Lots of fun.
Sunday 25 March 2012
What did I blog?
I thought that it would be fun to summarize the first year of my blog in a "word cloud". The size of each word reflects the number of times it showed up in my blog -- minus the everyday words. If you would like to try creating a word cloud yourself, you can do so at: www.wordle.net
Lots of fun.
Lots of fun.
Tuesday 20 March 2012
Extraordinary days
Such a change from one year ago. On March 21st of last year, I wrote about the snowstorm sweeping over the City. Today we bathed in mid-summer temperatures. Sue and I ate supper on the front porch. Will this glorious weather continue? Probably not. In fact, I hope that we get some cooler, rainy days, maybe even another blanket of snow; or we could be facing a second dry summer.
The warmth and blue skies had me thinking of other days, extraordinary days. They come periodically, when everything aligns to create a day of wonder, adventure and beauty. Sometimes they come with a premonition... a sense, a day or two ahead, that something might be building. And they usually begin early, with dawn still little more than paling of the night sky. I thought that this past Saturday might prove extraordinary, and it certainly brought much satisfaction. But marred by the morning fog, my cold toes and the absence of any cranes, it never quite acheived the anticipated heights.
I remember a spring morning in Alberta, driving east from Edmonton into a turquoise sky, arriving at Beaverhill Lake as the sun rose. The southern sky speckled with the arrival of tens of thousands of waterfowl at the end of their night's journey. Later in the morning, heading west, watching and listening in awe as a flock of hundreds of sandhill cranes flew overhead. And then in the afternoon, north of Edmonton, watching the courtship of a pair of red-tail hawks as they locked talons and spiraled toward earth. All under a blue sky spreading from horizon to horizon.
On another summer day, I stood at the edge of the Red Deer River valley, looking down on a red tail hawk as it soared below in the canyon. As I watched, two turkey vultures glided over the crest of the valley, just a few feet above my head. Turning to watch them, I saw a pair of mule deer standing in a golden field of canola, ears perked and eyes gazing intently. Following their eyes, I spotted the twitch of a tail, and then ears, and then the head of a coyote as it returned the gaze of the deer. All this within a span of thirty seconds, at one of the most beautiful places on earth.
I hope for extraordinary days in this coming year. To increase the odds, I've also set myself a new goal: to visit and write about all of Ottawa's most interesting and outstanding natural areas. Hopefully in a manner that will encourage other people to visit, to appreciate them, and to live their own extraordinary days.
The warmth and blue skies had me thinking of other days, extraordinary days. They come periodically, when everything aligns to create a day of wonder, adventure and beauty. Sometimes they come with a premonition... a sense, a day or two ahead, that something might be building. And they usually begin early, with dawn still little more than paling of the night sky. I thought that this past Saturday might prove extraordinary, and it certainly brought much satisfaction. But marred by the morning fog, my cold toes and the absence of any cranes, it never quite acheived the anticipated heights.
I remember a spring morning in Alberta, driving east from Edmonton into a turquoise sky, arriving at Beaverhill Lake as the sun rose. The southern sky speckled with the arrival of tens of thousands of waterfowl at the end of their night's journey. Later in the morning, heading west, watching and listening in awe as a flock of hundreds of sandhill cranes flew overhead. And then in the afternoon, north of Edmonton, watching the courtship of a pair of red-tail hawks as they locked talons and spiraled toward earth. All under a blue sky spreading from horizon to horizon.
On another summer day, I stood at the edge of the Red Deer River valley, looking down on a red tail hawk as it soared below in the canyon. As I watched, two turkey vultures glided over the crest of the valley, just a few feet above my head. Turning to watch them, I saw a pair of mule deer standing in a golden field of canola, ears perked and eyes gazing intently. Following their eyes, I spotted the twitch of a tail, and then ears, and then the head of a coyote as it returned the gaze of the deer. All this within a span of thirty seconds, at one of the most beautiful places on earth.
I hope for extraordinary days in this coming year. To increase the odds, I've also set myself a new goal: to visit and write about all of Ottawa's most interesting and outstanding natural areas. Hopefully in a manner that will encourage other people to visit, to appreciate them, and to live their own extraordinary days.
Monday 19 March 2012
Shaking off the winter cobwebs
Yesterday I travelled out to Bearbrook for some birdwatching. The warm weather had brought the geese with it, and I had a sense that the day could be extraordinary. I woke an hour before dawn, and ate a bowl of outmeal while staring out the back window into thick fog. Not the best birding weather, but I wouldn't be discouraged. I stuffed my backpack with binoculars, camera, a field guide and water, pulled my bicycle from the basement, and carried them out the back door.
