The first order of business for this cool and overcast day was our appointment for our second COVID booster shots. This time we made an appointment -- a month ago -- to be inoculated yet again not at an Ottawa Health site which though moderately well managed, gave the impression of chaos, and was always inconveniently located for us as well as too time-consuming. Shoppers Drug Mart kindly administered our boosters and now, for the time being in any event, that's one more thing we no longer have to be concerned about.This time there was no question about our preference for Pfizer, and we were both finished in no time at all.

 

 

Soon as we returned home we exited again, this time with Jackie and Jillie in tow, heading for the ravine. Surprisingly cool again. This was meant to be a sunny day with a warmer atmosphere, but it was not to be. In any event, we had a little treat even before we got started in the ravine, watching a bee bumbling about a clutch of dandelions. Life goes on in the forest. The little micro-scene was located directly in front of the first patch of downed trees, partially obscuring the trail leading to the ravine.

 

 

We were minus the shock felt yesterday when we saw the damage from Saturday's storm for the first time. Evidently, atmospheric-weather experts name what we experienced, a 'derecho', a series of tornado-like microbursts, one after another. And it was that violent series of bursts that created the amount of damage that we now face in the forest. In point of fact, the city is mourning the loss of too much of its urban forest canopy altogether, thanks to this freak storm.

 

 

But life does go on. As it must; the universe spins, our Earth spins around our sun in the Milky Way Galaxy, and nature continues both its nurturance and its destruction of its own creation. As though a metaphor for all the poplars that broke in mid-trunk leaving great snags behind, the forest is covered now with a thin, white coverlet of fluffy seeds resembling newfallen snow. An urgency to endure and to survive as a species; it seems more fitting than ever now, though it's a seasonal phenomenon.

 

 

And for the first time this season, we're seeing an eruption of mushrooms beginning, as well as the presence of new shelf fungi, impressive in size and colourful in design. Oddly though, when we went through the ravine yesterday morning on an equally cool and partially sunny day, there were quite a few others out and about with their dogs. Not so today. It seemed like a pall of mourning had settled over the forest.

 

 

We went along a bit further today than our usual circuit, and dipped further into the ravine where we discovered that at that level there appeared to be no tree damage at all. All of the devastation appears to have been reserved for the upper levels. Which seems to have been more vulnerable to the force of the winds gusting viciously through on Saturday, followed by Sunday's all-day rain. 

 

It steered us toward the thought of what it must have been like to actually have been in the ravine when the storm passed through. The sound must have been frightening and deafening. From the constant bass rumbles of ongoing thunder in the extraordinarily dark atmosphere of the storm, illuminated sporadically by lightning, to the moaning of the trees as they were whipped back and forth by the winds. And finally, the sound of their anguished cracks and destruction.

 

By the time we reached the creek again, the rest of the day looked a little more promising; despite the proliferation of dark clouds it seemed as though there might be some lively blue about to present in the sky, with the sun poised to appear, after all. Which was, for us, quite timely, since Irving and I had determined that there was no point waiting to see if the hemlock and the holly sitting right next to it in the garden,both of which had suffered dreadful dieback, would recover.

 

The Mallards appear unfazed by the effects of Saturday's storm

We had trimmed them both, hoping that new life would assert itself in time, and although there were some vestiges of green visible under all the dead needles and foliage that we hadn't removed, a wait for recovery seemed futile. So Irving began cutting both down, after I had cut back once again as much of the upper branches as feasible. On the positive side, they both had quite a footprint in the garden, and now that area is free, so we'll have to give some thought to what might flourish there for a future planting.

 

We continue on our weather roller-coaster, with today a dry, semi-sunny but quite cool day. Conditions that inspired us to get out into the ravine. Sunday's all-day rain made that impossible, and Saturday afternoon's episode of suspense brought to us courtesy of a violent thunderstorm left us wondering what kind of damage we could expect to see in the forest. There's ample damage to the power grid here in Ottawa and vicinity. People only streets away from ours won't have their power restored until tomorrow.

 

Yesterday, Irving went out for bags of ice to give to our daughter, driving over from White Lake to pick them up because in her area there is such a demand there's none to be had. He returned with a dozen bags as she requested, but was really knocked for a loop by the panic he witnessed on the road. Wherever power is out gas stations can't pump gas, and drivers have converged in unbelievable numbers around stations whose power has been restored.

