched as he went around back of the vehicle to rummage about, watched as the driver, a young man with long hair exited his car, did a comical little jig of sheer frustration, raising his arms to the heavens, appearing to tear his hair, eventually joined the border officer at the back of the car, seemed to expostulate, and finally resumed his place behind the wheel as they were permitted to leave.

We had been given due warning.  After all the other routine questions and clarifications, the one that asked whether we had any fruits and vegetables we were transporting.  We had a freezer chest on the back seat - we don't travel light, and in it were a few items, mostly perishables that wouldn't have lasted the week in our home refrigerator, so we had taken a few salad vegetables along with us.  Also in the freezer chest was a small, neat little zip-cooler-bag I'd packed a brunch in, to enjoy a mile distant from the crossing at a State of Vermont hospitality and tourism spot.  It contained two bananas, two clementines, two sandwiches, two napkins and hand-wipes.  One thermos of coffee, the other of tea.

He flipped up the lid of the freezer chest, pulled out the little cooler bag and unzipped it.  That's our brunch! I wailed, there are clementines in it we plan to eat within ten minutes!  Clementines, is it, he responded, locating them, withdrawing the plastic bag containing those small orange orbs, and depositing them directly in the garbage bin beside his glassed-in hut.  I could, he confided, hunkering down beside our open window, a tall young man in uniform, with authority and confidence in his wryly insincere smile, fine you $600 instead.

Quite the initiation to our week away in New Hampshire, enjoying the hospitality of our American neighbours.

After having hooted us derisively for so long, the great barred owl we've been searching the woods to see has finally decided to make himself available to our scrutiny.  As in years past, the male bird has begun perching on what appears to be a favourite branch of a favoured tree sitting over the main branch of the creek down in the ravine.  So that now, when we pass by that way, to automatically look up to see him perched there.  Often, he swivels his great head to appraise us, in our passing. 

With hot weather having descended, it has become dry and hot in the ravine too, although not nearly as hot as out on the street.  In the ravine, the forest maintains a steady, cool temperature, helped by the lofty green canopy above and the breeze that appears to have made its home in there of late.  The breeze helps to keep the mosquito population down, and the butterflies seem to think it's just right for their aerial displays.  We hear the pair of hawks circling above where they usually nest, year after year, though we've never seen their nest, much less the owls'.

Buttercups and daisies are in bright display, along with cowvetch, fleabane and hawkweed, all there in abundance, on the forest floor and the edge of the woods, providing a colourful display of wildflowers.  The bright red candles of the sumac have already begun to develop, as have the haws of the many hawthorn trees.  The bedding grasses have reached maturity and have begun to flower, releasing their heady perfume on the atmosphere.

It is a much-appreciated privilege for us to have such quick and easy access to the ravine, adding considerably to the pleasure of our everyday lives.

Last night we watched a film we'd never heard of. It was titled the War at Home. And little did we know it, but in selecting it out of a bin of films at the Salvation Army thrift shop we were in the process of bring home an outstanding film, powerfully motivated and superbly acted.

Produced in 1996, the cast was outstanding. The story of a middle-class family emotionally rent asunder at the return of their Vietnam-war veteran son.  His mind shattered by his experiences in the theatre of war.  Overwhelmed by guilt and raging anger, the film unfolds as the family undergoes further disintegration.

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There is no peace of mind for the young man, his expectations for the future are completely dashed, he cannot live with his memories, his mind is continually haunted by the fearsome experiences of bombardments, mutilations, deaths.  Deaths he witnessed, a death he caused, and the death of his own psyche.


We watch the pain, foreboding, confusion and rejection playing out on the screen,in a demonstration of love, anger, compassion and denouement.


Little wonder we'd never heard of the film; it cannot have represented anything remotely like the usual Hollywood box-office hit.

Five or six years ago we bought our first cellphone.  In all, we likely used it a total of one call a month.  It was extraneous to our needs, but we thought it might be a good idea to have one, for those times when we were away from home and needed to make a call.  Even so, it was hardly used.  We traded it in for another when we thought texting might be a good alternative for those times when we were out-of-country for maintaining contact at low cost.

At that time, although I'm no Luddite, I couldn't figure out how to perform the texting operation using the puzzling, inadequate, incomplete and absurd instructions that came with the Samsung model we were in possession of.  I asked a twelve-year-old neighbour if he could figure it out and it took him all of ten seconds, carefully writing down the instructions for me.  That was two years ago; after having used it to text-message while we were away on holidays, I never used it again, for anything, other than, during that period, for roughly two outgoing telephone calls.

I latterly picked up the poor unused thing and consulting the instruction booklet again - for I'd in the interim discarded the beautifully printed instructions our 12-year-old neighbour had given me - discovered it was as dense, opaque and useless as I had thought it to be two years back.  Another neighbourhood youngster came to the rescue, and sat patiently with me at the kitchen table putting me through the steps required to enable me to send and receive text.

This time I resolved to never discard the instructions that he too took pains to write out for me in lovely detail.