It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
Sue and I both went for bike rides yesterday. They ended very differently.
I rode to the Champlain Lookout in Gatineau Park. When I left, the rain and drizzle had recently ended. The air felt warm and very humid. As I reached the first hills in the park, the sweat began to collect on my brow and run down into my eyes, stinging them. I stopped at Pink Lake for a snack, peeled off my shirt and hung it over the rail of the observation deck to air-dry. Down the back, where it pressed against my pack, the shirt bore a broad, dark patch of perspiration. I ate a delicious mandarine orange and a yoghurt, then watched the nearby birds: white-throated sparrows foraging noisly in last year's dried leaves; chickadees flitting between trees; a pair of kingfishers squabbling on the lake below.
From Pink Lake, I carried on more slowly, both to avoid the sweaty, stinging eyes and to allow closer observation of the surrounding forest. With the trees still barren, I could see deep into the forest. In particular, the topography and geology stood out very clearly. I made note of several places to revisit in the summer -- several potential cave sites, a promising escarpment, a garden of fern-covered boulders (rock polypody, one of my favourites). A few spring flowers had bloomed on some sunnier, warmer outcrops, and bright green cohorts of Clintonia stood out on the wooded slopes, ready to burst into bloom.
As I passed King Mountain, the clouds began to lift. Ahead, I could see the mist rising from the hills, as though I were cycling through the Great Smokey Mountains. The sun broke through as I approached the Huron Lookout, and I arrived at the Champlain Lookout in full, blazing sun (to which my unprotected forehead and nose now attest). I ate my lunch sitting on the wall at the lookout, watching for hawks and spying on a pair of deer in the fields below the escarpment. The line of the escarpment curved away to the north: patches of dark, green pine, the grey hardwoods with the faintest tint of budding red, the underlying Canadian Shield bare and white in the midday sun. Other cyclists passed by at regular intervals, clad in lycra and spandex, riding ultralight road bikes that purred with precise, mechanical efficiency. I thought that it might be nice to try the ride in that manner sometime, instead of plodding up the mountain on my lunking hybrid, laden with lunch, binoculars, jacket and field guides. On the other hand, once at the top, what would I do but go back down?
The trip down the mountain went more quickly, of course, although I did stop briefly at the Pink Lake parking lot this time, in the hope of spotting the bear that I'd earlier heard crashing in the woods. No bear, but an adult bald eagle flew directly overhead, his primary feathers and tail feathers silhouetted perfectly against the sky. I arrived home about 4 PM, with heavy legs and a feeling of fatigued satisfaction.
And then Thomas greeted me at the door to say that Sue was at the Civic Hospital Emergency Department, having crashed her bike along the canal. Giving the boys some money to buy supper at Subway, I left immediately for the hospital. I found Sue lying in bed, with our friend Ann standing beside her. Three broken ribs (none displaced, thank heavens) and a minor concussion. But no other serious injuries. She will feel very stiff and sore for many days, but should recover fully.
A short list of today's observations:
Yellow-bellied sapsucker
Northern flicker
Hairy woodpecker
Downy woodpacker
Black-capped Chickadee
Northern raven
Eastern Phoebe
Blue jay
Robin (American thrush)
Canada goose
Kingfisher
White-throated sparrow
Chipping sparrow or Pine Warbler
Yellow-rumped warbler
Osprey (in migration at lookout)
Peregrine (in migration at lookout)
Sharp-shined hawk
Assorted, other common birds
3 painted turtles
2 bears (overheard foraging)
Muskrat
Groundhog
White-tailed deer
Mourning cloak
Wooly bear caterpillar (Isabella Tiger Moth)
Dicentra cucullaria (Dutchman's Britches)
Trillium sp. (not in flower)
Sanguinaria canadensis (Bloodroot)
Erythronium americanum (Trout lily, not in flower)
Clintonia borealis (Clintonia, not in flower).
Thursday 28 April 2011
Wednesday 27 April 2011
Oases and rain
The spring rains continue, and the Rideau Valley Conservation Authority predicts flooding in some low areas along the Rideau River near Kemptville. I have sloshed through half my vacation, and it doesn't appear that my shoes will dry anytime soon.
Yesterday I did a little walking tour around downtown and the market, running a few errands, but mostly exploring small shops and back alleys. I wandered into the Papiery, thinking to buy an "S" ink stamp for Sue to use on her correspondence. The Papiery has moved once or twice over the years, and I'd lost track of it. I zig-zagged quickly through the short aisles, admiring the look and feel of the stationary, and then emerged through the back into Tivoli Florists.
I hadn't realized the Papiery and Tivoli Florist now shared the same premises. I've also shopped at Tivoli in the past, purchasing both fresh and dried flowers. Thinking of my office window, I looked over the potted plants, considering first a small cedar and then an ivy. However, with several more stops planned, it didn't seem practical to carry a plant around with me. Stepping out of the Florist's, on the opposite side of the building from which I entered, I emerged into Jeanne D'Arc Court -- and stopped in surprise.
The courtyard was empty of people, but full of song. The limestone and brick of the surrounding buildings reached upward, walling in and amplifying the bright chipping of house sparrows and the melodius burblings of a house finch. A pigeon flew up suddenly on a ruffle of wings, like the riffling of pages on a large book. The buildings muted the sounds of traffic. A large, stylized bronze bear occupied the center of the courtyard, surrounded by a broad circle of footworn bricks. A bench appealed under the bare limbs of two small trees, where the sparrows flitted back and forth, and the finch sang on the highest branch.
