Together Time

Cai asleep at my side, the sign of a successful walkie. (Blue thingy is my knee. )

This morning, E.g. decided to take Fergus to work with her. Cai and I seized the opportunity for a little one-dog hike. We enjoyed ourselves, something  I can’t say for every other dog we met.

First, we explored a new park. There was a sign saying that this was an off-leash area, between the hours of six and ten in the morning and six and ten in the evening. Good to know for future reference; we had left home just before eleven. We followed the circular path, Cai trotting happily at my side, being an absolute angel while I negotiated the icy patches.

On one side of this walled park, there is a gateway that leads onto a trail. We were just coming up to the gateway when a dog walker entered the park and released her five charges, who came bounding up to Cai. Hmm.

The trail itself has signs at either end stating that dogs are to be kept on leash. The dogwalker started down the trail, five large dogs flinging themselves out around her. Whatever.

Cai waited patiently as I picked my way to better footing. This took a couple of minutes, because the beginning of the trail is quite steep. Then it joins an old closed road, and the walking is easier. The road slopes down to a tributary, crosses it, and then turns sharply and follows the water.

When we arrived at the tributary, we saw a little wire-haired dog in an orange jacket running back and forth around the angle. It wouldn’t approach us. I listened, and could hear someone calling “Stella! Stella, come!”

Following the human voice, I found the same woman we had met in the park. I asked her what Stella looked like. “She’s a Golden Retriever,” was the reply. O-kay.

On we went. Soon we met — guess! — another dog walker, calling “Rambo! Rambo, come!” I asked her what Rambo looked like. “He’s a Jack Russell, in an orange coat. He’s gotten behind the fence. Rambo, come!” Oh, right, the fence with the big sign on it that says “Danger, do not enter” , I got it.

On we went. I noted the downed  power line at the right side of the trail, parts of it at chest height for big bouncy breeds. I also noted a man, another dog walker, with a dog on leash — and two others off leash, one getting soaked in the frigid tributary. Thirty paces more down the path, we met a pug limping along on three legs, presumably part of the group we had just come across. Lovely.

On we went. I started counting the used poopy bags at the side of the trail. The final one was in sight of the garbage can in the parkette a hundred paces away.

We came into the parkette, and I went to check the sign just to be sure I hadn’t been mistaken about on-leash and off-leash areas. No, this was on-leash territory, all right.

Cai and I were just turning away from the sign for the return trip when a van pulled up and stopped near the garbage can. The driver opened his side door and four big dogs tumbled out. Not a leash in sight, let alone safety harnesses for the car ride. Good thing they were five car lengths from the busy highway.

And little Cai trotted at my side, and for all the ice he never pulled me off balance even once. Good dog!

The Forks of the Credit

Although it may sound that way, “the forks of the credit” is not an expression akin to “the horns of a monetary dilemma”. It is the name of an Ontario Provincial Park, “Credit” being the name of the river that divides — forks — in this area. Today, E.g. and I took the pupsters for a ninety-minute loop hike. In the summer, the walk could probably be done in half the time, but some of the trail today wasn’t broken, and the snow was up to the Cardis’ shoulders. They didn’t seem to complain, though.

The Bruce Trail and the Trans Canada Trail both run through this park. Here’s a signpost that E.g. photographed, showing what’s allowed on this stretch of the Trans Canada and on the park-constructed Meadow Trail. Just now, I’d take the permission to bicycle with a grain of salt.

We followed a park trail along the south side of the kettle lakes (small, deep bodies of water) to where the Bruce trail meets it at right angles along the edge of a steep bank. I was standing on the Bruce Trail looking across the valley when I took this picture. I like how it shows where moist blowing snow adhered to the sides of these trees.

This White Pine interested me. I always think of a White Pine’s wheeling branches as starting from higher up the trunk; maybe as it grows older, its lower branches drop off?

This baby’s hardly a sapling, though — I could get only two-thirds of it into the photo!

Switching from the rather big to the pretty little, here’s today’s final picture: a cute nest about waist-high from the ground, right beside one of the lakes. E.g. took this picture. The glove is just for scale; it’s resting on a branch, handless.

Walk

Elderberry bush. Photo taken September 9, 2006, by eyegillian.
.

The dogs and I went for a walk today. I would have been working, but yesterday I quit my job. Without going into it, let’s just say that I noticed some goings-on that appear to be on the illegal, immoral, and unsafe side, and I couldn’t continue working there with my new understanding of things.

