Hey! How'rya?!!
Yesterday was a lalapalooza of a day. Weather-wise, that is. Unexpectedly mild, and sunny as well. How's that for 28 January in Ottawa? Well, unusual, and to be celebrated. How else but by going for a walk in the ravine. At least to start the day. What a difference from the day before...the snow-burdened branches of elderly pines were no longer caught, stuck to the snow on the ground - release! The ice which had begun tentatively once again to cover the surface of the creek was now fast receding. Plump clusters of snow were falling steadily from the encumbered branches overhead. Glistening in the glare of the sun were tender branches outlined in ice, the snow slithering steadily from their now-uncertain perch.
Chickadees were perkily springing from branch to branch and offering their saucy view of this splendid day. And standing pensively halfway over one of the bridges as we approached was Suzanne, whom we haven't seen in the ravine for ages. Since she and Barry put down old Della their incursions into the ravine have been rare. Barry is finding it as difficult as Della had to get around now, as he's lost much of his vigour in the wake of his prostate cancer surgery. But Suzanne is almost twenty years younger than her husband, and she has adopted one of her neighbours' dogs, Scooter, a burley pseudo-Schnauzer, (poor dog, his owners had his voice box removed...rather, they said, than putting him down, as he just wouldn't stop barking, um) for walks in the ravine of late, she explained to us.
We walk on together, talking of old times, speaking of current events. When we begin another ascent we see a group above at the head of the trail, sitting on what's left of an old wooden bench. And when we come abreast, we stop to speak briefly with the man, woman and teen-age girl, all of whom are wearing snowshoes, all of whom are interested in our three dogs, particularly our little Riley, lively and cute in his little patchwork winter coat. After her initial greeting to these people whom we've never seen before, but who appear to be interested in maintaining a conversation, Suzanne moves on with Scooter. Suzanne tends to shy away from contact with people she doesn't know, she's slightly less sociable than we tend to be.
As we stand there speaking with the couple, discussing the ravine in general, the exquisite splendour it has gifted us with visually in the last week, we're soon aware of a bearded man ascending the hill toward us. He stops well before reaching us to place his dog, a husky mix, on the leash, and we can now see how he is straining to keep the dog beside him. He warns us as he continues to ascend that his dog is hostile, it's a rescue dog. We pick up our two, Button and Riley, to permit him to pass without obstruction, and still manage a brief friendly comment as he passes.
Eventually we catch up to Suzanne again, as she stands huddled with Scooter, obviously keeping him from forging ahead as he's wont to do. She explains that she wants some distance between Scooter and the husky in view of the warning the owner had given, but she's forgotten to take a leash with for the dog. We offer one of ours and walk on together, as the man and his dog make good time ahead of us and are soon lost to view. I find it interesting to note that Suzanne, some dozen years younger than me and using a walking stick, proceeds at a slower pace then me, and when we're clambering uphill her level of difficulty appears to exceed mine.
Makes me think back to my own habit of always starting strong, going on ahead, then flagging as time goes on and the going gets tougher. Instead of carefully measuring exertion, taking it slow and steady. Almost two decades ago the futility of my way of proceeding was really brought home to me during a mountain trail excursion with a group just outside Tokyo. The other hikers, all younger than us two, a mixed group of young Germans, Australians, British men, and a matching group of young Japanese men and women were starting out on our hike, from the trailhead near a small village. I forged enthusiastically ahead as usual, raring to go, in love with the scenery before us, and before we'd gone halfway, some several hours into the hike, I was so tuckered out I just had to stop and rest and felt utterly debilitated. The rest of that hike saw me straggling behind the rest of the group and I felt pretty silly about it.
******
Today, we ventured out a little earlier than usual into the ravine as we've a winter storm warning in effect and already snow had begun to fall and the temperature was about ten degrees colder than yesterday. We wanted to avoid having to put winter boots on Button and Riley, so off we went, into the mean wind which, once we'd descended into the ravine, no longer bothered us. We can hear it swirling the tree tops above as it keens through the atmosphere. Today the sky is a dark silver-grey and the only birds we see are a few crows flying high above. In the distance we hear the sounds of barking, evidently more than one dog, and large ones at that.
Eventually we come abreast of the cause of those sounds, straggling toward us, as one large dog after another comes into view and far back of the dogs a small herd of dog owners, chatting together as their animals charge through the woods off-trail. When they see us and as we approach nearer some of the dogs veer back toward the trail in our direction. Each of us swoops up a dog; my husband picking up Button as I cradle Riley in my arms and try to cover his muzzle, for he's barking like a little lunatic. The other dogs, thank heavens, move alongside, then past us, and their owners are soon abreast and we utter the usual civilities. Just as we've passed what seems like surely the seventh person, my husband stops suddenly and I look up to see Harry's almost-forgotten face.
Truth is, I walked right past Melissa who had greeted me and I returned the greeting, but hadn't realized just who it was. As the others forged on in their dogs' wake, we cluster in our little group of four to greet one another like long-lost friends. Which in fact, we are. Harry and Melissa and their dog Jack were some of the original ravine walkers whom we'd known fifteen years ago up until just a few years ago when they gradually stopped appearing in the ravine as Jack, an overweight, bandy-legged, stubborn, runaway, leash-hauling Beagle got older and increasingly feeble. They'd had to put down their beloved Jack back in October, they said. His legs could no longer hold him up, his kidneys were going.
I looked closer at Melissa, realizing why I hadn't recognized her. Gone was the bloom in her face; she'd lost weight and looked gaunt; long vertical lines creased her face and her smile was not quite what it had been. Her father, she said, had died in December. And Harry had undergone a series of operations which had left them utterly depleted. I guessed: "prostate?" It wasn't, he explained to my husband, the prostate removal itself, although it was bad enough, but everything associated with its removal that had caused such physical anguish. His body seemed to shut down, kidneys, back pain, and in fact he'd finally had such difficulty urinating several more operations followed. But on the mend! And thinking about replacing Jack, although he wasn't replaceable.
We'd stood together talking for so long that we were all getting pretty cold, and finally said our good-byes, while promising we'd see one another more frequently in future. As we parted, along came Sydney, shaggy-haired and insouciant as usual, his owner plodding along behind. Hellos all around, and further explanations about Jack, then we proceeded on with Sydney and company. Retirees all, as it happens. And Paul, whom we see still often, said he and his wife were raring to go, their breakaway was only three weeks on. To the Barbados, where his wife's chronic rheumatoid arthritic condition always goes into abeyance. They're waiting for her father to be released from hospital. Where he's been for almost two months, following a series of heart operations, but he's now stabilized and recovering from the last.
Time to finally part, and wend our way back toward the final portions of our walk, up the last long hill, out to the street, and home. We're on our way downtown, well over to the opposite end of the city to visit another of our old haunts, the stained glass shop where my husband gets all of his supplies. And that's another story, another adventure, another set of greetings and conversations.
posted by Pieface @ Sunday, January 29, 2006
<< Home