 

Shopping centres are packed with people desperate to get some food shopping done because stores where they live are closed as a result of no electricity. The municipal authority was heard on this morning's news to declare that the damage occasioned by this violent thunderstorm is worse than what occurred during the Ice Storm of 1998. Worse than when a tornado tore through the west end of the city. 

 

We met a friend, when we were going through the ravine, a young man who is a firefighter and he told us they were getting panic calls from people insisting the fire department come out and remove dead trees from their lawns, or trees that had fallen over their fences, on their cars, garages. He had his power back where he lives, not far from us, but others living a few communities away told us their power will only be restored after another day or so, and they were all out looking to acquire ice to tide them over. No one wants to lose a freezer-full of frozen food.

 

 

We expected to see damage in the ravine from the storm; we once had a mini-tornado pass through and it took down three large pines directly in its path. But what we saw this morning was not confined to a small area, but affected the entire forest. Mostly, it was large mature pines and poplars that cracked off, felling the trunks and the otherwise-healthy trees, leaving a raw snag. One tree we'll really miss was huge when we first saw it thirty years ago, a two-masted old spruce. It lost one of its masts fifteen years ago, and on Saturday the entire tree came down.

 

 

Often, when Jackie and Jillie see something different on a trail, they immediately become suspicious and begin barking. This morning, with trees felled across trails and debris of branches piled  high they accommodated themselves to the presence of this unusual spectacle by moving under, over, around or through the devastation and we trailed behind them.

 

The forest was beyond sodden, utterly drenched from days of heavy unending rain falling on an already overwhelmed forest, so that pools of standing water have once again proliferated. The forest has become a cemetery of trees, small and large. Trees that have grown for so long taking their pride of place in the forest, distinguishing themselves as you recognize them from long familiarity, suddenly gone.

 

There was an eerie stillness to the atmosphere. No wind, just a damp, chilly day and the spectacle of a forest that was hammered by overwhelming wind and rain. During the storm itself had anyone been in the forest it would have been a maelstrom of piercing light punctuating the darkness of the storm, elaborated by an ear-splitting symphony of threatening rumbles and booms along with a chorus of windswept trees helplessly swaying beyond their capacity to endure.

 

There was a bright note awaiting us once we exited the ravine, walking down the street to our house, where our garden is taking on an appearance approaching its summer radiance, with bright perky little heads of flowers low enough to the ground to have survived the windy onslaught of torrential rain. We took a few minutes to leisurely stroll about, looking at the flowerheads, admiring nature's handiwork despite the demonstration behind us of her destructive power.

Our Sargenti crab trees in flower

The day started out hot yesterday and then got HOT. We knew though, that there was rain in the offing, thanks to the weather report. So our response is always to get our hike through the forest trails in early to both beat the heat and the incipient rain. There was a report of the possibility of thunderstorms. So we would avoid that, too. As much as the refreshed tree canopy can shield us from light rain, it's too much to expect that it would keep us reasonably dry in a fierce downpour. 

We entered a forest already sodden from previous days' rain. But the sun was out and heating up the atmosphere toward a really hot day. Like-minded hikers were out on the trails, anxious to get out with their dogs for some recreation and fresh air, and just as anxious, like us, to avoid encountering a storm. In some areas of the forest there was little presence of mosquitoes, and in others they came barrelling toward us in force.

But we were busy watching Jackie and Jillie veering left then right, then into the forest interior to sniff out what's happening. Sometimes there are things that appear to alarm them and we see them comically rearing back on two hind legs, then return to the spot as though determined not to let any near-invisible creature get the better of them. 

Whenever someone else's dog espies Irving or hears Jackie and Jillie 'expressing' themselves, there's a beeline for the Cookie Man, long before its human companion hoves into view. A condition that our two have finally come to terms with, fully understanding through happy experience that if cookies are being doled out their own great hunger for treats won't be overlooked. The more frequent these encounters, the jollier the hike is, from their perspective.

As often, people passing one another stop for the briefest of intervals to exchange greetings, and sometimes they also alert others to the presence of a creature well worth looking out for. Yesterday a young man insisted on backtracking so he could show us the precise location of where it was he had seen an owl. It was actually the very location that a few days earlier another friend had taken us to, only on that occasion it was the nest in a cavity of a pine hosting owlets with the mother owl caring for them.