So the dogs and I went for a walk today. We left home at 11 00, and were out for a full three hours. First we played in Riverdale Park for a while, and then we went down the scary see-through stairs (I carried Fergus) onto the Don Valley Trail. Everything was growing rampant, shady and green. The sun shone, and a breeze blew lightly. Goldfinches twittered across the path; a Cardinal flashed in a tree; Tree Swallows circled overhead; a Great Blue Heron preened on a branch just above the river.

Cai and Fergus were intrepid little walkers. When we arrived back home, Fergus ate lunch and Cai chomped down three bickies. I crouched down against the fridge and told my boys what good doggies they were, and how happy I was with them. They approached; Cai licked my hand, Fergus licked my face.

Sometimes a dog or two is exactly what one needs.

“Snug.” Photo taken August 19, 2008, by Lavenderbay.

Four Short Hikes

I’ve earned my badges!

.

I like hiking. On our trip to Bon Echo Park last week, despite running back and forth on sick puppy business, I managed four of Bon Echo’s trails. I was surprised at how different they were, even though they were all relatively short and within a three-kilometre-square piece of land.

1. High Pines Trail (1.6 km)

If you look at the photo, the High Pines Trail is the pink loop that begins at the lower right-hand corner of the High Pines badge. I loved it! Forget the Grandes Eaux Musicales de Versailles, this was the most musical walk I’ve ever had. The air rang with the flutey songs of Hermit Thrushes and Veeries, the long whistle of Broad-winged Hawks, the complaint of Eastern Wood Peewees, the “T-shirt! T-shirt!” call of Ovenbirds (I think it sounds like a spraypaint can being shaken), and the rap-tappings of various piciformes. I saw a pair of them on a pine, and was convinced that they weren’t Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers. If they were the Black-backed Woodpeckers I think they were, they’re a first for my life-list.

The hike went up hill and down, never hard enough to necessitate grabbing a small tree for support. Cai was my only companion, and he and a doe startled each other at the top. The doe stepped back a few paces, and Cai kept looking over his shoulder as we continued.

2. The Bon Echo Creek Trail (1 km)

The web of broken squiggly lines between the High Pines badge and the Creek badge represents the Mazinaw Lake campground. The blue line bordering the southwest of the campground is Bon Echo Creek. Between the creek and the road that parallels it is a red dotted line I added with marker. This is the Bon Echo Creek Trail. I would heartily recommend it as a preschooler’s first-ever hiking trail. 

This is no baby-buggy road, but a real trail. It begins at the road, and runs toward Mazinaw Lake. Near the beginning is a small rise; after that the trail is straight and level, with the road only steps away if the child wearies or gets a boo-boo. The trail is lined with ferns and young trees, and offers glimpses of the creek through the leaves. At the end of the trail is a little footbridge that leads back into the campground — or if you’re Cai, you’ll turn right and pull mummy straight over to the dog beach.

3. Pet Exercise Trail (2.4 km)

If you follow the road that parallels the Creek Trail, you’ll eventually come to the day-use parking area. Just beyond that is the off-leash doggie trail. Again, I’ve added it onto the map, to the left of the Creek badge. The shape and size is a guestimate, but it takes into account the steep rise and descent.

Once again, this is a real hiking trail, with muddy bits and a swampy bit and lots of woods and the usual number of mosquitoes. I applied some holistic rosemary-oil doggie bug repellant to Cai (and myself), and didn’t find the bugs annoying at all. And Cai? Oh, those shining eyes! He was absolutely thrilled to be off leash in such an interesting area. What fascinated me was that he only left the trail once; mostly he stayed on track, sniffing and splishing and giving his legs a good stretch. The park guide suggests an hour for this trail, but we were through it in 25 minutes. Then we headed to the dog beach for some bobbing-for-balls. Happy dog!

4. The Shield Trail (4.8 km)

So far, each of the trails I’ve discussed took me half the length of their suggested time. Not so the Shield Trail. It suggests two hours; I did it — with neither dog nor human for companion — in 110 minutes. And it’s not because I was lingering!

I was glad to have the Shield Trail guide booklet with me. The booklet focusses on the previous use of this area: it was a farm. The trail starts on the old Addington Road, 90 km of 19th-century rut. Turning aside from an unsuccessful exploratory mine pit (mining didn’t “pan out” here either), one heads into a 100-acre tract of government-issued “free farmland” that was supposed to bribe settlers into staying in Canada. The land was simply surveyed for size, not for feasibility: this is soil-poor Canadian Shield.

