Trilliums are a'Coming!
It's Sunday and a beautiful one at that. The cold of last week has receded, as have the wind and the rain. The sky is a clear cerulean blue and the still-bare branches of the deciduous are outlined against the sky as we approach the entrance to the ravine. There is new fuzz on the Sumachs, the trails have dried out very nicely, and we marvel at the yearly surprise inherent in the Poplars' speediness at leafing out in tender new canopies of luscious lime. We untether our little dogs from their leashes and off we go. We do, that is; they prefer to sniff and snuffle their way through all the fragrances on the way down the first long hill into the valley below. We call: they come when they're ready.The water level in the creek is much diminished. Despite which, a quick movement on the opposite bank reveals a Muskrat delving into its rush, to begin swimming energetically upstream. To its home, surprisingly distant from where we see him. Surprised too are we to see him here, where we have never seen him before. But why not, it's spring, and we've seen Great Blue Herons, and pairs of Mallards too, on their migratory routes in the spring. The dogs haven't noticed, and we watch his vigorous passage until the creek bends and he's lost to sight.
We're now seeing Trilliums rising out of the damp earth, and it seems to us, although perhaps it's not really so, that they're early this year. Everything seems to be early this year, a testament perhaps to the phenomenon of global warming. A universal worry we quickly banish from our minds. For the moment, in any event. We want to relish this gift of nature, this mid-spring pleasure before the blackflies and the ubiquitous mosquitoes tarnish some of the pleasure in these leisure walks.
Along with the Trilliums come also Trout lilies, although none are yet in flower. We see the occasional Serviceberry tree, small and large, on the cusp of breaking into full bloom. Poplars have dropped their fuzzy grey catkins, the maples their tiny red floral clusters. That was last week, and things have progressed enormously since then. Hemlock, Fir and Spruce needles have taken on a deeper green; the low-growing native Yew along the creek bank off-shoots have taken on a glossy hue. These are the very plants which are carefully cultivated on farms so the new-grown Yew tips can be harvested to produce Tamoxifen.
A young couple pass us, along with their graceful, deep-chested Doberman. They grin as they see me lift our combative, snarling Toy-breed dog, to keep him from harm's way of his own doing. Riley's reputation is by now well known by regular ravine hikers. Ascending a hill, a song sparrow's lilt follows us. Ahah! the first tentative flowering of wild Strawberry, as well as pale purple woodland Violets. In the understory of the bush the Alder are shooting out their tender red/green shoots, and under them the first of the Horsetails.
A young man, accompanied by his son, jog past. The boy wears a tee shirt with the logo "Number 007"; the man appearing to jog in his child's wake. They haven't penetrated very far into the ravine and we come across them again, this time approaching in our direction. "Well, 007", says my companion, "is your Dad keeping up with you?". The boy grins, his father responds: "I jogged over to the ravine, he rode his bicycle".
As we turn a long curve in the trail, I note a quick movement at the corner of my eye, and turn to gesture silently toward a large Raccoon making its hurried way to the base of a large pine. The Raccoon hesitates as we watch, seeming reluctant to clamber up the tree, but waiting beside it for a sign that all is well and he needn't panic. Indeed, our two little dogs have not noticed its presence 200 feet beyond the trail. The Raccoon, seeming to note this, decides to stay put, and just stands there, watching as we progress further along, leaving him to his solitude, wondering why this usually-nocturnal creature is out in mid-afternoon.
As we progress on our walk, seeing black and red squirrels reveal themselves in the underbrush, and quickly flip up into surrounding trees, our dogs make quick, notional runs toward the taunting squirrels, then return to our sides. Odd that they entirely missed the presence of both the Muskrat and the Raccoon. We've noted on other occasions when we've seen snakes that the dogs appear to overlook their near presence, as well. Although they do take a little run at a robin well ahead on the trail, scuttling about, looking for live prey.
Here and there we see Trilliums in groups, some of them already sporting the nodding heads of immature flowers. We even see one slightly lifted carmine flowerhead, not yet fully mature. Although the immature heads look white, as though the flowers, when mature, will be white, they never are; a factor, we believe, of the clay-based soil. Clusters of foam flowers spring up here and there, and overnight nature has revealed another miracle of re-birth: rings of Lilies-of-the-Valley around the trunks of trees. Raspberry canes are leafing out, all this in contrast to the bare-branch condition of Elms, Maples, Oaks, Birches. But of course it's the spring sun warming the soil through the bare branches which produce the proliferation of early spring flowers.
A woodpecker's teasing call resounds from the woods. A crow skims the sky, to land on the spire of a tall pine, and from its perch it caws raucously as we approach the descent, its calls softening and muting as we pass into the valley beyond. The sun-warmed odour of baking pine needles on the trail reminds us of all those past years of emerging spring days when we keep "discovering" re-birth, as though for the very first time.
As we approach another of the wood bridges crossing the main creek the sounds of children's voices below lofts up toward us. Three little girls in colourful shirts are carefully making their way under the bridge. One child bemoans the state of her new shoes. They are ankle-deep at the edge of the clay-bottomed creek, its muddy waters rushing over them, eliciting giggles of cold sensation. The eldest among them encourages the youngest, reluctant one, telling her where to place her feet: on this protrusion, on that rock, as they slowly make their way to the opposite side under the bridge, looking for water-washed deposits of perfectly-rounded clay "rocks".
posted by Pieface @ Sunday, April 30, 2006
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