Whether in the Ravine
It has been miserably hot for the past five days. I mean hot, as in plus-30-degree (celcius) for five days. Some overcast, some sun. Some wind too, thank heavens. Some smog, and that's not good. Evidently lots of particulate matter shifting over the Ottawa Valley from forest fires in northern Quebec. Not that this area didn't have a kind of forest fire too, yesterday, which 75 volunteer firefighters responded to. And didn't they suffer, garbed in protective gear in 31-degrees, determined to confine the fire to the fast-consumed area, keeping it from nearby forests.Despite the heat, we've continued to enjoy working in our gardens, our wonderful gardens full of flowering perennials and bright annuals. Our roses are fragrant white, blushing pink and red in various shades of both. Alas, our tree peonies with their dish-sized blooms are gone, but right behind them are the bush peonies and they're ablaze with colour and scent. Right on cue our French lilac is in rampant bloom, its fragrance wafting through the house from its backyard perch. This is the flower of our wedding anniversary. Leopard's bane is flourishing, the bearded Irises are blooming, the fragile-bloomed Siberian Irises also, as well as the orchid-headed Columbines. We have huge, pink-spired Lupins in bloom, small blue-flowered Jacob's ladder, one huge Delphinium ready to bloom far before the others, the nodding blue and white bells of Canterbury bells, and all of the various Heucheras with their long-stalked dainty bells. Good heavens, even our many and varied Hostas are sending up their sturdy flower stalks. Clematis is doing well thank you, and so too baskets and large clay pots flush with begonias, ipomea, ivy, petunias, geraniums, New Guineau impatiens, bacopa, verbena. All, all a blaze of brilliant colour, a burst of lush growth and perfect form.
We enter the ravine with the expectation that we'll not see anyone else rambling about in there. It's as though only we are aware that the forest is cool in comparison to the street scene above, out there. But the birds know, and everywhere we tramp we see robins busy practising their funny-walk alongside the trail. A hairy woodpecker is busy knocking fragments off a pine trunk. A whitethroat, good heavens, here again, so glad to hear its vibrant, trilling song again. The trees canopy us from the sun's fire, and the breeze, though muted still does its work cooling us despite the moisture-laden, over-heated air. Although hard on people and dogs, this combination does wonders for green growing things.
Dogwood bushes are in flower, as are the ground dogwood (bunchberry). As we dip into the ravine, the creek burbling below, we can still see the outgrown trilliums and jack-in-the-pulpits, foamflower and Solomon's seal. What's new is the flowering of mauve-pink clover, purple cow vetch and white/yellow daisies, buttercups and blackberries, and oh yes, bedding grasses, with their white, starry little heads. Their scent is almost overpowering in its sweet fragrance; little wonder these grasses were used to stuff mattresses in earlier days. Fleabane is in flower with its tiny pink daisy-like heads, and bright orange hawkweed, whose presence signals the ripening of wild strawberries.
Because it is so hot, so humid, our little dogs lag behind, tongues lolling, panting in our wake. Not that we're proceeding in great haste, not by any means. We take the rises slowly and surely and whenever we see that Riley, our aggressive little toy lags too far behind, we call out a bright "bye-bye" and he races quickly to catch up. Or Button, our black female (ten years old, oh Button!) sees a squirrel rustling in the underbrush, and races along in a half-hearted attempt to catch up will cause Riley to suddenly switch on high gear and jog determinedly alongside her. Cresting the penultimate hill in our circuit we come abreast of one of the many large old pines in this forest. Because we so often see them in this tree, we look up into its thick twisted branches and sure enough, there is a raccoon family. Mother sitting really high in the uppermost branches, and two young ones opposite one another in the crook of lower branches, their bandit little faces turned toward us, bodies splayed on the branches, heat-exhausted like the rest of us.
It's early for this kind of treat. Usually we experience the dawgdays of summer in late July, early August, don't we? Here we are, not even half-way through the month of June and we're wilting. Still, it's not all that bad, truth to tell. Whether in the ravine slipping into its valleys, rising through its many hills, meandering the meadows, or in our garden relishing the kaleidoscope of colour and form, it's good to be alive.
posted by Pieface @ Monday, June 13, 2005
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