I kept walking, shaking my head, wondering how long these settlers toughed it out before running away screaming. I would have run myself, except that the final quarter of the trail is a line of bushel-basket-sized boulders. And from starting out as a confident rosemary-oil-scented bugproof hiker, I finished as a blood pizza. The silence was deafening: where were all the birds? I finally decided that the mosquitoes and deer flies had chased them all away. All in all, it was the most depressing trail I’ve ever hiked – which added the perfect atmosphere of authenticity to the  trail guide’s history lesson.

Paris, Day 10: Kings and Martyrs; and Post-Paris post

Since no one had the Père Lachaise Cemetery on their must-see list, we all decided that this, our final day, would be another free-for-all. Jack, Jack’s Mom, and E.g. went up to see Montmartre, and Mum and I walked through the Marais, along the Promenade Plantée, and into the Château de Vincennes.

Montmartre means “the mount of the martyr”, in this case refering to St Denis. The story goes that he was assassinated on this hill of Paris. Being a Type-A kind of guy, Denis picked up his shorn-off head and kept on walking another five miles or so to expire at the place now called St-Denis. When you look at French churches, if you spy a statue of a saint with his head tucked under his arm, you’ll know who it is.

Guess who? This one is at St-Germain-l’Auxerrois Church.

The walk Mum and I did was about 6 miles, but we had the advantage of attached heads. The three-mile Promenade Plantée is a begardened walking path built on an old railroad viaduct. It was in full bloom yesterday, with roses headlining. There were water features and trees that attracted every species of bird in the city, and lovely examples of Corbusier-inspired architecture.

The Promenade goes almost to the Bois de Vincennes, so the greenery continued as we walked Avenue Daumesnil till we came to the back of Château de Vincennes. We got a good look at how deep the walls were as we walked beside the keep to the front yard, across the little drawbridge, and onto the complex. On our snoop through the keep, we learned that the kings of the time often had prisoners in their own fortified residences, since it was the monarch’s duty to administer justice. Charles V was the first king to live here (d. 1380), and Louis XIV was the last. Having been to the little cottage the Sun King built for himself at Versailles, I could see that Vincennes was SO not his scene!

The big thrill of the castle, though, was when Mum and I entered a little room tucked in one corner. Mum said, “What’s this room?” and then saw the sign: Latrines de Charles V. We had missed the chance to visit the Sewer Museum, but no matter: Mum can now tell all her friends and neighbours that she sat on a medieval king’s throne!

Everyone met back at the apartment for supper, and then headed for the metro to reach the St-Denis Basilica in time for the concert. The nave was packed with spectators, but I had booked the tickets early: we were in the fourth and fifth rows. There we were, listening to Sir John Eliot Gardiner conducting the Monteverdi Choir and the Orchestre Nationale de France: the crashing Et Exspecto Resurrectionem Mortuorum of Messiaen; two sweet, haunting motets by Francis Poulenc; and Maurice Duruflé’s Requiem. Paragraph ends here. No words can describe. Something like “I can die happy now” approaches it, though.

Epilogue: Mommy’s Home — by Cai

Bark? Bark! Bark bark!

Barkbarkbarkbark! Bark! Barkbark! Barkdebarkbark!

Barkdiddlywoofwoof-woohoo-debarkleywoof-yippeebarkhappyhappybarkbark!

Turtlecop! All Three Exciting Episodes! Next!

Although the scarf and helmet might suggest appropriate turtle use, the stirrups are ergonomically  unsuitable, as is the upright posture needed for this activity.

First Episode

I was nearly finished my Saturday morning at Tommy Thompson Park, on the Leslie Street Spit, when I saw a large dog merrily galloping across my line of sight. This dog and I were still far enough into the park to be beyond the signs that tell humans not to bring their pets to the park, and the sign that carefully explains why not to. While I realize that canine literacy rates in Canada are very low, I thought surely there must be a human owner somewhere about.

A minute later I caught up with bowser. He was on a ridge a few metres higher than the trail. He was defecating. I started to pull a pick-up bag from my  coat pocket. It was then that a guy maybe 30 years old, about twenty feet ahead of me on the trail, softly called his dog. I waded in with both flippers.

“First of all, you should be picking up after your dog! Second of all, he should be on a leash! Third, dogs aren’t allowed in here — the park is well signed!”

