However briefly, the reason for us to take pre-breakfast rambles through the forest trails -- to escape the heat of the afternoon through a week of heat-wave-level daily temperatures came to an end overnight. At least we think it did. A pattern had developed of deep heat searing the atmosphere building from morning to early afternoon, followed by dark clouds scudding across the overheated sky, the sun retreating, and thunder informing us a heavy rain was imminent.

Nature's sense of drama, entertaining us with her theatrical performances. Yesterday things turned out a little different. Yes, there was stifling heat, and even our early morning turn in the ravine had a suffocating layer of steamed heat, despite heavy rain of the night before. At least we'd thought the rain was heavy; it looked that way, sounded that way. But yesterday morning the forest hardly appeared as though it had been inundated.

And then this morning we awoke to semi-clouded skies, a rip-roaring wind and a descent in temperature so far from what we'd been experiencing we hauled on rainjackets and tucked Jackie's and Jillie's little raincoats into our pockets...just in case. And once in the ravine, on the trails, it was evident that last night's rain truly was excessive; the trails were steeped in runoff.

The forest pines had dropped their orange-tinted seeds under the influence of rain and wind several days back, and the force of the rain last night washed the trail clear of the pine seed collection, leaving them piled at the edges of the trail; nature re-arranging the aesthetics of the landscape. The canopy was dripping, and the wind whipped through the trees.

The original reason for setting off for an early morning walk completely dissipated in other words. But we felt compelled to head out early anyway, since we had a noon appointment with the groomers to finally get our shaggy little pups relieved of the mass of hair that had grown in, resulting from two cancellations as a result of the COVID lockdown.

The sun came out sporadically to help the roistering wind dry out the forest foliage, and Jackie and Jillie had the opportunity to enjoy some conversations with some of their friends before we wrapped up our circuit and returned home to shower, have breakfast, and read the newspapers. And then we shipped them over to the groomers. They were anxious and so were we; separation anxiety on their part and on ours.

The new COVID ritual was enacted; we ring the buzzer at the entrance of the building and an attendant invites us in as an escort, face-masked and eyes smiling. A brief exchange where we release our two little black imps to the care of the attendants whom we trust implicitly, then we paid the bill before leaving and returned home.

My husband hauled out the lawnmower and I cleaned the bathroom, passing time before we received a call several hours later that sister-and-brother were ready for pick-up. Before we entered the building, we saw our two freshly-groomed puppies leaping at the window of the room they were placed in awaiting our return, scratching frantically at the window as they saw us and even from the outside we could hear Jackie's sharp, imperative bark 'took your time, didncha!?'

When we returned from our morning ramble in the ravine with Jackie and Jillie yesterday and were walking about the garden, one of our next-door neighbours warned us of the presence of a groundhog in her garage. She did that knowing our little dogs on becoming aware of the presence of another animal would rush headlong toward it. And groundhogs are equipped by nature to really look after themselves with a daunting degree of ferocity.

Shortly afterward, she came over when we were in the house to update the situation. It wasn't a groundhog after all that had decided to take up squatter's rights in her garage. Her husband, on viewing it initially had informed her it was a groundhog, but it was really a tiny chipmunk. We all had a good laugh. They've had problems in the past with raccoons and squirrels nesting in their attic, and it cost them a good penny to have a pest control firm humanely solve the problem for them, waiting until the young were old enough to be moved by their mother in spring, and then closing up the tiny portals through which they had entered.

It made me think of the time years ago when we were out in British Columbia visiting with our youngest son and we decided to do some alpine camping. It took us hours to ascend the peak we had chosen and we had struggled up some pretty demanding terrain carrying our backpacks, in the process. When we finally reached as close to the summit as we felt comfortable with, where we could pitch our tent (moderately sloped) and draw water to purify from a small lake below being filled by a melting glacier nearby, I happened to be the first up. And exhausted, I glanced over to the left and saw a small bear looking back down at me.

I shouted out to my husband and son, and my son hurried up, took a look and had a good laugh. Perspective sometimes is everything, not just in how one perceives what is said, but what one sees. This was no bear cub, but a marmot, a furry brown resident of the alpine heights. Later, we came across tiny picas as well, sounding their sharp-voiced little alarms.

This wasn't the only time I'd mistaken one animal for another. Even further back in time we three had been hiking a long forest path in the Gatineau Hills, and once again I had happened to run ahead of the others. This time I stopped when there was a commotion in the bush to my left, so I looked over and suddenly saw a very large brown dog beginning to emerge, wondering where his human companion was. Until I realized this was no dog, but a bear, and swiftly retraced my steps to meet up with the laggards, leaving the no-doubt-confused bear well behind.

