When I was six or seven, we lived one year in a small bungalow on a street near the edge of Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. The street climbed the gentle, south slope of a hill, and our house overlooked a valley with a pond that froze solid enough in the winter for skating. We owned a beautiful collie -- my first love. The grass grew long in the vacant lot beside our house. Past the end of the street, hay fields led to a farmyard and large barn belonging to a man who didn't seem to mind the intrusions of young children.
The smells of that place imprinted themselves on me, especially the scents of grass and hay. I've made several site visits in the last month, walking through old fields and skirting hedgerows and woodlots. The wet spring pushed the grasses up early and high. As my legs brushed through the dense stems, I felt again like that child in Dartmouth. Sensations rose around me, clinging to me like hay seed in the hairs on my bare arms. In a more innocent moment, I could have flattened a place for myself hidden in the grass under the blue sky, listened to the birds and thought life was forever.
Similarly, sensation overcomes me when I dive into a clear lake in the Madwaska Highlands. I'm emersed in the smell of living water. It lingers on my skin, in my hair and in my nostrils until my next sterile shower. Other, stronger smells linger deep in my very being, where they have spliced themselves into my psychic DNA: the astringent smell of the sea and shore; the deep symphony of odours in the mould of a B.C. rain forest; the savor of dust rising from a prairie dirt road, as comforting as fresh baked bread.
When life ends... when the sight grows dim and the sounds recede... I wonder if the scent of life, or the remembered scent of life, is the last sense to pass away. That wouldn't be a bad thing, to leave life in wrapped in memories of pine forests and mountain light.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Learning to love Ottawa
Last weekend, I found a manufacturer of an inexpensive bicycle canoe trailer. Sue and I disposed of our car in the autumn and turned to VrtuCar (a local car-sharing business) for our transportation needs. Consequently, this spring, I've lacked an easy way of transporting my canoe around Ottawa. I have yet to fish for pike in Constance Bay, or paddle up the Rideau looking for the big snapping turtle that basks on a sagging crack willow, or fall on my butt in the muck while hauling over a beaver dams along some narrow creek in the Marlborough Forest. In fact, I feel a bit stir crazy.
I didn't like Ottawa when my ex-wife, Susan, and I arrived here twenty years ago. I had grown up in Victoria and Vancouver, with the sea and the mountains close at hand. I had lived for eight years in Edmonton, with frequent forays to Jasper or out into the prairie parkland. I revelled in the sky, the space and the light. Ottawa, in contrast, seemed to have none of these: the forests were beautiful, and I appreciated the chance to swim in deep, clean lakes after years of prairie potholes; but I missed the horizon and the bevelled edge of the rockies. I missed the gothic skies: the vast, blue dome of the sky on a still, deadly-cold winter morning, or cathedral pillars of thunderheads mounting over fields of wheat. In Ottawa, it seemed, every sightline ended with another row of trees.
Then, a few years ago, newly divorced and alone every second week, I bought a canoe. Light enough to portage and control myself, but long enough to float over all but the shallowest rock. I launched it on lakes, rivers and streams around the region, exploring side channels and bays, tucking under leafy banks and cruising tight, winding channels through marshes and swamps. In it, I discovered the secret of Ottawa's beauty: intimacy.
If the prairies are a cathedral, then Ottawa is a chapel. Whispers replace echoes. Everything feels immediate. I skirt lilypads along the bend of creek and watch a painted turtle slip off a log just ahead. I watch dark shadows of pike and gar dart from under my bow as I edge through rushes along the Ottawa River. Or I drift slowly, while a muskrat swims past with a mouthful of reeds and a heron watches serenely from the shore. On foot or on my bike, I dip into a damp, cove forest and stop to admire a garden of ferns, impossibly green under the dense maple canopy. Oyster mushrooms spread over a rotting log (and I curse that I've again forgotten to bring a paper bag). A red-eyed vireo sings incessently overhead. A small brook chuckles nearby. I follow the banks, admiring the liverworts and turning over small logs to look for salamanders. The damp odour triggers hovering memories, like the scent of incense.