I sat on the bench, closed my eyes, and spent several minutes listening joyfully to the bird song. The echoes and the solitude reminded me of sitting with Catherine in Al Ain Fort in the late afternoon -- just the two of us -- under the trees of the cool, central courtyard, with the haunting call to prayer rising distantly above the babbling chorus of songbirds above in the branches and along the whitewashed walls. We had spent the morning exploring the bare stone of Jebel Hafit, and then retired in the afternoon to the central oasis of Al Ain. We'd walked under the palms, along the paved lanes between the walled gardens. After the desert, the oasis seemed impossibly lush, and I understood the love of the Arabs for green places.
I flew home from the trip through Toronto. Coming low over the rolling countryside, with the winter snows just giving way to spring, I fell in love again with my own landscape -- the green valleylands and woodlots, the promise of abundance in the brown earth of the fields. All things considered, I can probably live with a little rain.
Yesterday I did a little walking tour around downtown and the market, running a few errands, but mostly exploring small shops and back alleys. I wandered into the Papiery, thinking to buy an "S" ink stamp for Sue to use on her correspondence. The Papiery has moved once or twice over the years, and I'd lost track of it. I zig-zagged quickly through the short aisles, admiring the look and feel of the stationary, and then emerged through the back into Tivoli Florists.
I hadn't realized the Papiery and Tivoli Florist now shared the same premises. I've also shopped at Tivoli in the past, purchasing both fresh and dried flowers. Thinking of my office window, I looked over the potted plants, considering first a small cedar and then an ivy. However, with several more stops planned, it didn't seem practical to carry a plant around with me. Stepping out of the Florist's, on the opposite side of the building from which I entered, I emerged into Jeanne D'Arc Court -- and stopped in surprise.
The courtyard was empty of people, but full of song. The limestone and brick of the surrounding buildings reached upward, walling in and amplifying the bright chipping of house sparrows and the melodius burblings of a house finch. A pigeon flew up suddenly on a ruffle of wings, like the riffling of pages on a large book. The buildings muted the sounds of traffic. A large, stylized bronze bear occupied the center of the courtyard, surrounded by a broad circle of footworn bricks. A bench appealed under the bare limbs of two small trees, where the sparrows flitted back and forth, and the finch sang on the highest branch.
I sat on the bench, closed my eyes, and spent several minutes listening joyfully to the bird song. The echoes and the solitude reminded me of sitting with Catherine in Al Ain Fort in the late afternoon -- just the two of us -- under the trees of the cool, central courtyard, with the haunting call to prayer rising distantly above the babbling chorus of songbirds above in the branches and along the whitewashed walls. We had spent the morning exploring the bare stone of Jebel Hafit, and then retired in the afternoon to the central oasis of Al Ain. We'd walked under the palms, along the paved lanes between the walled gardens. After the desert, the oasis seemed impossibly lush, and I understood the love of the Arabs for green places.
I flew home from the trip through Toronto. Coming low over the rolling countryside, with the winter snows just giving way to spring, I fell in love again with my own landscape -- the green valleylands and woodlots, the promise of abundance in the brown earth of the fields. All things considered, I can probably live with a little rain.
Monday 25 April 2011
Growing up; growing older
Thomas and I cycled the Hogs Back loop today. I wanted to assess his capacity for longer rides -- perhaps to Fitzroy Harbour Provincial Park, or down to Dawn and Chris' home in Oxford Mills. He rode to school through the autumn, and both his speed and endurance seem good. I don't think that he'll have any problem keeping up on longer rides, provided that he doesn't burn himself out too early. I wonder if, by the end of the summer, I'll be able to keep up with him.
On the way back, we stopped at the gelato shop on Elgin Street, where I enjoyed a mix of lime and raspberry. The first taste of the lime gelato took me back to North Kingston, Rhode Island, in about 1973. The "Dell's Lemonade" truck would come tinkling and jingling by in the evenings, on the weekends, or at lunchtime at school. I would buy a lemon-lime ice, in a bright green paper cup. I would stand on the sidewalk, peel back the paper lid, scrape a curving sliver of ice off the top with the small, wooden spoon, and then catch it on my tongue. Delicious. I hope that I can give Thomas (and Ben) the same kinds of memories.
Tom and I sat at the window counter in the gelato shop, watching life along Elgin Street. It wasn't quite a holiday; it wasn't quite workday. The sidewalk held an odd mix of office workers and street people, pretty girls and gruff old men. We left the shop and pushed our bikes along to Bridgehead, where I bought some beautifully oily french roast beans, and then we cycled the last five minutes home. The honeysuckle was in bloom beside the footbridge, and students spread over the grass by the canal.
On the way back, we stopped at the gelato shop on Elgin Street, where I enjoyed a mix of lime and raspberry. The first taste of the lime gelato took me back to North Kingston, Rhode Island, in about 1973. The "Dell's Lemonade" truck would come tinkling and jingling by in the evenings, on the weekends, or at lunchtime at school. I would buy a lemon-lime ice, in a bright green paper cup. I would stand on the sidewalk, peel back the paper lid, scrape a curving sliver of ice off the top with the small, wooden spoon, and then catch it on my tongue. Delicious. I hope that I can give Thomas (and Ben) the same kinds of memories.
Tom and I sat at the window counter in the gelato shop, watching life along Elgin Street. It wasn't quite a holiday; it wasn't quite workday. The sidewalk held an odd mix of office workers and street people, pretty girls and gruff old men. We left the shop and pushed our bikes along to Bridgehead, where I bought some beautifully oily french roast beans, and then we cycled the last five minutes home. The honeysuckle was in bloom beside the footbridge, and students spread over the grass by the canal.