No marmots, bears or groundhogs seen today in the ravine, when we pushed off into the cool confines of the forest on yet another exhaustingly-hot day. Not quite as early as previous mornings, because we stayed in bed a little longer, and Jackie and Jillie kindly taking pity on us, allowed us to. Earlier they had leaped raucously off the bed barking in their usual frantic way when they had heard the municipal garbage-collection trucks go by, then resumed their place back in bed and we all went back to sleep.

We admired the mass profusion of bright pink thimbleberries lighting up the green foliage of the massively growing plants this year, then delved into the ravine, the trails dark with the moisture they had lapped up through a series of heavy thunderstorms yesterday afternoon. For the most part no one else happened along when we were out save for one person we've known for years but haven't seen in many months. And because we were glad to see one another, we lingered and spoke together for quite awhile before shoving on again; one of those serendipitous little events that brighten a day.

There is one area in the forest with a colony of Partridgeberry and I glanced over as we passed it, the tiny foliage luxuriantly dark green and glistening with drops left over from yesterday. And there were tiny white trumpet shaped blooms that would later, much later, become bright red berries which presumably birds other than partridges now eat in season, because we haven't seen partridges around for many a year in the ravine.

Later, after breakfast, when we were out in the garden and I was doing a bit of tidying up, a neighbour who lives on a different street happened by, and she and my husband embarked on a long conversation. Jackie and Jillie are always excited to see people they know, tending to leap around them, waiting to be noticed and to be petted. They've finally come to understand that they're not permitted to run out on the road, but still need reminders.

This woman in her earlier professional years had worked as an OR nurse. Which left me baffled when I briefly joined them in conversation, noting how near her preferred proximity was to us. Each time my husband or I shuffled off slightly to create more of a distance, she would take it as a signal to approach closer. Why it is that we remain loathe to frankly inform someone that this makes us uncomfortable is beyond me. In hesitating to hurt someone's feelings, we sacrifice our own security. And that's an event that definitely doesn't make for a better day.

Most mornings when we set out early for a tramp through the forest trails alongside Jackie and Jillie we can depend on encountering cool shade as we descend into the ravine. It isn't too good a choice to leave our daily rambles through the ravine for an afternoon hour any more. At least not until we're out of the current heat wave. Day after day of overheated temperatures averaging 32C  and above.

Not much humidity, and usually there's a bit of wind accompanying the heat which does offer some slight relief. The birds are certainly happy, the heat doesn't seem to bother them, though they're warm-blooded like us. There's no question the overheated atmosphere bothers Jackie and Jillie, particularly Jilly, given her sturdy little frame, well padded and now carrying about quite a thick haircoat.

We're left with little option but to venture out before breakfast, in the hope of escaping the worst heat excesses of the day. And it's worked quite well up to the present. Today seemed a bit of an exception. It was quite simply hot, with little relief to be had irrespective of our early gambit. All the vegetation in the ravine seems to our critical eye to be enjoying the heat, however. There are more blossoms on the soft-fruit bearing plants than we've ever seen before.

By late July and mid-August there will be an extraordinarily heavy crop of blackberries and thimbleberries, and no doubt ample raspberries as well. Their fruit is sweet, juicy and delicious. We even noted that the haws of the hawthorn trees are beginning to form. And to add a bit of another colour shade, the cowvetch which entangles itself vine-like up, around and through other vegetation has now begun to bloom.

Our shaggy, hot little dogs, despite the searing heat being transferred through the atmosphere even in the shade of the forest canopy, were far livelier this morning, rushing interestedly ahead of us rather than hanging back as they were doing in a listless fashion days earlier when it was slightly cooler. Could be they're acclimating. We're not doing much of that ourselves, it seems. The change just too abrupt, from cooler, wetter days to the situation we find ourselves in now.

The lighting in the forest is different in the morning as opposed to the afternoon. Although the forest interior tends to be dark, looking up at the fringes of the tree canopy in the direction of the sun, the trees are limned in a broad halo of light. Though some spears of light penetrate the leafy canopy, for the most part the foliage looks dark green, capped by bright white light.