The morning smelled the way that spring should: damp, sweet, fecund. In the mist, the patter of a pigeon's wings echoed from across the parking lot. Dew lay heavily on the picnic table, and every twig overhead held a silvery drop. I set out, heading east. The sun had risen, but was lost behind the fog. The morning had an intimate quality, with every sound seeming both muted and closer at the same time. It reminded me of hiking on Vancouver Island, on days when the mist curled around the mountains and the ravens would follow and talk to me.
As I crossed the Rideau River, I stopped to take a photograph.
I carried on, heading up Industrial Avenue to Innes, and then along Innes to Green's Creek where I stopped to wipe my glasses. The fog had coated them with fine droplets. With my sight a little more clear, I looked around. The sun hung like a shrouded lamp over the horizon, and a white-tail deer browsed placidly in an old field.
I carried on to Anderson Road, and followed it to Renaud Road. Outside the urban area, the air felt cooler and the mist more permeating. My fingers and toes began to grow cold inside my gloves and running shoes. It was almost eight o'clock when I reached the Prescott - Russell Bicycle Trail, and still the sun hadn't burned through. Where the trail passed through trees, patches of crusty snow still covered the ground. At the edge of the trail, last year's goldenrod and Queen Anne's Lace bore a delicate glaze of frost.
I had hoped that the trail would offer me glimpes of the fields and marsh adjacent to the north side of Mer Bleue. But the fog limited my view to no more than a hundred meters. Occasionally, I heard birds in the mist, and one flooded corn field held a few dozen geese and a pair of wood ducks. In the dim light, I couldn't make out the colours of the wood ducks, but knew them from their silhouettes. Just before reaching Milton Road, I found a red-tail hawk sitting in a tall, old elm beside the trail. But before I could dig my camera out of my pack, he flew off into the mist, with a parting "keeerrr!" of complaint at my intrusion.
I cycled south on Milton Road toward my destination: the large lake that forms each spring in the corn fields along Bearbrook. I'd passed through the area two days earlier, and noted the geese gathering in the fields. I also hoped to see sandhill cranes in the peaty fields to the west, along the edge of Mer Bleue. However, despite the late hour -- now almost 10 o'clock -- the mist still clung tenaciously to earth, and even grew more dense down near the river. I could hear thousands of geese in the grey purgatory, but caught only glimpes of the flocks from the road. The far ends of the fields remained hidden.
By this time, I hadn't felt my toes for several hours. Thinking that some hot food might help, I left Milton Road and cycled along Russell Road to Carlsbad Springs, detouring once to follow a sideroad back to the river. Killdeer cried in alarm as I passed the muddy fields. The sun began to feel warmer, and in places I could see the far tree lines.
I ate lunch at the D&S Southern Comfort BBQ in Carlsbad Springs: a succulent Rueben Sandwich, with decent fries, a pickle and coleslaw. Sitting in a booth in a nearly empty restaurant, I slipped off my running shoes and wriggled my toes deliciously until the feeling returned to them. I looked out the window as I sipped my coffee, and could see the fog lifting and breaking into hazy tendrils below a glorious blue sky. Contemplating the nascent ache in my thighs and... umm... other regions (those in contact with the bicycle seat), I considered whether I should return to Bearbrook and the geese, or continue homeward along Russell Road. The blue sky and promise of birds won me over.
When I arrived back at Milton Road, the fog had entirely lifted. In the flooded fields along Bearbrook, thousands of geese honked incessently, accompanied by quieter pintail. Strings of geese in the dozens and hundreds stitched the southwestern sky, probably drifting in from the fields east of Bourget. Far across the water, crows and ravens criss-crossed against a distant woodlot, and a turkey vulture soared, indentifiable only by the characteristic, shallow dihedral of its wings as it circled lazily.
At this point, the day had provided almost all for which I'd hoped... almost. I slowly worked my way north along Milton Road, and then west along Smith Road, looking toward the edge of Mer Bleue in the hope of spotting a sandhill crane or a northern harrier. A herd of fifteen white-tail deer fed in the fields closest to the trees, and geese lifted their heads from the dried stalks of last year's corn. But today the cranes and harriers escaped me, although I heard from a greying, fellow watcher that he'd heard the rattle of cranes overhead in the mist in the morning -- presumably heading off somewhere into the fens.