Sunday 24 April 2011
Sitting on the porch
We woke to an overcast morning. About halfway through Easter service, the light behind the stained glass grew brighter. On the way home from church, we could see blue sky between the clouds. By early afternoon, the sun shone brightly.
Sue and I spent the early afternoon working about the house, while Ben played on the computer and Thomas completed homework. By mid-afternoon, Sue had thrown open the doors. I walked up to the corner store in short sleeves. Mark, Heather and their boys arrived for supper. While Heather volunteered to rake last year's detritus from the garden, I sat lazily on the porch playing guitar. Now the sun has set, and the sky has taken on rose and turquoise hues.
Happy Easter.
Sue and I spent the early afternoon working about the house, while Ben played on the computer and Thomas completed homework. By mid-afternoon, Sue had thrown open the doors. I walked up to the corner store in short sleeves. Mark, Heather and their boys arrived for supper. While Heather volunteered to rake last year's detritus from the garden, I sat lazily on the porch playing guitar. Now the sun has set, and the sky has taken on rose and turquoise hues.
Happy Easter.
Friday 22 April 2011
Goodbye Kodachrome, hello Spring.
I dropped into Mags and Fags on Friday, after a lunchtime meeting at Bridgehead. With ten days of holidays ahead, I wanted to pick up a magazine or two. Browsing the shelves, I came across a photography magazine with a story about the last roll of Kodachrome film.
The article was written by the same photojournalist who took the iconic photograph of the startling, blue-eyed Afghan girl for National Geographic. Upon learning that Kodak planned to discontinue production of Kodachrome film, this photographer made a special request to the company for the last roll of the film. He then travelled around the world, taking portraits in his favourite places. Stunning portraits, with all of the richness and color of Kodachrome film.
I felt terribly sad as I skimmed the magazine -- as though reading an account of the death of a language and culture. I've shot Kodachrome film. Nothing compares. It represented the world as the world should appear: intense, dramatic, sharp. It documented some of the most dramatic and important moments in world history, and it brought them into lives and homes. It took people out of their lives and homes, to places in which they would never otherwise set foot. It took me to those places and awakened my yearning for travel. A medium is lost; an art is lost.
Coincidentally, I've been reliant on my old 35 mm Olympus camera since last summer, when I decided to go snorkeling at Devil Lake with my digital camera in my pocket. I took it with me today, as I cycled to Mud Lake at Britannia. Sue accompanied me most of the way there, but turned back just before the conservation area. The trails around the lake were crowded with people out to enjoy the good weather, before the forecast rains close around tomorrow. The air felt cool, the sun felt warm, and I ambled around the lake for several hours, stopping to watch the birds or photograph the flowers.
Only a few birds had arrived. Lots of geese and gulls, of course. Mallards. A pair of hooded mergansers in the middle of the lake. At one point, while I spoke with a Birder on the west ridge, a pair of falcons flew behind us calling, and then circled high over the lake. "Peregrines," said the camouflage-clad Birder, lifting his head from a very expensive and heavy spotting scope to squint at their silouhettes against the bright sky. "Aren't they a bit small for Peregrines," I suggested, knowing full well from their size, wing strokes and call that they were merlins. "No," he said with certainty. "Peregrines."
To make up for the poor showing of birds, the turtles had finally emerged from their winter torpor to enjoy the sun. The shallow area near the boardwalk held close to a hundred painted turtles of all age classes, lined up along logs like soldiers on parade. They reminded me of rows of spinning plates, or a sidewalk of parasols. However, a smaller pond in the woods held a much less spectacular, but more impressive find: three Blanding's turtles, stacked atop each other like piled dishes. Two large, mature turtles and one juvenile, heads lifted in the sun and bright yellow necks as clear and unmistakable as ripe bananas. I'm hoping that I got a good photo.
Now my spring has really begun.
The article was written by the same photojournalist who took the iconic photograph of the startling, blue-eyed Afghan girl for National Geographic. Upon learning that Kodak planned to discontinue production of Kodachrome film, this photographer made a special request to the company for the last roll of the film. He then travelled around the world, taking portraits in his favourite places. Stunning portraits, with all of the richness and color of Kodachrome film.
I felt terribly sad as I skimmed the magazine -- as though reading an account of the death of a language and culture. I've shot Kodachrome film. Nothing compares. It represented the world as the world should appear: intense, dramatic, sharp. It documented some of the most dramatic and important moments in world history, and it brought them into lives and homes. It took people out of their lives and homes, to places in which they would never otherwise set foot. It took me to those places and awakened my yearning for travel. A medium is lost; an art is lost.
Coincidentally, I've been reliant on my old 35 mm Olympus camera since last summer, when I decided to go snorkeling at Devil Lake with my digital camera in my pocket. I took it with me today, as I cycled to Mud Lake at Britannia. Sue accompanied me most of the way there, but turned back just before the conservation area. The trails around the lake were crowded with people out to enjoy the good weather, before the forecast rains close around tomorrow. The air felt cool, the sun felt warm, and I ambled around the lake for several hours, stopping to watch the birds or photograph the flowers.
Only a few birds had arrived. Lots of geese and gulls, of course. Mallards. A pair of hooded mergansers in the middle of the lake. At one point, while I spoke with a Birder on the west ridge, a pair of falcons flew behind us calling, and then circled high over the lake. "Peregrines," said the camouflage-clad Birder, lifting his head from a very expensive and heavy spotting scope to squint at their silouhettes against the bright sky. "Aren't they a bit small for Peregrines," I suggested, knowing full well from their size, wing strokes and call that they were merlins. "No," he said with certainty. "Peregrines."