Even the vistas seem intimate. Standing on the prairie, the vastness takes away my breath. I feel like a visitor, tolerated but never entirely welcome. A distant hawk, spiraling on a thermal, calls out his accusation (as Whitman would put it). Whereas, standing on an escarpment, looking over the Ottawa Valley or the Madwaska Highlands, I feel the distance shrink and the details grow. The forests and fields each have their own character, and I can imagine walking through them. I know where I'll find the sagging line of an old, split rail fence, the craggy bark of burr oak, and a lichen-crusted mossy rock outcrop on which to eat my lunch.
I didn't like Ottawa when my ex-wife, Susan, and I arrived here twenty years ago. I had grown up in Victoria and Vancouver, with the sea and the mountains close at hand. I had lived for eight years in Edmonton, with frequent forays to Jasper or out into the prairie parkland. I revelled in the sky, the space and the light. Ottawa, in contrast, seemed to have none of these: the forests were beautiful, and I appreciated the chance to swim in deep, clean lakes after years of prairie potholes; but I missed the horizon and the bevelled edge of the rockies. I missed the gothic skies: the vast, blue dome of the sky on a still, deadly-cold winter morning, or cathedral pillars of thunderheads mounting over fields of wheat. In Ottawa, it seemed, every sightline ended with another row of trees.
Then, a few years ago, newly divorced and alone every second week, I bought a canoe. Light enough to portage and control myself, but long enough to float over all but the shallowest rock. I launched it on lakes, rivers and streams around the region, exploring side channels and bays, tucking under leafy banks and cruising tight, winding channels through marshes and swamps. In it, I discovered the secret of Ottawa's beauty: intimacy.
If the prairies are a cathedral, then Ottawa is a chapel. Whispers replace echoes. Everything feels immediate. I skirt lilypads along the bend of creek and watch a painted turtle slip off a log just ahead. I watch dark shadows of pike and gar dart from under my bow as I edge through rushes along the Ottawa River. Or I drift slowly, while a muskrat swims past with a mouthful of reeds and a heron watches serenely from the shore. On foot or on my bike, I dip into a damp, cove forest and stop to admire a garden of ferns, impossibly green under the dense maple canopy. Oyster mushrooms spread over a rotting log (and I curse that I've again forgotten to bring a paper bag). A red-eyed vireo sings incessently overhead. A small brook chuckles nearby. I follow the banks, admiring the liverworts and turning over small logs to look for salamanders. The damp odour triggers hovering memories, like the scent of incense.
Even the vistas seem intimate. Standing on the prairie, the vastness takes away my breath. I feel like a visitor, tolerated but never entirely welcome. A distant hawk, spiraling on a thermal, calls out his accusation (as Whitman would put it). Whereas, standing on an escarpment, looking over the Ottawa Valley or the Madwaska Highlands, I feel the distance shrink and the details grow. The forests and fields each have their own character, and I can imagine walking through them. I know where I'll find the sagging line of an old, split rail fence, the craggy bark of burr oak, and a lichen-crusted mossy rock outcrop on which to eat my lunch.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Summer arrives
On my calendar, summer arrives when I hear the first nighthawk buzzing overhead in the dusk. It happened late on Saturday evening, as I prowled a mosaic of outcrops, forest and beaverponds for the Carp Hills Bio-blitz. I'd sweated through a cool, but strangely humid day: first at a City Streamwatch training session with Thomas, and then hunting under stones across the rock barrens for snakes. Hearing the unmistakable buzz above me, I looked up -- not far enough, at first (nighthawks always seem to fly higher than I expect) -- but then I spotted the angular shape of the bird, with its peculiar, erratic flight.
To me, nighthawks and chimney swifts seem irrevocably associated with the pleasures of summer. Perhaps because they appear most active in the evening -- the long, cooling evenings of June and July, when the soft light of the low sun still shines, but the heat of day has reluctantly given way to more gentle temperatures. The neighborhood becomes more quiet and the streets more intimate. Voices carry a little further from the porches under frontyard maples. People visit across the street. Laughter comes more frequently and more melodious. And all the while, the chimney swifts chitter and dart about the rooftops, while the nighthawks buzz and dip above the swifts. Later, much later, when the birds have roosted for the evening, the long sunset has deepened to turquoise and then to indigo, and the streetlights pool silver on the pavement, perhaps a bat appears to flitter in and out of darkness, chasing moths. Cares drop away, and a lazy saunter down an empty, darkened street becomes a meditation.