There was a thunderstorm warning out, but that was for the afternoon. And though we like and enjoy and appreciate thunderstorms for the relief they bring to a dry landscape and the entertainment they offer in the force of the copious rain that accompanies thunder and lighting, we aren't too fond of being stuck in one, caught by surprise at its sudden appearance when we're deep in a forest interior.

When the first of the thunderclaps pealed through the landscape, we were home and ready to enjoy its presence. Neither of the pups is nervous about thunder, though they both tend to bark back at it. They don't cower fearfully, just give it a bit of its own back. And then, like us, watch out the glassed front door as the rain sweeps in great windy gusts across the roofs, the driveways opposite us, the wind pushing the trees in front of the house into a celebratory dance of welcome.

Guess we just don't give them enough credit for their analytical prowess, thinking they're just two little puppies, and what would they know, other than the urban tales we fill their ears with? Well, they've been telling us of late that when we prefer to arise in the morning, it's too late. They're right, of course, but it's just so very comfortable snuggling into the bedding.

Mind, there isn't much of that lately, other than a cool cotton sheet thrown over our slumbering bodies in this heat wave we've been blessed with. Trying to catch the occasional breeze that wafts through the bedroom window. At some time during the middle of the night my husband usually shuts off the floor fan. Oh yes, we do have air conditioning. And it works splendidly at the basement level where it's so cool it feels like you're in a cold-storage locker.

Perfect for my husband when he's in his workshop downstairs. And when he is, on comes a warm pullover otherwise he'd freeze to death while painstakingly fitting another piece of stained glass into the puzzle he has constructed that will become another window. Needless to say, in the winter the reverse is true; it's snug and warm in the basement while the rest of the house struggles to cope with the howling winter winds outside doing their best to attain entry.

The first level is fine, very comfortable, nice and cool. Even so, Jillie has abandoned her usual sleeping space on the sofa, preferring to crawl under the coffee table and splay out there. And very unusual for Jackie, he now prefers to abandon the backrest of the sofa where he usually ensconces himself, for the cool tile floor of the breakfast room, legs akimbo.

So, we listen to them, and we get out early, before breakfast these mornings, to take the forest trails through the ravine, before the heat of the day makes it suicidal to get out at our usual cruising hour in the afternoon. On the perimeter of the forest, just before we plunge into the descent of the ravine, thimbleberries have grown this year to an impressive height, and their hot-pink blossoms steam in the sun. Alfalfa, growing on the forest floor, has also gone into bloom, with delicate little purple flowers.

Usually, Jackie and Jillie prefer to run ahead of us; like an advance party ensuring that all is well and we can proceed with assurance. That's all changed on these hot days, hot mornings that is, when there's yet some residual coolness lingering from a night-time dip in temperature.

Our puppies simply cannot muster up any enthusiasm. They plod along behind us. They're still interested as healthy little dogs in everything around them, veering off left, right, crossing leashes leaving us to untangle them, to investigate odours of interest. And should they sense something or someone ahead and as yet unseen moving toward us, they'll still rush forward to defend us from the dastardly plans of any oncomers.

By the  time we've completed our circuit an hour or hour-and-a-half later and make it down the street from the ravine entrance to our driveway and over to the garden, they may be regretting having insisted that we go out at all. On the trail, while Jillie will rarely reject an offer of cooling water, Jackie never deigns to take a lap or two to cool down. We're hoping the burden of carrying around all that extra hair that has grown in since their last grooming appointment was cancelled due to the lockdown will come to a screeching end on Wednesday when we take them in for another appointment.

So, we're home. The garden has done its important function of greeting us with its irrepressibly colourful landscape of bright-faced flowers. And in its nooks Jackie and Jillie briefly find relief from the oppressive heat, under the cool green shade of the trees surrounding the garden in our own little Paradise. Then we all make a break for the house where the interior suddenly assumes a new identity, that of a cooling oasis in the desert of a blast furnace....

It's Saturday. Lots of leisure time. A hot, sunny day. Plenty of choice as options to take one's attention. At this time of year, aside from reading, going for long shaded walks in the forest with our two little companions, my mind turns to the garden. Hard not to. Living in the Ottawa Valley equals a relatively short growing year. Which is to say for six months out of a normal year there can be no garden.

So, confronted with the vibrancy of growing vegetation let loose from the confines of a deep-frost winter, it's hard not to be enthusiastic about the glories that renew themselves year after year. We plunge from a monochromatic white to a sere vista of leafless trees and shrubs and empty garden beds anchored at either end of winter, to the sight-dizzying spectacle of brilliant greens and colour pop-ups of dazzling hues.