To make up for the poor showing of birds, the turtles had finally emerged from their winter torpor to enjoy the sun. The shallow area near the boardwalk held close to a hundred painted turtles of all age classes, lined up along logs like soldiers on parade. They reminded me of rows of spinning plates, or a sidewalk of parasols. However, a smaller pond in the woods held a much less spectacular, but more impressive find: three Blanding's turtles, stacked atop each other like piled dishes. Two large, mature turtles and one juvenile, heads lifted in the sun and bright yellow necks as clear and unmistakable as ripe bananas. I'm hoping that I got a good photo.
Now my spring has really begun.
Wednesday 20 April 2011
Rain, rain, rain
On the bright side, it promises to be a very green summer.
We woke, this morning, to wind and freezing rain. I looked at the forecast for the coming week, and the days appear to alternate between warm, wet days, and cooler, clear days -- very much the pattern for the past month. Apparently my decision not to go camping in Algonquin Park will spare me some unpleasant nights.
On the other hand, this might be perfect weather for birding in Gatineau Park or along the Carp Hills. This pattern of weather systems should bring the raptors through the area, and I can imagine myself next week sitting with binoculars or maybe even a telescope at the Champlain Lookout. Coming back from Kemptville last week, I spotted a Peregrine in the west end of the City, and the ravens have been building nests and robbing crows around City Hall for most of April. Otherwise, from my urban vantage, the migration appears to have stalled. I see the same, small flocks of grackles foraging around the canal that I saw two weeks ago, and very few songbirds. The Field Naturalists' bird line reports large numbers of waterfowl moving through the area, and they confirm my observations of migrating bohemian waxwings in Gatineau Park -- but that report is now a week old. One of these days, the weather will break, and then we will see a flood of new arrivals. Hopefully, I'll still be on holiday to see them.
The more subtle signs of spring continue to evolve. Every day the color in the twigs and buds appears more intense and more potent. Young leaves have begun to unfurl on the honeysuckles. More and larger bulbs force their way from the earth in gardens around the Co-op and the neighborhood, and already the crocuses are drooping. The wait seems long, and the teasing moments too short and too few. But, inevitably, that day will soon come when the air trembles with urgent life, and the City casts off its pallor.
We woke, this morning, to wind and freezing rain. I looked at the forecast for the coming week, and the days appear to alternate between warm, wet days, and cooler, clear days -- very much the pattern for the past month. Apparently my decision not to go camping in Algonquin Park will spare me some unpleasant nights.
On the other hand, this might be perfect weather for birding in Gatineau Park or along the Carp Hills. This pattern of weather systems should bring the raptors through the area, and I can imagine myself next week sitting with binoculars or maybe even a telescope at the Champlain Lookout. Coming back from Kemptville last week, I spotted a Peregrine in the west end of the City, and the ravens have been building nests and robbing crows around City Hall for most of April. Otherwise, from my urban vantage, the migration appears to have stalled. I see the same, small flocks of grackles foraging around the canal that I saw two weeks ago, and very few songbirds. The Field Naturalists' bird line reports large numbers of waterfowl moving through the area, and they confirm my observations of migrating bohemian waxwings in Gatineau Park -- but that report is now a week old. One of these days, the weather will break, and then we will see a flood of new arrivals. Hopefully, I'll still be on holiday to see them.
The more subtle signs of spring continue to evolve. Every day the color in the twigs and buds appears more intense and more potent. Young leaves have begun to unfurl on the honeysuckles. More and larger bulbs force their way from the earth in gardens around the Co-op and the neighborhood, and already the crocuses are drooping. The wait seems long, and the teasing moments too short and too few. But, inevitably, that day will soon come when the air trembles with urgent life, and the City casts off its pallor.
Sunday 17 April 2011
Finding my place
Sue and I hosted a housewarming and joint 100th birthday party last night. Our friends from Co-op joined us for food, drink and music. The party started slowly, but gradually picked up as more people showed up at the door bearing sweets and savories, as well as musical instruments. I'd already set up two guitars in the living room. Allan arrived with his flute and tin whistles. Michael hauled his upright base in the door. Patricia, Carmel and Jen arrived with their guitars and voices. We formed a song circle and spent a couple of hours jamming and singing old favourites. My voice, by the end of the night, felt hoarse and bluesy.
This morning, I met Thomas at Church, where he took part in an Easter canata -- reciting the story of the road to Emmaus. The choir sang beautifully, and Thomas spoke clearly and confidently. I cannot believe, sometimes, how much he has matured. Afterwards, we drove across the Ottawa River to a retreat house in Gatineau, where we joined the core of the congregation in preparations for the upcoming confirmation ceremony. Thomas, Grace, Hazel, Alissa, Elaine, Peter and the other Gross child (whose name escapes me) have attended classes with Reverend Laurie after worship for the past two months. We will hold the confirmation ceremony in two weeks, and today provided the final opportunity for the youth and their families to talk together about what it means to us. We shared a pot luck lunch, and then met for several hours in a large, comfortable living room -- while a cold wind rattled alternating rain and sleet against the windows.
It has taken many years for me to find my place in Ottawa. Susan and I moved here more than twenty years ago, and only in the last few years has it become my home. When we first arrived, I ached desperately for the ocean, for the mountains, for the prairies. I yearned for space around me: horizontal space, stretching to the horizon; verticle space, reaching to the sky. For all the beauty of the trees, sometimes my heart screamed for the vison of a grey, endless ocean, a vista of wheat and canola, a slatey peak angled across a blue sky. I bled for a landscape of absolutes.