As for the results of the Carp Hills Bio-blitz, I believe that the organizer, Linda McCormick, felt well-pleased. I look forward to the summary, although I think that the cool weather probably reduced the number of sightings -- especially for the reptiles. In the afternoon, I concentrated on snakes, turning over rock after rock across the barrens and beside the beaverponds, hoping for milksnakes and ribbon snakes. Alas, disappointment again. In the evening, I visited the west edge of the South March Highlands, hoping to hear whip-poor-wills along the ridge and to find Blanding's turtles venturing in search of nesting sites. Again, disappointment, although I enjoyed the distant call of a barred owl and the serenade of hermit thrushes and veerys.
Once again, I didn't bother to keep a running list of species, preferring to concentrate on my search for a few species at risk. However, from memory, here's a partial list of what I saw and heard.
To me, nighthawks and chimney swifts seem irrevocably associated with the pleasures of summer. Perhaps because they appear most active in the evening -- the long, cooling evenings of June and July, when the soft light of the low sun still shines, but the heat of day has reluctantly given way to more gentle temperatures. The neighborhood becomes more quiet and the streets more intimate. Voices carry a little further from the porches under frontyard maples. People visit across the street. Laughter comes more frequently and more melodious. And all the while, the chimney swifts chitter and dart about the rooftops, while the nighthawks buzz and dip above the swifts. Later, much later, when the birds have roosted for the evening, the long sunset has deepened to turquoise and then to indigo, and the streetlights pool silver on the pavement, perhaps a bat appears to flitter in and out of darkness, chasing moths. Cares drop away, and a lazy saunter down an empty, darkened street becomes a meditation.
As for the results of the Carp Hills Bio-blitz, I believe that the organizer, Linda McCormick, felt well-pleased. I look forward to the summary, although I think that the cool weather probably reduced the number of sightings -- especially for the reptiles. In the afternoon, I concentrated on snakes, turning over rock after rock across the barrens and beside the beaverponds, hoping for milksnakes and ribbon snakes. Alas, disappointment again. In the evening, I visited the west edge of the South March Highlands, hoping to hear whip-poor-wills along the ridge and to find Blanding's turtles venturing in search of nesting sites. Again, disappointment, although I enjoyed the distant call of a barred owl and the serenade of hermit thrushes and veerys.
Once again, I didn't bother to keep a running list of species, preferring to concentrate on my search for a few species at risk. However, from memory, here's a partial list of what I saw and heard.
- White-tailed deer (one sighting, abundant scat)
- Ruffed grouse (Carp Hills)
- Turkey vulture (Carp Hills)
- Barred owl (SMH, on the west ridge)
- Common nighthawk (Carp Hills and SMH)
- Common flicker (Carp Hills)
- Eastern kingbird (Carp Hills)
- Great crested flycatcher (Carp Hills)
- Yellow-bellied flycatcher (Carp Hills... identified by sight and song)
- Gray catbird (Carp Hills)
- Veery (SMH, north of Shirley's Brook)
- Hermit thrush (SMH, north of Shirley's Brook)
- Red-eyed vireo (everywhere)
- Gold finch (Carp Hills, residential back yards)
- Yellow warbler (Carp Hills)
- Common yellowthroat (Carp Hills)
- Ovenbird (Carp Hills)
- Scarlet tanager (Carp Hills)
- Garter snake (Carp Hills)
- Ring-necked snake (Carp Hills)
- Pink lady's slipper (Carp Hills, abundant)
- False solomon's seal (Carp Hills)
- Canada mayflower (Carp Hills)
- Hairy solomon's seal (Carp Hills)
- Dry pussytoes (Carp Hills and SMH)
- Bunchberry (Carp Hills)
- Pale corydalis (Carp Hills and SMH)
- Indian cucumber root (Carp Hills)
- Foamflower (Carp Hills)
- Wild columbine (Carp Hills and SMH)
- Wild strawberry (Carp Hills and SMH)
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Out and about in late spring
Warm, humid weather rolled into the city this week. We enjoyed some gloriously sunny days, and then some mixed days of patchy sun and rain showers. All of the maple flowers have now fallen, replaced by quickly thickening maple keys. The cherry tree at the east end of the footbridge reached a peak of colour mid-week. Every day, as I passed, at least one person crouched with a camera along the bike path, photographing the solid mass of pink blossoms.
