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.
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