A Walk on the Mild Side
Well "mild" yes, of course, but everything is relative, even temperature. It was minus-5 degrees centigrade, so that's mild considering what we've been accustomed to of a typical Ottawa winter, but the wind was fierce, flinging cold blasts at us continually, until we managed to get into the relative calm provided by an abundance of trees. We left our daughter's snug little log house up on the hill, made our way down toward the back of her five-plus acre property, her daughter, our granddaughter, sliding wherever feasible on her backside, dogs ramping up the activity level right behind her.
Dogs, yes, there are lots of them. Our two, of course, augmented by our daughter's seven. That makes for a herd, don't you think? From the doglets to the wolf-like ones, they're happy to be off for a walk in the woods. We've got sweaters on our two, she's got a coat only on the Chihuahua whose geneological heritage does not include weathering an Ottawa winter. Karmen scampers eagerly about on his tiny stick-legs; forgotten for the moment, his abiding disgust at the snow's enveloping cold. His 3-1/2 pound companion Jakie-the-Pomeranian rushes about like a dustbunny on steroids.
Button, our black Poodle-Pomeranian smells deer everywhere and has entirely forgotten her normal tentative temperament and rushes about from one stand of trees to another, snuffling, her nose barely straying a centimeter off the hoof-patterned snow. Riley, in his colourful little jacket follows her slavishly, unwilling to miss out on anything.
The wind has surfed loose snow wherever it blows and yesterday's foot tracks have been well sifted over, so that as we proceed we plunk our boots deep into the uneven trail so we lurch clumsily from side to side; not at all a smooth procession through the passage between trees on our way to the old logging road. We pass the wetland pond with its dried grasses directly behind, well beyond the log house and our daughter asks if we want to see the frozen carcass of the fawn they had discovered the day before.
Her big badass rescue dogs, Malamute/German-Shepherd mixes had been munching on the sad remnants of a life once wild and free. She calls them frequently to keep them in sight and away from the sad little frozen body. She also keeps a sharp eye out for the activities of her Belgian Shepherd, the Sheltie and the larger Pomeranian, the trio that loves to share goodies on offer at the crapeteria, whether it's deer, rabbit or their own.
Angelyne keeps flopping down on the still-cushy snow, as only a child will do, revelling in its depth and sheer white, inviting the dogs to surround her, nip at her boots, her outstretched mittens, her hair flying wild as usual. As we trod on we leave more of the wind behind and the ambient air becomes more comfortable, less chill. The sky is wide, bright blue, the sun warms us, the canopy of the hardwoods not there, yet the branches reaching up to the sky provide a pattern of remembrance. The pines, spruces, fir wear their winter finery like ball gowns.
Once we reach the old logging road walking becomes easier, the snow more packed, the trail smoother. We pass one frozen pond after another. The tiny dogs have reached the limits of their cold endurance and one gets popped into the front of Karen's jacket, the other zipped into the pack on her back as we proceed. The larger dogs keep flitting in and out of the trees; from time to time they begin to wrestle one another in their exuberance, hind legs firmly on the ground, front legs grappling high off the ground, snarling, barking, enjoying a high old time.
We pass over a high point in the road with hollowed-out ditches on either side where a large sewer pipe has been installed, and the odour of sulphur from the marsh gases wafts aggressively toward us, surrounds us. The large dogs dip into the ditch, curious about the odour, stick their heads into the edges of the sewer pipes and are called back up to the road.
There are, our daughter tells us, one hundred and seventy-two acres for sale encompassing the land we're walking on. The current owner lives in Windsor, she says and is trying to sell the land. She wishes she could win a lottery so she could own it all herself. She and her neighbours are hoping that whoever does buy the land won't do so for the purpose of building a hunt camp.
It's an Eden, an idyll. They'd wish it to remain so.
posted by Pieface @ Monday, March 06, 2006
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