I made it outside several times over the week to enjoy the late spring flora and fauna: a work-related expedition to the South March Highlands, a slow evening ride along the Rideau River, and day of hiking in the Carp Hills with the boys. None of the trips provided much opportunity for proper observations and note-taking: certainly the boys weren't prepared to stand still, enduring the mosquitoes (which have exploded in number due to the damp spring) while I bent over a herb or waited for a warbler to reappear. Nevertheless, the trips proved very productive, with some very pleasing surprises. I've omitted the more common, urban birds, and I've certainly left out a lot of plants.
Birds
Beaver
Otter (in the Rideau!)
Muskrat
Chipmunk
White-tailed deer (tracks and scat)
Black bear (scat)
I made it outside several times over the week to enjoy the late spring flora and fauna: a work-related expedition to the South March Highlands, a slow evening ride along the Rideau River, and day of hiking in the Carp Hills with the boys. None of the trips provided much opportunity for proper observations and note-taking: certainly the boys weren't prepared to stand still, enduring the mosquitoes (which have exploded in number due to the damp spring) while I bent over a herb or waited for a warbler to reappear. Nevertheless, the trips proved very productive, with some very pleasing surprises. I've omitted the more common, urban birds, and I've certainly left out a lot of plants.
Birds
- Double-crested cormorant
- Mallard
- Wood duck
- Great Blue Heron
- Killdeer
- Ruffed grouse (heard)
- Turkey vulture
- Coopers Hawk
- Mourning Dove
- Yellow-bellied sapsucker
- Northern flicker
- Great crested flycatcher
- Northern raven
- Blue jay
- Black-capped chickadee
- White-breasted nuthatch
- Gray catbird
- Hermit thrush (heard)
- Yellow-throated vireo
- Yellow warbler
- Yellowthroat
- Scarlet Tanager
- Northern Cardinal
- Song sparrow
- Pine warbler
- Red-winged blackbird
- Northern oriole
- Rose-breasted Grosbeak
- Eastern gartner snake
- Smooth green snake (photo)
- Snapping turtle
- Leopard frog
- Green frog
- White pine
- Largetooth aspen
- Trembling aspen
- White birch
- Ironwood
- American beech
- Red oak
- Black cherry
- American basswood
- American elm
- Butternut
- Sugar maple
- Red maple
- Silver maple
- White ash
- Common juniper
- Pin cherry
- Bearberry
- Striped maple
- Poison ivy
- Pink lady's slipper (photo)
- Canada mayflower
- White trillium
- Painted trillium
- Indian cucumber root
- Wild columbine
- Bishop's cap
- Foamflower
- Violets (various)
- Canada bloodroot
- Pale corydalis
- Smaller enchanter's nightshade
- Wild Sarsaparilla
- Starflower
- Wild lettuce
- Large-leaved Aster
- Brachyeletrum erectum (I don't know the common name)
- Oryzopsis asperifolia (again, I don't know the common name)
Beaver
Otter (in the Rideau!)
Muskrat
Chipmunk
White-tailed deer (tracks and scat)
Black bear (scat)
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Leaves and leavings
Each day this week, as I walked to work along the canal, I watched the maples leaves unfurl, spread and stretch. On Monday, they seemed barely more than swollen buds. On Tuesday, they dangled delicately below the sprays of pale yellow flowers: opening like the wings of tiny bats, with russet membranes still lying limp between the veins. On Wednesday, they had stiffened slightly, but still felt as soft as cobwebs to the touch. A faint green had started to spread outward on each leaf. On Thursday, the leaves had achieved a smaller version of their final form, and only a faint red lingered near the tips of each lobe. On Friday, I walked to work in the thin, shade of the trees and the fall of the first spent maple blossoms.