Now, I find myself thinking less of horizons and more of the next turning of a blue creek, lined by lily pads and vibrating to the hum of life. Dragonflies dancing along the shore. A damselfly perching on the brim of my hat. I think of an alvar grassland, shining like a jewel as a I break from the dark forest. Big bluestem bending in a breeze. A kestrel hovering against the sky. Perhaps I'm just older. Perhaps I've just learned to look closer at what's around me. Not just at the places, but at the people.
This morning, I met Thomas at Church, where he took part in an Easter canata -- reciting the story of the road to Emmaus. The choir sang beautifully, and Thomas spoke clearly and confidently. I cannot believe, sometimes, how much he has matured. Afterwards, we drove across the Ottawa River to a retreat house in Gatineau, where we joined the core of the congregation in preparations for the upcoming confirmation ceremony. Thomas, Grace, Hazel, Alissa, Elaine, Peter and the other Gross child (whose name escapes me) have attended classes with Reverend Laurie after worship for the past two months. We will hold the confirmation ceremony in two weeks, and today provided the final opportunity for the youth and their families to talk together about what it means to us. We shared a pot luck lunch, and then met for several hours in a large, comfortable living room -- while a cold wind rattled alternating rain and sleet against the windows.
It has taken many years for me to find my place in Ottawa. Susan and I moved here more than twenty years ago, and only in the last few years has it become my home. When we first arrived, I ached desperately for the ocean, for the mountains, for the prairies. I yearned for space around me: horizontal space, stretching to the horizon; verticle space, reaching to the sky. For all the beauty of the trees, sometimes my heart screamed for the vison of a grey, endless ocean, a vista of wheat and canola, a slatey peak angled across a blue sky. I bled for a landscape of absolutes.
Now, I find myself thinking less of horizons and more of the next turning of a blue creek, lined by lily pads and vibrating to the hum of life. Dragonflies dancing along the shore. A damselfly perching on the brim of my hat. I think of an alvar grassland, shining like a jewel as a I break from the dark forest. Big bluestem bending in a breeze. A kestrel hovering against the sky. Perhaps I'm just older. Perhaps I've just learned to look closer at what's around me. Not just at the places, but at the people.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Paying attention
Such a change from yesterday. Yesterday, beside the Rideau Canal, young women from the University of Ottawa stretched on the greening grass, like lilies in the warm sun. Today, when I walked down to the canal to eat my lunch beside the path, I had to zip my jacket against the damp chill.
The Ottawa Race Weekend comes up near the end of May, and people have begun to train seriously. As I ate my sandwich and savored segments of a clementine, I watched the runners passing on the path. We have some very serious runners in Ottawa. And some aging runners. I estimate the mean age somewhere in the forties, with a few men well into their sixties. I suppose that I shouldn't judge: me, at fifty, still pretending to bike like I'm sixteen, while ignoring the chronic twinge in my cranky right knee.
At the next bench over, a young man sat peering at a blackberry or cell phone, his thumbs dancing on the keypad. I wondered what had brought him down to the canal. Had he come to relax? Or, like me, to watch the world pass by? He didn't have a lunch, a book, a companion. Why come to the canal, I wondered, just to spend the time peering at a tiny screen, oblivious to everything else? After ten or fifteen minutes, he stood up, slipped the gadget into his pocket, and walked away briskly toward Laurier Street.
I see the same behaviour on City busses. I love riding the bus. I can think of no better place to watch people. The young and the old, the mingling cultures. Flirtings and snubs. Smiles and glimpes of quiet desperation. I've watched a businessman slip a mickey from his brief case, take a sip, and then cast me a wary glance at me as he slipped the bottle back. I've listened to mothers and their children singing "the wheels on the bus", and watched young women lean back and snuggle into their boyfriends' shoulder. I've ridden the neary-empty bus on dark, rainy nights and wondered at the destination of my unnamed companions.
It puzzles me, therefore, why so many people immediately isolate themselves when the sit down on the bus. They adjust their earbuds and the volume on their iPods. They text friends. The drop their eyes, or turn their faces to the window, lost in million mile stares. So sad. Such wasted opportunities.
The Ottawa Race Weekend comes up near the end of May, and people have begun to train seriously. As I ate my sandwich and savored segments of a clementine, I watched the runners passing on the path. We have some very serious runners in Ottawa. And some aging runners. I estimate the mean age somewhere in the forties, with a few men well into their sixties. I suppose that I shouldn't judge: me, at fifty, still pretending to bike like I'm sixteen, while ignoring the chronic twinge in my cranky right knee.
At the next bench over, a young man sat peering at a blackberry or cell phone, his thumbs dancing on the keypad. I wondered what had brought him down to the canal. Had he come to relax? Or, like me, to watch the world pass by? He didn't have a lunch, a book, a companion. Why come to the canal, I wondered, just to spend the time peering at a tiny screen, oblivious to everything else? After ten or fifteen minutes, he stood up, slipped the gadget into his pocket, and walked away briskly toward Laurier Street.
I see the same behaviour on City busses. I love riding the bus. I can think of no better place to watch people. The young and the old, the mingling cultures. Flirtings and snubs. Smiles and glimpes of quiet desperation. I've watched a businessman slip a mickey from his brief case, take a sip, and then cast me a wary glance at me as he slipped the bottle back. I've listened to mothers and their children singing "the wheels on the bus", and watched young women lean back and snuggle into their boyfriends' shoulder. I've ridden the neary-empty bus on dark, rainy nights and wondered at the destination of my unnamed companions.
It puzzles me, therefore, why so many people immediately isolate themselves when the sit down on the bus. They adjust their earbuds and the volume on their iPods. They text friends. The drop their eyes, or turn their faces to the window, lost in million mile stares. So sad. Such wasted opportunities.