This time the male was in full view, perched on a branch across from the tree hosting his mate and their owlets. He swivelled his head as we watched, our own heads upraised, as though he was just as intent on viewing us as peculiar creatures as we were him. As we stood there, marvelling at his size (the light on a sunny day looking directly up under the tree canopy doesn't much help in distinguishing details, but we felt fairly certain he was a barred owl, not a great grey; we tend to see barred owl on occasion in the ravine, year after year) we saw a crow fly by, perch and sidle close to the owl.

The two species are at war with one another. Often, the way we can identify the location of an owl is by following the whereabouts of a racket that groups of crows make as they harass an owl. Owls can be pretty fierce; their talons, meant for grasping and flying off with unfortunate little furred or winged creatures are formidable weapons, as are their beaks, along with the advantage of their size. But crows only attack when they're in numbers and take the advantage that group security gives them.

While a murder of crows is fully capable of killing an owl, owls, as raptors can carry off a lone crow. They're natural enemies because nature has seen to it that owls are a threat to crows as a source of food. Crows obviously feel justified in defending themselves to the death. Both species are highly intelligent, but they are also following the survival instincts that nature has endowed them with.

We found the forest floor still recovering from rain events of previous days. Lots of pools of standing rain water. The forest is so steeped in moisture it just is unable to absorb any more, until at some point a dry spell comes around. And don't the mosquito larvae have a fine time developing in those stagnant ponds? We haven't yet encounter black flies, but it's the running water of the creek at the bottom of the ravine that acts as their nurturing habitat.

 

Our generous combination of rain and sun has hastened newly flowering trees in the forest, primarily wild apple and hawthorn trees. And now the wild cherry trees are also achieving full blown, the understory of dogwood shrubs right behind them. Once the progression of flowering begins in this season of vegetation making a start on their purpose in life; the production of fruit, they seem to gallop along to maturity.

There were a few trees that came down in the past few days, thanks to conditions of wind and rain. We sidestep them when they fall across the trails until eventually someone with a chainsaw living nearby fancies doing a turn as a logger, or the municipal parks department is alerted and comes along for a clearing-up job. After yesterdays fierce storm it will be interesting to see how the forest fared. Plans to get out today were foiled by all-day rain.

As spring progresses, its earliest wildflowers are seeing the end of their annual showtime. Trilliums, not in particularly great abundance this spring, are now beginning to fade and won't be around much longer to add colour to the forest floor. As they fade, the lilies-of-the-valley are now springing their little flowering wands up from their centres, but they're so tiny and delicate most people would never notice their presence.

When we returned from our hike later in the early afternoon, my intention was to finish planting the annuals we'd assembled. So that's what was happening when we heard a distant rumble in the still-clear sky on a day so hot I wore the lightest of summer dresses as I planted. I managed to get a few begonias and a fuschia into place in garden pots, and suddenly those bass booms were right overhead and heavy drops of rain began falling.

Into the house with us, and just as suddenly it became dark, then darker yet until the outside was actually black. And with its arrival a company of heavy rain splashed against the windows. While there was no wind earlier in the day, just as suddenly ferocious winds accompanied the rain, lashing everything in sight, swaying trees and pouring accumulated rainwater off roofs.

I watched from the front door as the wind-driven rain swept through the landscape, lightning and thunder enhancing its total effect, inundating us with rain, sporadic bursts of brilliant light, and a dramatic orchestral accompaniment. As I stood there, the outside lighting that had cast its own revealing light onto the dark exterior suddenly blipped a few times, and then went out and the darkness was complete.

The storm raged for an hour or so, then gradually stopped, the rain that still fell lighter, until the storm fully passed. Then the sun returned. The temperature had fallen a mere 5 degrees from a humid 27C to 22C, but that 22 degrees was cool with penetrating wind. Still, the sun came out of the cleared heavens, beaming down on the drenched landscape and lighting up the house suddenly deprived of lighting power.

We spent a quiet, dark evening from four in the afternoon to eleven at night, able to read for as long as the natural light lasted, then resorting to wax candles and the use of a 19th century oil lamp for shimmering light. 