Perhaps his report convinced me that I still had time in the day to visit the Mer Bleue boardwalk. I cycled back along the Prescott - Russel Trail to Anderson Road, then up to Ridge Road, and out along the ridge to NCC P22, where I walked my bicycle along the boardwalk. However, apart from a few families enjoying the sunshine, the fen lay quiet. No cranes. Just a raven greeting me from a tamarack, and the trill of waxwings passing overhead.
I suffered on the ride from the boardwalk to home. The pain of coming off the saddle had grown more acute than the pain of climbing back on -- never a good sign. I cursed the softness of Ridge Road, and every pothole along Walkley. My knees complained, and several times I dismounted just to stretch the backs of my legs. I made it home, though, and following a long, hot bath, could look back with satisfaction on a good day.
My route for the day. 82 km by my GPS.
And my list for the day:
The morning smelled the way that spring should: damp, sweet, fecund. In the mist, the patter of a pigeon's wings echoed from across the parking lot. Dew lay heavily on the picnic table, and every twig overhead held a silvery drop. I set out, heading east. The sun had risen, but was lost behind the fog. The morning had an intimate quality, with every sound seeming both muted and closer at the same time. It reminded me of hiking on Vancouver Island, on days when the mist curled around the mountains and the ravens would follow and talk to me.
As I crossed the Rideau River, I stopped to take a photograph.
I carried on, heading up Industrial Avenue to Innes, and then along Innes to Green's Creek where I stopped to wipe my glasses. The fog had coated them with fine droplets. With my sight a little more clear, I looked around. The sun hung like a shrouded lamp over the horizon, and a white-tail deer browsed placidly in an old field.
I carried on to Anderson Road, and followed it to Renaud Road. Outside the urban area, the air felt cooler and the mist more permeating. My fingers and toes began to grow cold inside my gloves and running shoes. It was almost eight o'clock when I reached the Prescott - Russell Bicycle Trail, and still the sun hadn't burned through. Where the trail passed through trees, patches of crusty snow still covered the ground. At the edge of the trail, last year's goldenrod and Queen Anne's Lace bore a delicate glaze of frost.
I had hoped that the trail would offer me glimpes of the fields and marsh adjacent to the north side of Mer Bleue. But the fog limited my view to no more than a hundred meters. Occasionally, I heard birds in the mist, and one flooded corn field held a few dozen geese and a pair of wood ducks. In the dim light, I couldn't make out the colours of the wood ducks, but knew them from their silhouettes. Just before reaching Milton Road, I found a red-tail hawk sitting in a tall, old elm beside the trail. But before I could dig my camera out of my pack, he flew off into the mist, with a parting "keeerrr!" of complaint at my intrusion.
I cycled south on Milton Road toward my destination: the large lake that forms each spring in the corn fields along Bearbrook. I'd passed through the area two days earlier, and noted the geese gathering in the fields. I also hoped to see sandhill cranes in the peaty fields to the west, along the edge of Mer Bleue. However, despite the late hour -- now almost 10 o'clock -- the mist still clung tenaciously to earth, and even grew more dense down near the river. I could hear thousands of geese in the grey purgatory, but caught only glimpes of the flocks from the road. The far ends of the fields remained hidden.
By this time, I hadn't felt my toes for several hours. Thinking that some hot food might help, I left Milton Road and cycled along Russell Road to Carlsbad Springs, detouring once to follow a sideroad back to the river. Killdeer cried in alarm as I passed the muddy fields. The sun began to feel warmer, and in places I could see the far tree lines.
I ate lunch at the D&S Southern Comfort BBQ in Carlsbad Springs: a succulent Rueben Sandwich, with decent fries, a pickle and coleslaw. Sitting in a booth in a nearly empty restaurant, I slipped off my running shoes and wriggled my toes deliciously until the feeling returned to them. I looked out the window as I sipped my coffee, and could see the fog lifting and breaking into hazy tendrils below a glorious blue sky. Contemplating the nascent ache in my thighs and... umm... other regions (those in contact with the bicycle seat), I considered whether I should return to Bearbrook and the geese, or continue homeward along Russell Road. The blue sky and promise of birds won me over.
When I arrived back at Milton Road, the fog had entirely lifted. In the flooded fields along Bearbrook, thousands of geese honked incessently, accompanied by quieter pintail. Strings of geese in the dozens and hundreds stitched the southwestern sky, probably drifting in from the fields east of Bourget. Far across the water, crows and ravens criss-crossed against a distant woodlot, and a turkey vulture soared, indentifiable only by the characteristic, shallow dihedral of its wings as it circled lazily.