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Evening on the Rideau
After washing the supper dishes, I carried my bike up from the basement and set out on an evening ride. I followed a favourite circuit: riding along the Rideau River to Hogs Back Falls, and then following the canal back home. The sun had just set when I left, and I rode through a long, fading dusk.
As I rode through the twilight under the trees, I admired the colours of the sky reflecting off the river and bracketing the far, shadowed bank with bands of gold, bronze and turqoise. Dark clusters of ducks threw long wakes in the swift flowing water. Red winged blackbirds sang their evening songs in last year's cattails along the shoreline. At least two great blue herons lifted as I passed and escorted me briefly along my way, before curving backward against the sky to disappear behind me again in the darkness.
I rode quickly, for exercise rather than relaxation -- also to stay warm. The air cooled quickly once the sun set. The faintest mist began to gather along the river, and I won't be surprised to see fog in the morning.
I've booked off the week following the Easter weekend, which gives me a full ten days to enjoy the spring weather. I'll have to take at least one of those mornings for a more leisurely ride along the river.
As I rode through the twilight under the trees, I admired the colours of the sky reflecting off the river and bracketing the far, shadowed bank with bands of gold, bronze and turqoise. Dark clusters of ducks threw long wakes in the swift flowing water. Red winged blackbirds sang their evening songs in last year's cattails along the shoreline. At least two great blue herons lifted as I passed and escorted me briefly along my way, before curving backward against the sky to disappear behind me again in the darkness.
I rode quickly, for exercise rather than relaxation -- also to stay warm. The air cooled quickly once the sun set. The faintest mist began to gather along the river, and I won't be surprised to see fog in the morning.
I've booked off the week following the Easter weekend, which gives me a full ten days to enjoy the spring weather. I'll have to take at least one of those mornings for a more leisurely ride along the river.
Monday 11 April 2011
Ambling
I discovered Edmonton's river valley system when I moved to the City in 1983 from Vancouver. I remember my amazement to find traces of snow in May, in the cooler, shaded slopes along the south bank. The ravines arising from the main valley of the North Saskatchewan River seemed to penetrate every part of the City. I would begin a Saturday stroll or bike ride by descending into the valley from Strathcona and later in the day find myself at the edge of the countryside or emerging into a new district of streets, homes and shops. I discovered the odd neighborhoods nestled down the valley -- some of the oldest in the City, without running water, still reliant on outhouses. I found quiet nooks, and hidden urban wild places.
I also re-learned the art of ambling. Too often I would start my explorations at the hurried pace of weekday life, leaning forward and striking the pavement with each quick, determined step. I had no place to be, but I would set out as a man with a destination and deadline. Finally, it would dawn on me that I had neither. Even then, I could not just slow my pace. I had to stop, take a deep breath, and reset myself within the world. And then I could begin again -- not just with slower steps, but with a entire new view of life. I could appreciate the nuances: the patterns of things, the gentler sounds, and the taste and smell of the air.
I remembered those walks this week. Last Thursday, returning in the mid-evening from a meeting: the night air felt as comfortable as a pair of old runners, and I slouched into a lazy amble, hands in my pockets. The streets seemed as familiar and intimate as an old photograph. I listened to my own footsteps on the pavement. And then, today, as I left the house for work, I breathed in the perfumed, tropical air that had brought thunderstorms in the night. I could smell the ocean from five thousand miles away, and I recalled standing awestruck on the shore of the Arabian Gulf, looking out at the place where Man first took to the sea.
I also re-learned the art of ambling. Too often I would start my explorations at the hurried pace of weekday life, leaning forward and striking the pavement with each quick, determined step. I had no place to be, but I would set out as a man with a destination and deadline. Finally, it would dawn on me that I had neither. Even then, I could not just slow my pace. I had to stop, take a deep breath, and reset myself within the world. And then I could begin again -- not just with slower steps, but with a entire new view of life. I could appreciate the nuances: the patterns of things, the gentler sounds, and the taste and smell of the air.
I remembered those walks this week. Last Thursday, returning in the mid-evening from a meeting: the night air felt as comfortable as a pair of old runners, and I slouched into a lazy amble, hands in my pockets. The streets seemed as familiar and intimate as an old photograph. I listened to my own footsteps on the pavement. And then, today, as I left the house for work, I breathed in the perfumed, tropical air that had brought thunderstorms in the night. I could smell the ocean from five thousand miles away, and I recalled standing awestruck on the shore of the Arabian Gulf, looking out at the place where Man first took to the sea.
Sunday 10 April 2011
Lazarus
I celebrated my inaugural bike ride today, cycling along the trails and parkway to Pink Lake, in Gatineau Park. With the temperature cradled in the teens, I rode comfortably in a pair of shorts, a tee shirt and a short-sleeved vest. When I left home, I hadn't yet decided on my destination. I thought of taking my normal circuit, up to Britannia and then around back through the Experimental Farm. But as my legs unknotted and the tightness eased out of my chest, I felt the need for hills and trees.
For most of the way, I rode on clear paths and roads. Once in the park, however, I began to hit patches of snow along the shadier parts of the route, including a couple of stretches just below Pink Lake at least a hundred meters long. Going up, I had to dismount. Coming down, I could carefully glide or peddle over the decaying crust. The exercise routine of the past three months paid off for me, as I felt strong both going up and coming down.