Nature is nothing if not impetuously mercurial. How else to explain yesterday's cold, windy, wet weather following a week of hot, humid and sunny days? From the moment we came downstairs for breakfast on went the fireplace to induce a bit of warmth on a dark day that would see no sun and consequently the house felt like an icebox. Nor did we find any point during the day when we could dispense with the dancing flames in the fireplace. As a remedy, dinner last night did not reflect the lighter meals that fine weather demands.

 

Only a sirloin point roast, a Yorkshire pudding and asparagus spears would do to comfort our shivering, summer-acclimated bodies. For dessert red grapes, cold, crunchy and sweet to counter that stuffed feeling when you've eaten too much. So when we came downstairs this morning to start the day, nature had relented and given us a sunny day, one that speedily warmed up to 20C, as compared to yesterday's 10C.

 

Today, I thought why not bake those familiar old staples that hearked back to our childhood when our mothers bought blueberry buns as a treat. All it takes is a yeast-raised sweet dough and blueberries cooked to a thickened consistency, so that's exactly what I did. Of course the test of success is in the flavour and that's yet to be determined at dinnertime.

 

We took ourselves out to the ravine a little earlier this afternoon than usual, since I also wanted to spend some time in the garden, this time to complete filling the pots and urns with awaiting annuals. Nice to shed our jackets. Even Jackie and Jillie were happy to be relieved of the rainjackets yesterday's weather forced on them.

 

In the ravine some areas looked completely dry, while others were steeped in mud. The gathering heat of the day somewhat relieved by the forest interior's full shade restored by the newly leaf-filled canopy. All the apple trees and the hawthorns as well as the cherry trees are in full bloom, the dogwood following close behind.

 

These are the waning days for the trout lilies now that the sun can only filter through sporadically,so they're making the most of their brief time of glory, just on the cusp of fading out. Trilliums too have seen better days, their bright scarlet petals turning a dusty dark pink as they fade. But the foamflower, later blooming and feeling just fine in the shade, is now in full bloom.

 

Mosquitoes monopolized the shrubbery and the bracken on the forest floor. Stop for more than a few seconds at any given place and they begin to swarm. Sneaky little beggars, you feel the pinch of a proboscis before you're aware a mosquito has scored. Vengeance consists of smacking it away, the penalty for its indiscretion, the ultimate sacrifice. Doesn't make you feel any better, though. But it does explain why regular hikers take a pass on a hot windless day.

 

Back home again, out I went with garden gloves and tools and planted some wax begonias, lobelia, gladiolas in both the garden and the pots not yet tended to. Directly in the sun you quickly get overheated and that's a condition mosquitoes love, zeroing in with intent. But I accomplished what I set out to do, and tomorrow's another day, when I'll tackle the backyard and fill garden pots there.

 

Morning extended an unusual invitation to us to join the day, offering a choice of dark, damp and cold, or chilly, and rainy. The day took it upon itself to negate choice and instead focused on dark, damp, cold, chilly and rainy. Which necessitated quick action on our part; getting Jackie and Jillie out to the backyard between rains, until there was no longer any 'betweens'. We brought out the weapon at our disposal; turned on the fireplace to take the chill out of the house that we thought last week in 30C weather we would no longer be needing until next autumn.

Nor did we think when we had a cold-weather day yesterday that today would give us even colder-weather. Which, of course, calls for comfort food; warming, good-tasting and satisfying. Today it'll be a sirloin tip beef roast with Yorkshire pudding and asparagus spears. Quite a difference from the light meals of last week in heat-stroke weather.

Not to complain too bitterly, since it does no good whatever. The rain finally subsided around three in the afternoon, so, all of us geared in raincoats we set off for the woods. The large rain ponds that had formed as a result of the back-to-back rain earlier in the week haven't had an opportunity to be absorbed by the forest. Not only is the atmosphere damp and cold, but the forest floor is resigning itself to a semi-permanent mosquito-breeding station.

Trying to get close to wildflowers now is to invite swarms of mosquitoes to rise in a dark threatening mass directly for one's face. No amount of flagellating the air will discourage them. They're on a divine mission to irritate and they take their job seriously. Just as well our rainjackets are impregnable. The thought of soggy trails and clouds of mosquitoes has clearly discouraged any others from heading out for the woods, for now.