At this point, the day had provided almost all for which I'd hoped... almost. I slowly worked my way north along Milton Road, and then west along Smith Road, looking toward the edge of Mer Bleue in the hope of spotting a sandhill crane or a northern harrier. A herd of fifteen white-tail deer fed in the fields closest to the trees, and geese lifted their heads from the dried stalks of last year's corn. But today the cranes and harriers escaped me, although I heard from a greying, fellow watcher that he'd heard the rattle of cranes overhead in the mist in the morning -- presumably heading off somewhere into the fens.
Perhaps his report convinced me that I still had time in the day to visit the Mer Bleue boardwalk. I cycled back along the Prescott - Russel Trail to Anderson Road, then up to Ridge Road, and out along the ridge to NCC P22, where I walked my bicycle along the boardwalk. However, apart from a few families enjoying the sunshine, the fen lay quiet. No cranes. Just a raven greeting me from a tamarack, and the trill of waxwings passing overhead.
I suffered on the ride from the boardwalk to home. The pain of coming off the saddle had grown more acute than the pain of climbing back on -- never a good sign. I cursed the softness of Ridge Road, and every pothole along Walkley. My knees complained, and several times I dismounted just to stretch the backs of my legs. I made it home, though, and following a long, hot bath, could look back with satisfaction on a good day.
My route for the day. 82 km by my GPS.
And my list for the day:
- Canada geese, ~10,000 Mallard
- Common pintail, ~500
- Wood duck
- Ring-billed gulls
- Killdeer
- Wild turkey
- Red-tail hawk
- Mourning dove
- Rock dove (pigeon)
- Downy woodpecker
- American crow
- Northern raven
- Black-capped chickadee
- Robin
- Cedar waxwing
- Red-winged blackbird
- Common grackle
- Northern cardinal
- American tree sparrow
- Song sparrow
- Gray squirrel
- Red squirrel
- Striped skunk (road kill)
- Mink (road kill)
- White-tail deer
Sunday 11 March 2012
Spring arrives
As predicted, the temperature climbed into the low teens on Wednesday, filling the air with the sound of running water. Thursday, Friday and Saturday cooled to around zero. And then, today, both the clocks and the weather jumped forward into spring.
Along with many other people -- young, old, families -- I sauntered down to the Rideau River to enjoy the fine afternoon. On the way, I noticed the first shoots sprouting from the damp, warm earth.
The warm, southern air had brought with some new arrivals to the gardens along Somerset Street.
On the river, the ice had broken.
And the waterfowl abounded.
Mallard
Black duck
Mallard in flight
Goldeneye and two common mergansers
Common merganser (female)
Male goldeneye in flight
Wood duck
On the way home, I encountered another sun worshipper.
Here's the species list for today's outing:
- Common crow
- Cardinal
- Starling
- House finch
- Pigeon
- Ring-billed gull
- Downy woodpecker
- Robin
- Cedar waxwing
- Canada goose
- Gray squirrel
- Mallard
- Common goldeneye
- Black duck
- Herring gull (juvenile)?
- Wood duck
- Hooded merganser (alas... no photo)
- Common merganser
- Black-capped chickadee
- Red-winged blackbird
- Red squirrel.
Tuesday 6 March 2012
Morning Light
Although we moved into this house almost a year ago, Sue and I still haven't put a curtain up on our bedroom window. My office and our bedroom occupy the garret, my office facing west on to King Edward, and our bedroom facing east on to the houses along Henderson. The east window is small and shaded by a large, norway maple in the summer. At this time of year, however, we can see night giving way to morning in the eastern sky. In the past week, it has brightened well before our alarm. I lay in bed this morning, watching the pale gold and green of approaching dawn, torn between the warm body beside me and the temptation of a new day.
The sun came out three days ago, bringing us some very crisp days. I won't say that winter has returned, because the signs of pending spring still appear all around us. Yes, the canal looks as solidly frozen as in January, but the NCC has begun to pull up the stairs. The City has begun blasting keys in the on the Rideau River to prevent ice jams and flooding. The chickadees call more insistently. The buds continue to swell. I received my first report of a red wing blackbird (although I haven't yet heard one myself). I sense that we will see a quickening of the changes once this cold spell snaps later in the week.
Even so, I have been looking enviously at the photographs of friends and other bloggers from warmer climes. My friend Talar is working for SENES in Oman, and she recently posted photos of a trip into the desert and mountains. I've worked on the other side of those same mountains, in the Emirates. Margarethe Brummermann posted photographs of her latest trip into Catalina State Park, which reminded very much of my trip to the Mojave National Preserve two years ago. Now I'm pining for desert.