Gatineau Park seemed on the verge of an explosion of life. Neither the leaves nor spring wildflowers had yet emerged. But I could sense them swelling -- could almost hear them, somewhere just below the sounds of water running everywhere. Dripping from ice-rimed rock cuts, running in trickles down mossy slopes, in rivulets converging into streams that ran fast and noisy through ravines and valleys. I saw little wildlife, except for foraging flocks of songbirds. Large numbers of bohemian waxwings trilling in the treetops. Black-capped chickadees buzzing and chittering as they hawked emerging moths and pulled tufts of punky wood and insects from rotten trees. Even a robin bravely laying claim to his territory, from the top of young spruce in an old field -- whistling his bright song, as only the thrushes can do.
The contrast of the bare, grey tree branches with the sky and landscape always strikes me as particularly beautiful in the spring. The intricate, fractal patterns of sugar maples and oaks climbing a rocky slope and displaying themselves in silhouette against the sky brings me to a halt in wonder. The brilliant, feathered green of supercanopy white pines stands out clearly against the grey-black gneiss of the earth and its veneer of stark, decidous bones.
I've often thought of bare tree limbs as bones. Particularly in the prairies in winter, where they seem to lift pleading hands to the frigid, remorseless blue or starry night. Their desolation strikes me as both beautiful and frightening.
Coincidentally... or maybe not so... we read Ezekiel's vision of the valley of dry bones in church this morning, followed by John's account of the raising of Lazarus. Death and resurrection: spirit and body anew. The promise of Easter and of spring. I stood a long time at the Pink Lake lookout, and I felt deeply connected to the landscape about me. I could feel and see myself only as an extension of the life surrounding me. Not a apart from it; but a part of it. And, yet, the only self-aware part of that life. Somewhere in that reality lies the Holy Trinity.
I like the idea of heaven, but I've never seen the point of it. We arise as an expression of life, and we return to life in time like a wave subsiding into the ocean. In the end, I will welcome whatever God has in mind, but I'm not sure that I'd like to rise like Lazarus. I'd rather give myself up to the earth and the trees, the sky and the stars.
For most of the way, I rode on clear paths and roads. Once in the park, however, I began to hit patches of snow along the shadier parts of the route, including a couple of stretches just below Pink Lake at least a hundred meters long. Going up, I had to dismount. Coming down, I could carefully glide or peddle over the decaying crust. The exercise routine of the past three months paid off for me, as I felt strong both going up and coming down.
Gatineau Park seemed on the verge of an explosion of life. Neither the leaves nor spring wildflowers had yet emerged. But I could sense them swelling -- could almost hear them, somewhere just below the sounds of water running everywhere. Dripping from ice-rimed rock cuts, running in trickles down mossy slopes, in rivulets converging into streams that ran fast and noisy through ravines and valleys. I saw little wildlife, except for foraging flocks of songbirds. Large numbers of bohemian waxwings trilling in the treetops. Black-capped chickadees buzzing and chittering as they hawked emerging moths and pulled tufts of punky wood and insects from rotten trees. Even a robin bravely laying claim to his territory, from the top of young spruce in an old field -- whistling his bright song, as only the thrushes can do.
The contrast of the bare, grey tree branches with the sky and landscape always strikes me as particularly beautiful in the spring. The intricate, fractal patterns of sugar maples and oaks climbing a rocky slope and displaying themselves in silhouette against the sky brings me to a halt in wonder. The brilliant, feathered green of supercanopy white pines stands out clearly against the grey-black gneiss of the earth and its veneer of stark, decidous bones.
I've often thought of bare tree limbs as bones. Particularly in the prairies in winter, where they seem to lift pleading hands to the frigid, remorseless blue or starry night. Their desolation strikes me as both beautiful and frightening.
Coincidentally... or maybe not so... we read Ezekiel's vision of the valley of dry bones in church this morning, followed by John's account of the raising of Lazarus. Death and resurrection: spirit and body anew. The promise of Easter and of spring. I stood a long time at the Pink Lake lookout, and I felt deeply connected to the landscape about me. I could feel and see myself only as an extension of the life surrounding me. Not a apart from it; but a part of it. And, yet, the only self-aware part of that life. Somewhere in that reality lies the Holy Trinity.
I like the idea of heaven, but I've never seen the point of it. We arise as an expression of life, and we return to life in time like a wave subsiding into the ocean. In the end, I will welcome whatever God has in mind, but I'm not sure that I'd like to rise like Lazarus. I'd rather give myself up to the earth and the trees, the sky and the stars.
Wednesday 6 April 2011
The road less travelled
Sue and I huddled under the covers for a long time this morning, sharing warmth. We haven't quite figured out the heating in this big, open house. The kitchen feels as cozy as a pair of wool socks; the adjacent living room chills like a leather ice skate. Apparently, the ducts in the basement have their own levers and baffles, which send warm air one way or another. Amidst everything else, we haven't found time to investigate their intricacies.
This evening's sky glowed cerulean, and dangled a delicate crescent moon. Tonight will be cold again. The cold, clear nights remind me of the desert. I've been fortunate to walk under the nighttime desert sky in the UAE and in the Mojave. The sky in the UAE held a continual haze, which provided ravishing sunsets but sadly muted stars. The sky in the Mojave, on the other hand, embraced the earth from horizon to horizon with light.
I only managed one night hike in the Mojave. I set out from my camp below the Kelso Dunes, hiking west along a beaten service road under a waxing moon. Darkness hid the details of the immediate landscape. But north and south, the moonlight illuminated the dunes and the Granite Mountains with silver. With sharp, clean air filling my lungs, I felt disconnected from everything I'd left behind. Not just my tent and campsite, but the world beyond the horizon, where friends and family held me in their thoughts.