So we were doubly fortunate; the ravine trails all to ourselves, and the rain holding off for the length of time we tramped through the trails. No worries, though, about getting soaked should the rain start up again while we were out, since the tree canopy - admittedly drenched -- now offers a layer of protection against rain. Unless, of course, the rain is a ferociously heavy episode, bolstered by winds. And that just didn't happen.

By now, I've planted most of the bedding stock that we had acquired. At the front of the house, the garden beds and pots. But there's still a few more left to do in the front, and the backyard is still crying out for attention. So we thought we'd drop by that old farmhouse again close to where we lived for twenty years before moving to our present abode thirty years ago, and they were still well stocked with choice flowering plants.

I was interested in acquiring more canna lilies, and begonias primarily because the ever-blooming begonias are pricelessly beautiful and reliable bloomers. Their colour variations and their layers of bright, soft petals are visually entrancing. Jackie and Jillie were excited beyond belief that they'd be going for a drive in the truck. And when we finished and had arrived back home they were equally excited to be home again.

Here's hoping that tomorrow will warm up a bit and the sun will drop by for a much-appreciated visit. We'll entice it to stay awhile.

By now I've planted

No sooner did we acclimate ourselves to the over-heated days of last week's 30+C days, than the heat wave broke and now we're back to cooler days of 14C. I should have put a second light blanket on our bed last night, but failed to, and it wasn't pleasant being thrust back into cool nights without preparation, both psychological and comforting. We did, though, revert to cool-weather eating yesterday. I prepared beef meatballs in gravy over cous-cous, with broccoli served on the side, and raspberries for dessert. That warmed us up nicely until we got into bed. Extra blanket tonight.

Our neighbour Dan was over early this morning to give Irving the rundown on their exploratory alternatives for our shared fencing. Who ever imagined it would cost over ten thousand dollars to re-fence our backyard? I imagine we paid a trifle thirty years ago for the first fence. At that time, all the neighbours got together and did the fencing themselves, everyone working on everyone else's fence. A feel-good enterprise.

It's quite different, however, to fence a yard that is clear of any planting. This time around we've all got mature trees, shrubs, garden infrastructure and garden beds to work around. It's a tough job, best left to professionals. I can't even imagine how they'll manage to get around all the obstructions. We'll be sharing the cost with Dan, won't bother the people in back of us since they're not the original owners and there's a thick cedar hedge backing their lot now; as for our other neighbour, it's a lost cause.

Irving finished up moving about those massively heavy garden pots and filling them with fresh soil in preparation for planting. After I finished my household chores I went out too, and added bonemeal to the soil, then I was able to plant a few things; a new climbing rose of the 'Explorer' series, cultivated for our Canadian climate, a new hibiscus, some nicotiana and dahlias.

Then we decided to break off and enjoy a long trek through the ravine with Jackie and Jillie who had been very patient, roaming about the garden, very interested in the appeal the odour of the bonemeal had for them. At times they went a little berserk racing after one another, wrestling, boxing in their inimitable way as twins.

Another cool day with the temperature nudging up to 15C, and a brisk wind, but clear and sunny. The woods are still saturated from the rain we had yesterday morning and the night before. Those large pools remain, not quite ready to be absorbed by the sodden forest. But the wildflowers look perky and happy, so all's well with their world. Every day has a new surprise for us. We've been on the lookout for one of our favourite woodland wildflowers and there was one at the side of one of the trails; a Jack-in-the-Pulpit!

The mosquitoes are also happy and would be even happier if we weren't wearing long trousers and long-sleeved tops. Stopping for more than a few seconds is a clear invitation for them to converge and do their best to overwhelm a victim's defences. Jackie and Jillie never keep still for more than a second, busily trotting about here and there.

Once again, the trails were ours, all ours. No one else out and about. Busy doing any number of things that take peoples' attention. And we had plans of our own once we returned home. We'd acquired so many single plants and flats of bedding plants for the garden and the garden pots, the prospect of planting them, arranging them architecturally and colourwise, excitingly appealing.

So that's just what we did for the remainder of the afternoon. Jackie and Jillie behaved themselves because there was an absolute dearth of people going by and no dogs at all. We visited briefly with our neighbour directly across the street who was busy herself digging out dandelions, her tiny grandson absorbed in doing the same as his grandmother.