More rain came on Saturday, never hard, but steady all day. It brought down the remaining maple blossoms, leaving each tree surrounded by a yellow carpet that matched exactly the extent of its canopy. Slick black pavement glistened between each circle of blossoms. Sue and I stayed inside most of the day, tending to small chores and resting. I returned to reading A Cape Cod Journal, by Erma Fisk, and took some time also to read portions of the June issue of Vanity Fair.
I hadn't heard of Irma Fisk until I picked up her book at the Public Library. I had gone looking unsuccessfully for Henry Beston's book, Outermost House, but settled for Fisk's book because of the similar setting and theme. Not surprisingly, I find that Fisk approved of Beston, quoting the same passage about wildlife that I stumbled upon last autumn. "In a world older and more complete than ours, they move gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost, or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear." I don't know much about Fisk yet, only that she seems to have lived most of her final years in beach house on Cape Cod, travelling to conduct bird research and to promote her earlier books. She came late to writing, compiling a lifetime of travel, observation, and empathy in a handful of books. Whether describing the terns nesting across the river, or speculating about the faceless book editor at the other end of the telephone line, she brings human warmth to her writing.
"From his voice I had thought I knew this man, discerning intelligence, generosity, humor, but each person is like a shuttered house. We may peer in windows, rap at the door, but only rarely are we admitted, and then only so far. Only a few times in life do we stay, welcome and loved: drink coffee or wine, eat dinner, sleep with the owner, scramble eggs for breakfast. There are too many closed doors, too many halls where only children may run. Mostly we stand outside, noting how the shifts of light, of sun and shadow, alter our perspective. Curious, frustrated."
A Cape Cod Journal was published in 1990, shortly after Fisk's death. I confess to flipping ahead to the last page, where Fisk alludes to her approaching mortality. Having read those last, marvelously intimate words, I feel terribly reluctant to read the intervening pages, knowing that I will need to surrender myself to the loss of new friend.
I doubt that Christopher Hitchens and I could ever have become friends. I suspect that he would have scoffed at my religiousity, and I hold little regard for his rhetorical excesses in that regard. However, like Irma Fisk, he writes at the threshold of death, and with equal if not greater humanity. I found his essay in this month's Vanity Fair, on the physical loss of his voice to cancer, as one of the most eloquent and moving pieces of prose that I've ever read. I know that many religious people (secretly, perhaps, in the darker recesses of their minds) view Hitchens' cancer as divine justice -- as though we Christians don't get cancer. I know that some hope that Hitchens will undergo a deathbed conversion, although not for his own sake. I don't agree. I would like Hitchens to maintain his integrity in the face of the greatest uncertainty. I think that God values humanity above worship, and I think that he enjoys a good conversation.
More rain came on Saturday, never hard, but steady all day. It brought down the remaining maple blossoms, leaving each tree surrounded by a yellow carpet that matched exactly the extent of its canopy. Slick black pavement glistened between each circle of blossoms. Sue and I stayed inside most of the day, tending to small chores and resting. I returned to reading A Cape Cod Journal, by Erma Fisk, and took some time also to read portions of the June issue of Vanity Fair.
I hadn't heard of Irma Fisk until I picked up her book at the Public Library. I had gone looking unsuccessfully for Henry Beston's book, Outermost House, but settled for Fisk's book because of the similar setting and theme. Not surprisingly, I find that Fisk approved of Beston, quoting the same passage about wildlife that I stumbled upon last autumn. "In a world older and more complete than ours, they move gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost, or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear." I don't know much about Fisk yet, only that she seems to have lived most of her final years in beach house on Cape Cod, travelling to conduct bird research and to promote her earlier books. She came late to writing, compiling a lifetime of travel, observation, and empathy in a handful of books. Whether describing the terns nesting across the river, or speculating about the faceless book editor at the other end of the telephone line, she brings human warmth to her writing.