To some extent, I have struggled my whole life with the urge and the need for isolation. In my first memory, I am standing alone just inside the edge of a forest, looking past a fallen, decaying tree and feeling some call from beyond it. I have always sought quiet, lonely places. I still feel that urge nearly every day. Not an urge to run from something, but lose myself in something else. I identified very strongly with the young man in "Into the Wild" -- at least as Jon Krakauer presented him. I am a Contemplative at heart.
But it would be too easy for me to lose myself. Too selfish. For me, "the road less travelled" doesn't take me where I'm inclined to go; it takes me where I'd inclined to avoid. Where's the challenge -- the art of living -- in doing what comes naturally. For me, the challenge has been to stay, to define a place amidst other people. To curl up in a warm bed with my wife, rather than follow a moonlit road across the desert.
This evening's sky glowed cerulean, and dangled a delicate crescent moon. Tonight will be cold again. The cold, clear nights remind me of the desert. I've been fortunate to walk under the nighttime desert sky in the UAE and in the Mojave. The sky in the UAE held a continual haze, which provided ravishing sunsets but sadly muted stars. The sky in the Mojave, on the other hand, embraced the earth from horizon to horizon with light.
I only managed one night hike in the Mojave. I set out from my camp below the Kelso Dunes, hiking west along a beaten service road under a waxing moon. Darkness hid the details of the immediate landscape. But north and south, the moonlight illuminated the dunes and the Granite Mountains with silver. With sharp, clean air filling my lungs, I felt disconnected from everything I'd left behind. Not just my tent and campsite, but the world beyond the horizon, where friends and family held me in their thoughts.
To some extent, I have struggled my whole life with the urge and the need for isolation. In my first memory, I am standing alone just inside the edge of a forest, looking past a fallen, decaying tree and feeling some call from beyond it. I have always sought quiet, lonely places. I still feel that urge nearly every day. Not an urge to run from something, but lose myself in something else. I identified very strongly with the young man in "Into the Wild" -- at least as Jon Krakauer presented him. I am a Contemplative at heart.
But it would be too easy for me to lose myself. Too selfish. For me, "the road less travelled" doesn't take me where I'm inclined to go; it takes me where I'd inclined to avoid. Where's the challenge -- the art of living -- in doing what comes naturally. For me, the challenge has been to stay, to define a place amidst other people. To curl up in a warm bed with my wife, rather than follow a moonlit road across the desert.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Spring light
Photographers learn to use the morning and evening light. Textures show more clearly; colors glow more richly. Some places have a distinctive light. I'm told that Key West has long captivated artists. I've admired the stark winter light of northern Alberta, the gothic light of a coastal rainforest, and the warmth of sunset across an Algonquin Park lake.
This morning's light, as I walked to work, seemed to tease out the nascent spring colors. The neutral, cream hue of the thin overcast accentuated the tinsels of color in the cityscape. The rosy buds of the maple trees, just coming into flower. The hint of paler green effusing the dark winter needles of the spruce trees. Even the young women, crossing the footbridge toward the university, appeared to glow more beautifully.
By midday, however, a cold wind wrapped itself again around the City. I shivered on the walk home and didn't notice the colors.
This morning's light, as I walked to work, seemed to tease out the nascent spring colors. The neutral, cream hue of the thin overcast accentuated the tinsels of color in the cityscape. The rosy buds of the maple trees, just coming into flower. The hint of paler green effusing the dark winter needles of the spruce trees. Even the young women, crossing the footbridge toward the university, appeared to glow more beautifully.
By midday, however, a cold wind wrapped itself again around the City. I shivered on the walk home and didn't notice the colors.
Monday 4 April 2011
New beginnings
We moved on Friday. Not far: within the Co-op, just down the street into an airy, four bedroom house. Sue now has her bright, open kitchen, with an apple tree outside the window. The boys have larger rooms. I'm writing from my new office, overlooking the students and traffic on King Edward. After seven months of living shoulder to shoulder in a small, two bedroom townhouse, we can now each find our own space and a bit of privacy. We hope to live here at least until the boys are well into university. I suspect that we will come to see this move as the real start of our life as a family.
I also turned fifty on Friday. I don't know, yet, how I feel about that milestone; I haven't had a quiet time to think about it.
And finally, the April showers have arrived. The weather spared us on Friday, with just a faint sprinkle first thing in the morning, and then a warming day with sunshine in the afternoon. We enjoyed two glorious, spring days over the weeked. Sadly, instead of chasing geese and ducks around Bearbrook as I'd hoped, Sue and I spent the days inside, unpacking boxes. Now, this morning, a steady drizzle falls, and the temperature should reach 14 degrees. Is that a faint tint of green in the grass across the street?
Once the kinks have eased out of my muscles, and my knees have ceased to ache, I hope to sit back -- maybe out on the porch, with my guitar beside me -- and reflect in a more leisurely way on these new beginnings.
I also turned fifty on Friday. I don't know, yet, how I feel about that milestone; I haven't had a quiet time to think about it.
And finally, the April showers have arrived. The weather spared us on Friday, with just a faint sprinkle first thing in the morning, and then a warming day with sunshine in the afternoon. We enjoyed two glorious, spring days over the weeked. Sadly, instead of chasing geese and ducks around Bearbrook as I'd hoped, Sue and I spent the days inside, unpacking boxes. Now, this morning, a steady drizzle falls, and the temperature should reach 14 degrees. Is that a faint tint of green in the grass across the street?
Once the kinks have eased out of my muscles, and my knees have ceased to ache, I hope to sit back -- maybe out on the porch, with my guitar beside me -- and reflect in a more leisurely way on these new beginnings.
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