A walk on the Wild Side
We begin our daily walk in the ravine by leashing our two little eager dogs, to walk them down the street to the ravine opening. A mere two-minute walk. As we enter the ravine, we can see the new fuzz on the sumachs, and that even overnight it seems as though the poplar foliage has emerged ever larger.We take our older dog, the miniature Poodle, off her leash, and after some sniffing here and there, she's ready to walk along with us. The last few days I've ventured to take the leash off our six-year-old male toy Poodle, keenly aware that his fairly recently-performed sterilization hasn't impacted on his aggressive tendencies toward other dogs. Still, he's been uncharacteristically laggardly lately, and seems to be happier off the leash. The little laggard keeps looking behind him, before him, to each side, alert for the incursion onto 'his' territory of other animals. Should he see a human being he melts with doggy kindness and love for that person; dogs, another story entirely.
There's also a bit of a sweet fragrance in the air that we attribute this time of year to the poplars. They're dropping their long green seeds, and what really draws our attention this day is the generous sprinkling, like confetti, of quarter-inch-long white petals. At first we don't know where they've come from, but it soon dawns on us that we had high winds the night before (and some rain) and they must have been blown in from the blooming Serviceberry trees. Puzzling, because we don't see that many of the trees in the near distance to litter the trails. But sure enough, that accounts for the profusion of petals, one of which I pick up to find it wet, soft and fragrance-less. By this time we've descended the first long hill into the ravine and take the trail to our left which partners the creek, running a little higher now from the overnight rain. We stop at one juncture to overlook the creek as we notice a pile of geodes, washed down from heaven-knows-where - a regular spring phenomenon. These are perfectly round, fascinating-looking clay 'stones', evidently of ancient vintage and I have hoarded some of them over the years, to place in the garden, on the garden wall.
We go on to cross the first bridge, noting the profusion of Trilliums with their dark red heads nodding shyly among their distinctive foliage (no white Trilliums here with our clay-based soil, although we have seen the rare Painted Lady and even once, a yellow Trillium). Also drifts of Trout lilies, their pointed little yellow flower heads proudly lifted to be admired by passersby aware of their presence. Up another long hill to a crest, then down the next hill to cross another bridge only to clamber up the next hill. Red squirrels scold us with their indignant chattering from a tree limb. Black squirrels impudently shake tails in challenge to our dogs who hardly need the invitation to break free and frantically give chase, only to stand in consternation at the base of the tree the squirrel has spirited itself up.
Cork oaks still give no indication that they know it's spring, and we listen to a Nuthatch with its regular tooting like a child driving its mother insane, creep around the tree base, in company with its flock of Chick-a-dees, those perfect little birds of the Boreal forest.
Hazelnut bushes are leafing out nicely, hanging out the occasional male catkin. Dogwood bushes are also pushing through their slow foliage, and so are the Blackberry bushes. The trail is littered on either side with a wash of wild Strawberries in perfect tiny white flowering. Woodland violets in shades of purple, mauve and gold fleck the ground. Around the bases of trees are countless Lilies-of-the-Valley, a few even hoisting their tiny emerging bellflowers. We go across the open field, and as we proceed, the white-flowered Serviceberry rise on either side, and it is evident that new growth has already begun to flush some of the spruces. We can see where clumps of Irises and Lilies plan to debut later in the summer, and where Thimbleberries are preparing their home base. We're somewhat less thrilled to see those ancient species, Indian pipe, and Horsetails, but they're part of the scene as well as are Dandelions.
Down the next hill, we come across a woman walking her dog. She's someone we haven't seen for years. We see her husband, one of her sons, often out in the ravine, walking their dog Sydney who doesn't mind putting our little dog Riley in his place. The woman suffers from Fibromyalgia, and she walks slowly with the help of a thick dark walking cane. She's pleased that she's feeling well enough to take one of the shorter trails close to where she lives.
We keep descending, then walk along a narrower arm of the creek which, at this time of year, often is dry, but is now still running. Here we see Rue beginning to crop up, and Foamflower as well. It's also where we find our first Jack-in-the-Pulpit of the season emerging from the ground; the flower stalk with its understriped hood, not yet the foliage which will eventually hide the flower. This, we know, is the very same plant that my husband once, in his excitement at first seeing it, nudged it gently with his stick. So gently that it knocked the stalk in half, and we felt dreadful. Since that time these plants have managed to proliferate widely in the ravine, but most people pass right by without noticing them. For that matter, most people have never heard of Jack-in-the-Pulpits. When we were children, we remember learning about them in elementary school.
Down below there, where it's nice and moist all the time the many types of ferns unfold their fronds, and we see Fiddleheads ripe for the picking. At this juncture we're halfway through our hour's ramble.
We've more hills to ascend and descend, trails to take, and on one of the upper trails, where the Birch have not yet done much of anything, and the Maples have dropped their soft red bits and are sporting tiny red leaves, we scare up a woodpecker. Wonder what he was doing at ground level. We usually see the red-crested iron-hammer-head Pileated smashing the hell out of any tree unfortunate enough to draw its attention by harbouring resident insects. The huge holes left after the woodpecker has concluded its business would surely make wonderful homes for squirrels and chipmunks, we always think.
posted by Pieface @ Thursday, May 12, 2005
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