Now, every time I pass the glass-fronted entry door to the house my eyes are drawn to the garden. Glimpses out the house windows present me with each new blooming miracle through the growing season; sensuous, exciting, architecturally graceful and colour-dense. I can hardly tear my eyes away. And I want to be out there, ambling about the garden beds and borders, discovering each new thing that has suddenly appeared, the maturation of the plants, the shapes and textures, the colours eclipsing all other images of natural beauty.

And little surprises, those too. Like the tiny wild geraniums that seem to arrive out of nowhere, those minuscule bright-faced little pinks peeping out from under other plants. Once, I found a little miracle, a blue-eyed grass in flower. Growing in a vulnerable, awkward place easily trod upon. So I gently moved it into one of the garden beds, with its wee iris-like blossom. And it never returned. Today, in the backyard, pulling out purslane and violets and clover from cracks in the brick walkway, I discovered a tiny tomato plant. What?!

The climbing roses are beginning their full June flush. Peonies are in glorious bloom, their multi-layered blossoms rivalling the beauty of the roses. Hostas too are beginning to send up their flower stalks and opening the blooms to decorate those gorgeous textured and coloured leaves of the plant that are so robust and gracefully beautiful they need no assist from flowers to draw my attention.

The irises are fading, but the lilies are set to open. The mountain bluet is almost finished its bloom, but the cranesbill geraniums are beginning theirs. The columbine  are almost ready to begin fading after their lovely bloom, but waiting in the wings are the ladies mantle. The succession is endless and enormously pleasing. Whatever labour it takes to plant a garden and nourish it has its endless rewards.

True, only one of the three treasured hibiscus shrubs has at this point begun to send up green shoots teasing me with the prospect of seeing those wonderful dinner-plate-sized blooms in late summer. And the two blue and one pink hydrangea though all have begun their green presence, will become lush with green foliage, and sparse with coloured floral offerings, but hope springs eternal....

Too hot today at 34C to do much of anything in the garden other than puttering about and daydream. So all I committed to was the watering of the many and varied garden pots and urns whose living residents appear content with their lot in life this summer. Their bright insouciance gives us never-ending pleasure as we glimpse their presence from the house interior, and devour their beauty as we stroll about our small urban lot when we exit the house.

Most of our garden is private, is not shared, our very own secret garden, far from the eyes of the passing public. Trees and shrubs shield parts of the garden from street view and we are privileged to have little hidden nooks, areas no one can be aware of, that invite us to linger, to seat ourselves, to relax, to view the treasures surrounding us.

It was nothing less than stifling last night. Nothing stirred. The heat simmered throughout the day and during the night it lingered, refusing to absent itself overnight. Our bedroom window was open and barely registered any movement of air. We've got a small fan aimed directly toward Jackie and Jillie. They're tired, it's past their favoured bedtime, and they fall fast asleep.

But in the morning, while we're still ready to continue sleeping, they aren't. Of course, they haven't entertained themselves reading in bed before falling asleep. That's the kind of bad habit we're fond of practising and they are completely disinterested in. They let us know that it's time to get up whether we agree or not. It's the light streaming through the windows, and birdsong entering from the garden below. And though we'd prefer to linger in bed a bit longer we know it's futile; they won't have it.

And there's no question on a morning as warm and as atmosphere-still as this one, that we're setting aside all other morning concerns temporarily as we make the choice to get out while the day has not yet reached its peak heat for the day. And for today that happens to be 34C. True, there's a bit of a breeze, but you'd never know it, standing under that arid heat of the sun.

We didn't 'stand' there too long. In fact, we strode purposefully up the street, making our way toward the entrance to the ravine, to delve into the still-overnight-cool confines of the forest. And the difference in atmosphere is immediate. That brief stroll up the street as the sun beat mercilessly down on everything below was enough to heat Jackie and Jillie to panting stage number one.

Immediately we entered the forest it felt as though an oven door had closed. Ahead, as we neared the all-enveloping green of the forest, shaded and cool, it resembled a dark tunnel. An almost primitive feeling of recognition washes over us as we descend the long hill into the confines of the ravine; a memory of inheritance from our primal ancestry.

The patch of new mushrooms that had sprung up the day before and was so robust and bursting with life had deflated overnight; shriveled and dark with instant decay. Decay is what it's all about in any event; the fungi living underground sending its filaments deep below and intent on its long-range mission to transform the remnants of an  old tree trunk, its top almost level with the ground surrounding it into part of the mass of generative forest compost, providing the nutritious nursery environment needed for other, new life to arise.