"From his voice I had thought I knew this man, discerning intelligence, generosity, humor, but each person is like a shuttered house. We may peer in windows, rap at the door, but only rarely are we admitted, and then only so far. Only a few times in life do we stay, welcome and loved: drink coffee or wine, eat dinner, sleep with the owner, scramble eggs for breakfast. There are too many closed doors, too many halls where only children may run. Mostly we stand outside, noting how the shifts of light, of sun and shadow, alter our perspective. Curious, frustrated."
A Cape Cod Journal was published in 1990, shortly after Fisk's death. I confess to flipping ahead to the last page, where Fisk alludes to her approaching mortality. Having read those last, marvelously intimate words, I feel terribly reluctant to read the intervening pages, knowing that I will need to surrender myself to the loss of new friend.
I doubt that Christopher Hitchens and I could ever have become friends. I suspect that he would have scoffed at my religiousity, and I hold little regard for his rhetorical excesses in that regard. However, like Irma Fisk, he writes at the threshold of death, and with equal if not greater humanity. I found his essay in this month's Vanity Fair, on the physical loss of his voice to cancer, as one of the most eloquent and moving pieces of prose that I've ever read. I know that many religious people (secretly, perhaps, in the darker recesses of their minds) view Hitchens' cancer as divine justice -- as though we Christians don't get cancer. I know that some hope that Hitchens will undergo a deathbed conversion, although not for his own sake. I don't agree. I would like Hitchens to maintain his integrity in the face of the greatest uncertainty. I think that God values humanity above worship, and I think that he enjoys a good conversation.
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Life is what happens
"Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." -- John Lennon
We passed some kind of threshold this week. The maples along Henderson Street burst into flower, and glowed in early evening light as I walked to my meeting on Thursday; the tulips defied the pessimists and bloomed just in time for Tulip Festival; killdeer called in the fields and barn swallows dipped overhead, as Thomas and I planted trees along Black Rapids Creek yesterday morning. Now that spring has firmly gripped Ottawa, I find myself looking ahead to summer.
But not too soon, I hope.
I worked from home most of this week, staying with Sue while she recovered enough mobility to care for herself. She had mostly kept to bed the days following her accident, fighting both the pain of her broken ribs and terrible nauseau from the pain medication. About mid-week, however, she felt ready to give up the stronger drugs. She spent time sitting on the front porch in the sunshine, with the front door open. The spring air swept in and through the house, carrying even upstairs to where I worked in my home office. The fresh air reinforced my impression of this house: I like it; it feels spacious, light and joyful.
No... I didn't get the vacation for which I'd hoped. But the spring air blew through the house regardless. The neighborhood has grown more quiet, with the university students now off for the summer. The apple tree in the back yard will soon blossom, as will the lilacs along Henderson. The Co-op children play in the back. And I spent some intimate moments with Sue, caring for her and bringing her some comfort. It wasn't what I'd planned, but it worked out anyway.
We passed some kind of threshold this week. The maples along Henderson Street burst into flower, and glowed in early evening light as I walked to my meeting on Thursday; the tulips defied the pessimists and bloomed just in time for Tulip Festival; killdeer called in the fields and barn swallows dipped overhead, as Thomas and I planted trees along Black Rapids Creek yesterday morning. Now that spring has firmly gripped Ottawa, I find myself looking ahead to summer.
But not too soon, I hope.
I worked from home most of this week, staying with Sue while she recovered enough mobility to care for herself. She had mostly kept to bed the days following her accident, fighting both the pain of her broken ribs and terrible nauseau from the pain medication. About mid-week, however, she felt ready to give up the stronger drugs. She spent time sitting on the front porch in the sunshine, with the front door open. The spring air swept in and through the house, carrying even upstairs to where I worked in my home office. The fresh air reinforced my impression of this house: I like it; it feels spacious, light and joyful.
No... I didn't get the vacation for which I'd hoped. But the spring air blew through the house regardless. The neighborhood has grown more quiet, with the university students now off for the summer. The apple tree in the back yard will soon blossom, as will the lilacs along Henderson. The Co-op children play in the back. And I spent some intimate moments with Sue, caring for her and bringing her some comfort. It wasn't what I'd planned, but it worked out anyway.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
A tale of two bike rides
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).
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).
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