Oh, well... in a few weeks, I'll be pulling my canoe down from the top of the shed in preparation for a fishing trip to Algonquin Park. Algonquin Park in May won't be quite as warm as Oman or Arizona, but it will much more green.
The sun came out three days ago, bringing us some very crisp days. I won't say that winter has returned, because the signs of pending spring still appear all around us. Yes, the canal looks as solidly frozen as in January, but the NCC has begun to pull up the stairs. The City has begun blasting keys in the on the Rideau River to prevent ice jams and flooding. The chickadees call more insistently. The buds continue to swell. I received my first report of a red wing blackbird (although I haven't yet heard one myself). I sense that we will see a quickening of the changes once this cold spell snaps later in the week.
Even so, I have been looking enviously at the photographs of friends and other bloggers from warmer climes. My friend Talar is working for SENES in Oman, and she recently posted photos of a trip into the desert and mountains. I've worked on the other side of those same mountains, in the Emirates. Margarethe Brummermann posted photographs of her latest trip into Catalina State Park, which reminded very much of my trip to the Mojave National Preserve two years ago. Now I'm pining for desert.
Oh, well... in a few weeks, I'll be pulling my canoe down from the top of the shed in preparation for a fishing trip to Algonquin Park. Algonquin Park in May won't be quite as warm as Oman or Arizona, but it will much more green.
Saturday 3 March 2012
In like a lion
Since my optimistic musings about spring, we've received three good dumps of snow. Even so, the ocsillations from mild, sunny days to blizzards only emphasize the on-going transition. The long-range forecast calls for highs near 10 degrees by the middle of next week, and I fearlessly forecast that I'll hear a red-winged blackbird calling along the canal before the following weekend.
At work, in the Natural Systems team, we've already moved into planning for summer. Consultants have begun to call us to discuss the fieldwork requirements of their clients. Our Water Resources Group has asked where we'd like them monitoring this year. I've begun arranging access agreements for our own contractors, setting up purchase orders, and planning my own site visits.
At home, we've begun to look toward the holidays. When should I take vacation; where might we go? Will Sue have a new contract? Will the boys want to travel, work, or just hang? Will they still want to spend time with Sue and me, or have they already turned toward their outer lives?
Where was I at fifteen? 1976. I wasn't working yet, but I did spend a two week training placement as a deckhand on the Princess Marguerite -- the lovely, old car ferry that operated between Victoria and Seattle. The following year, I spent the summer working in a car wash and restaurant stock room. After that, a summer with the naval reserves. Then, my summer after high school, working at the Victoria Forestry lab.
I try to remember that last, unencumbered summer of 1976. I spent much of it on my bicycle, roaming around the lower island. I cycled to Sooke, Saanich, Goldstream Park, looking for places to hike. I explored the entire shoreline of Victoria, from Esquimalt Harbour past Oak Bay. I spent weekends in the boat shed at Rainbow Sea Cadets. I listened to some great music: Springsteen, Pink Floyd, Abba, Queen, Supertramp, Paul Simon, Peter Frampton, Heart, the Eagles, Bob Seger, the Ramones, Chicago, Boston, Trooper, BTO, Al Stewart.
I hope that the boys wait another year before taking on full-time, summer jobs. Not just because I'd like to spend more time with them this year, but also because this may be their last chance for the next 50 or 60 years to live a few weeks with the freedom to go anywhere and do anything.
At work, in the Natural Systems team, we've already moved into planning for summer. Consultants have begun to call us to discuss the fieldwork requirements of their clients. Our Water Resources Group has asked where we'd like them monitoring this year. I've begun arranging access agreements for our own contractors, setting up purchase orders, and planning my own site visits.
At home, we've begun to look toward the holidays. When should I take vacation; where might we go? Will Sue have a new contract? Will the boys want to travel, work, or just hang? Will they still want to spend time with Sue and me, or have they already turned toward their outer lives?
Where was I at fifteen? 1976. I wasn't working yet, but I did spend a two week training placement as a deckhand on the Princess Marguerite -- the lovely, old car ferry that operated between Victoria and Seattle. The following year, I spent the summer working in a car wash and restaurant stock room. After that, a summer with the naval reserves. Then, my summer after high school, working at the Victoria Forestry lab.
I hope that the boys wait another year before taking on full-time, summer jobs. Not just because I'd like to spend more time with them this year, but also because this may be their last chance for the next 50 or 60 years to live a few weeks with the freedom to go anywhere and do anything.
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