Whoops, caught! Again
The surging, pulsating river of rain, augmented with alarmingly large ice pellets we experienced last evening is called, don't you know, a micro-burst, although for my money there was nothing "micro" about it. The thunder rolled and hammered home the inescapable fact that it was bringing along for our listening and viewing pleasure a veritable Victoria-falls-worth of rain and an avalanch of ice. So we kind of knew we were in for the delight of yet another of those pop-up storm systems. Although in our area homes were flooded, as were streets and parking garages, we personally sustained damage only in our gardens, and that, of a purely temporary nature requiring only some dedicated restoration work the following morning. Meanwhile, the rain gutters were nicely cleared of any debris; all of which ended up doubtless in the gardens, which will know how to make use of the guck.
After breakfast this morning we hied ourselves out to the backyard to view the carnage-after-the-storm. Out came the garden stakes and the twine, the scissors, secaturs and the large composting bags. We trimmed extraneous branches from our plum tree, something we'd been meaning to do for a while, but not necessarily while they were dripping with plums. Did a restorative staking job on one of our small, but heavily fruit-burdened apple trees. Staked up oriental lilies, re-tied phlox and false dragon's head, and delphiniums and coreopsis. Perennials that had stood proudly independent of stakes had splatted under the force of the rain and ice, radiating prone, out from their centre, impinging in the most unneighbourly way on their next-of-kin.
Rose bushes were cut back and the spent blossoms dead-headed. Little plastic-covered metal bendable fences were installed to keep the Carpathian bellflowers off the grass and neatly where they belong, in the garden. We stuffed the huge reinforced paper compost bags until they could hold no more, and then cut back some of the corkscrew Hazel branches, the honeysuckle vine going berserk with all the rain, heat and (occasional) sun, reaching its tendrils out here, there and everywhere, threatening to engulf the bower, the deck lattice, and anything else sufficiently incautious to be in its path.
That done, off to the ravine for a walk with Button and Riley. Toward which end, we run water into the sink in the laundry room, set out their towels, put on their collars, after hauling Riley out from under his favourite cowering chair. The ravine is drenched, of course. The creek is running high, wide, muddy and frantically, coursing through the detritus it has hauled along in its mad dash to the Ottawa River. And it smells, a thick, smudgy odour of mud, clay, muck. The trails have been deeply etched by the rain scouring down the hills, taking with it as much of the fine gravel as it could possibly dislodge. Muddles of pud sit across the trail, like miniature lakes. The leafy bower above us is completely drenched and does its best, under the gentle nudge of a wind above to do the same with us.
Heaven's sake, there's a healthy-looking maple struck down in the prime of its life; wind and rain helped it toward oblivion, one half still in the ground, the top half tumbled into the ravine below where it once proudly stood. And further along a mature poplar has been broken like the proverbial matchstick; its top half now lying across the creek, its leafy bower half submerged, moving rhythmically with the surging water. Either side of the trail there are wide, deep swampy areas, drowning the ferns, the daisies, cowvetch, bedding grasses, fleabane, mullein, clover, but only temporarily.
We are halfway through our usual jaunt in the ravine when, without any warning, there is an ominous rumble, then another. Oh dear, how promising. Time was when we could take our time, hearing that warning, secure in the knowledge that the approaching storm would take some time yet to reach us, but no more. These storms thunder in with a direct purpose and intent and they're not fooling around, dawdling here and there on their way. Concommitant with the second clap of thunder is the first tentative drops, rapidly giving way to seriously heavy rain. Good thing it's so warm, good thing we don't mind.
The canopy above us, albeit well drenched, does its job well and keeps us relatively dry. While some of the rain does reach us, cools us off, encourages us to make speed, we are not uncomfortable, and we quickly traverse the ground, taking one short-cut after another in our bid to reach home before all hell breaks loose. Well, surprise! All hell breaks loose anyway, and along with the thunder and the lightning, the rain picks up so it is coursing off the landscape, obscuring our vision, and, (did I mention this already?) cooling us down. Somewhat.
Bloody hell, it's wet. And slippery. And the dogs could be happier. So Irving picks up Riley, the little dawdler, who is ecstatic at being cradled in his Dogdy's arms. And can you beat this? While it's raining, the dark that had descended at the second, third, fourth, fifth thunder claps is lifting. Can you credit this? While the rain is thundering down, there are a few shafts of sunlight burning through.
There is light at the end of this thunderstorm. And, presumably, more work to be done in the garden.
posted by Pieface @ Tuesday, July 04, 2006
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