Late September Idyl
Late September, edging into October. October already! When did that happen anyway? Where did the summer go? We're not ready to give up all that reasonable weather in this unreasonable climate-geography! Is anyone listening up there? Likely not, busy guiding all the migrants out of this northern clime to more bird-friendly southern destinations.
As we make our way up the street toward the trailhead to the ravine, there is a great vee of Canada geese making their way south, honking and assembling and re-assembling into the required shape, leader-of-the-moment in front, the others arrayed behind, and some stragglers lifting off the Ottawa River joining the group, extending the long, wide lines of the vee.
We've a blue, blue sky with scudding white clouds. The clouds are blown at their edges into wispy shapes, thanks to the wind up there, translating to a mere breeze down where we plod along into the ravine. The breeze rustles the drying leaves on the trees on either side of the trail.
We ourselves rustle, in fact, through a confetti of new-fallen leaves brought down by yesterday's intemperate rain and impetuous wind. Leaves, we soon note, are not the only incidentals down on this day, for it's soon clear that the wind also brought down dead branches long held in the embrace of trees unwilling to entrust their dead to the earth below.
And why would that be, one wonders, since it is the natural order of things. In fact, from the dead wood erupts, particularly at this darker, damper, cooler time of year, fungi galore. The fungi in all their expected and sometimes-improbable shapes and colours tantalizing us much as the spring flowers do, at that earlier, celebrated season of renewal.
Ahead and above, not too far above, surprisingly, three huge black birds erupt from the trees overhead into view and cluster mid-air, their size and hoarse cawing informing us that we are watching ravens, those huge birds of the north. One is silent, the second is calling and the third emits a sound not unlike that a human would make emulating a raucous bird.
Robins are gathering, mostly this spring's juveniles, taking late-season comfort in togetherness before hustling off in a collective for their southern exodus. They scrabble about in the dirt, looking for living edibles; stagger across the trail, unperturbed by our close presence, or that of the dogs. The mild temperature and the sun has temporarily halted their resolve and the pull of instinct to push on. Finally, they lift off in a group and pass silently through the trees.
We're on the lookout for the day's offerings of mushrooms and are not disappointed. We find yesterday's sightings and more that have erupted through the moist soil overnight. This time we've brought the camera to snap them into eternity. Or as long as these photographs survive in this digital download age.
Damn! We've managed to miss an especially bright cluster resembling someone's castoff orange peels. We were too busy talking, discussing issues of the day, the latest news, and pointing out to one another the newly-red height of the maples among the pines. So we double back to where we think they are, and find them, bright and reclusive, under a copse of trees.
This hike has all the requisite ingredients for the perfect fall walk. The mild temperature, reminding us of what we'll soon be missing. Glimpses of fading late-summer wild flowers. Sun illuminating the wild scarlet haws of the hawthornes, and fronds of sumach, and, improbably, for we never before noticed its presence - leaves of a Virginia creeper twining up and around a tree trunk. And the American bittersweet, leaves gone, its bright orange berries in evidence, food for birds through the winter months.
The pleasantly acrid odour of leaf tannin, the leaves crumpling underfoot, the chickadees flitting about - all reminders of the season, as though we needed reminders. We're all too aware that autumn is upon us, winter not far behind. As we wander the trail, slower now to savour the sights and smells, the unmistakable fragrance of raspberry jam impresses upon us and we cannot think where it emanates from.
We ascend the last hill of our circuit to the street above, and there's another odour, that of a hill of rotting apples, dumped beside the trail by some home owner, discarding his backyard harvest to the ravine. The pile's sharp vinegary fragrance greets us as we rise toward it.
posted by Pieface @ Monday, October 02, 2006
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