We could hear a song sparrow off somewhere in the near distance. Robins and sparrows rushed about on the trails, as did red squirrels, not often seen in such numbers. Jackie and Jillie are already so heat-affected that they barely stir at the near presence of a tiny squirrel that runs directly across their oncoming approach. As for the robins, they're so complacent and so intent on what they're doing, scrutinizing to the nth degree everything on the dirt pathway that they barely stir as we arrive in close proximity.

More buttercups are now blooming, as are daisies for it's their turn now as the sequential wildflower offerings in the forest. And we come across the occasional little clump of fleabane. Blackberries are still in flower, and there are ever greater numbers of bright pink thimbleberries in flower; both on their way to berryhood. Splashes of colour in the dominating monotone of green shades.

There's no reason to hurry. Our time is our own. At the disposal, more or less, of our little companions. As usual, Jillie is eager to have a long lap at fresh, cool water. Jackie as has become usual for him, is disinterested. Perplexing since they're both equally hot, we can assume. When we arrive back home, a quick tour of the garden, then we pop into the house, wash dusty little paws and go about setting the table for breakfast.

So then, there's a reason that ants seem to swarm around and on peony flower buds and blossoms. It's called mutualism. On the part of the flower the mutual affect is simply advantageous, and not deliberate while on the part of the ants there is also ample temporary advantage as a food source, and quite deliberate. The ants eat a kind of nectar that the peonies produce when flowering, located on the underside of the flower. And to protect their food source they ensure that no other insects are permitted to intrude. That benefits the peonies from predation just as the ants are benefited by the peonies' production of a substance called nectaries.

We learn something new every day. I had long noticed, as anyone would, the presence of ants on peony blooms, but never thought to discover the reason for their presence, simply accepting that when I saw one I would see the other. Everything in nature has a purpose. And this time of spring nature has purposed roses, peonies and cranesbill geraniums and some types of clematis vines all to begin their blooms, just as rhododendrons do as well toward the end of spring, edging into summer.

And with summer's approach comes a more intense sun, and the heat that accompanies it. Persuading us to once again head out for an early morning, pre-breakfast stroll through the forest trails we're fortunate enough to access so easily from our home. Unlike yesterday's excursion when we discovered that many other people obeyed the same impulse, to get out early before the afternoon heat arrived in full force, today, an even hotter day, brought few people out.

A dry heat, to be sure, so it was at that time of morning fairly tolerable. All the more so that there was a good bit of wind whipping up a cooling breeze, mitigating the heat to a degree. And even more so as we entered the ravine under the canopy of the forest trees, green and dense with this year's foliage.
Just on the cusp of the forest where thimbleberry shrubs have matured in record time this year, their bright pink blossoms punctuate the overwhelming green of the landscape.

At that time of day, the forest interior viewed from its upper level descending into the ravine, has a dark aspect given the position of the morning sun. Dark and cool and inviting. A few colonies of fungi have appeared here and there close to the trails. Yesterday as we exited the ravine after our circuit approaching the backyard of the last house on the street adjacent the ravine entrance, a good-size garter snake slithered across the trail and into the neighbour's backyard. She would no doubt be happier if one of the forest rabbits took up habitat in her backyard.

Later, after breakfast, I decided to bake a batch of butter tarts for a change. As a tart form I use an extra-large cup-size muffin tin, lining each of the cups with paper liners to make it easier to withdraw the baked tarts. They're so simple to make and a wicked pleasure to eat, they're worth the little bother it takes. In all likelihood it's making the crust that would deter many people from the effort, but it's easier done than thought about. I added chopped pecans to the raisin filling consisting of butter, brown sugar, cornsyrup, vanilla and eggs, and what could be simpler?

Later, the puppies accompanied me to the backyard to help me take a daily inventory of the drama and colour unfolding there. I've been on the lookout for the dreaded presence of Japanese beetles which have been arriving in droves the past few years, feasting on our roses and our poor Corkscrew Hazel tree, quite devastating it. None yet in sight, and we hope that something has interfered with their return this year, and that we may never see them again. These infestations seem to go in cycles.

Much, much too hot to sit out on the deck and relax there. And the next several days are slated to be even hotter though Sunday's heat is supposed to be accompanied by rain, a boon for the landscape. These truly are shaping up to be the lazy, hazy days of summer.