The poor bagless schmuck told me that he had just been explaining (the other guy with him was apparently a stranger) that when he was growing up here, he used to let his dogs run all over the place. Ignoring the logic that if he already knew his error, he should have already called his dog, I replied, “Well, it’s now a sensitive wildlife area, and dogs are not allowed! I don’t bring my dog here!” Handing off the bag to the hangdog owner, I went on my way. About twenty minutes later, while waiting for e.g. to meet me, I saw the young man leave the park, his big bouncy dog on a leash.

And I felt…really kinda crummy. I rarely intervene like that. If I hadn’t seen the owner, I would have simply picked up the poop and grumbled to myself about some people giving dogs a bad reputation. And I also didn’t know how much of my speaking up had to do with the fact that e.g. and Cai and I had come here one morning last summer, read the signs, and decided that e.g. would drive Cai over to the offleash area at nearby Cherry Beach while I explored the spit. If I’m going to abide by the rules, then by golly, everybody else can too!

Second Episode

When e.g. swung by with the car, I told her what had happened. Her first response was, “Anger can be a deterrent.” Then she proceeded to relate another example of citizen policing that she’d heard at the dog park that morning.

A woman walking her dogs saw a much younger woman eating take-out chicken pieces and dropping the bones on the ground. Older woman told younger woman that chicken bones can harm dogs. Younger woman started arguing with older woman and insulting her. When older woman walked away, younger woman threw the chicken bones at the dogs.

Final Episode

Yesterday, I played one of my least-favourite games: Homework Police. I had gotten one version of requirements from Jack’s mum, and was getting another from Jack. Much growling and squealing throughout the afternoon and evening ended with Baby Bear going to bed in tears, and Papa Bear (me) mad at everybody. This morning, as we were getting our coats on to head for the streetcar, I told Jack I made a lousy cop.

“From now on, if you’re gonna write your homework assignments on your arm and lose them during your swimming lesson, that’s your problem, not mine. Any time you want my help, I’ll be glad to help you; otherwise, you’re 11 now, so it’s time to be responsible for your own stuff. Okay?” Jack listened, silently, seriously, nodding. Then we headed out together to the transit stop. Jack got on the streetcar and waved; Turtle waved back, and threw away her badge.

Spit in the Lake (II)

Yesterday I wrote about viewing 15 species of anseriformes in Tommy Thompson Park. I also saw three charadriiformes, a piciforme, a gruiforme, a pelecaniforme, a falconiforme, and nine passeriformes, plus an Eastern Cottontail and a fat raccoon. Not bad for a garbage dump.

The Leslie Street Spit is an accumulation at the foot of Leslie Street, Toronto, of debris from demolished buildings. It was begun in the late 1950s and was originally intended as a breakwater for the harbour. While the need for the breakwater diminished, the rubble pile kept on growing, and with the dirt that came from new basement diggings, little by little the spit seeded itself. Grass and cottonwood trees and other sheltering or tasty plants started to grow. In the 70s a grassroots (!) lobby group called Friends of the Spit arose, which has battled to promote it as a wildlife refuge, and thwart plans for golf courses and carnival activities, ever since. Sometime in the 90s (I think) Tommy Thompson park was inaugurated.

During the week, dump trucks still rumble through with their loads, but on the weekends the 5-km spit is open to the public. People come to cycle, blade, jog, stroll, birdwatch. The Toronto Field Naturalists hold monthly nature walks. And the Tommy Thompson Park Bird Research Station allows people to see what they’re up to.

Thanks to some information from Themarvelousinnature, I was able to find the research station yesterday morning. It’s a tiny wooden cabin with a friendly verandah, one door, and windows on three sides. Inside, a desk stretches from one wall to the other. Completing the decor are a couple of chairs and a locker bedecked with photos of birds the station has banded.

When I showed up at 11, the volunteers were returning from making their rounds of the mist nets. Although they’d been at it since 6 am, on this day they had found fewer than half a dozen birds. I was lucky, then, to see them returning with one indignant male cardinal. I was invited into the building to see them inspect the squawking mite, who raised his crest as high as possible in an effort to prove that he was actually a crocodile, and they’d better not mess with him!

Dan, who was holding him, gently fanned out one wing, explaining that a lot of birds can be aged by the extent of moulting. He went on to say that this method doesn’t work on some birds, such as cardinals, who moult all their feathers. Then I was shown the band already on this fellow’s leg. It was the second time their nets had caught him; no wonder he was grouchy! They flipped through their binder for his band number, and found that the first time they’d caught him was in the autumn of 2006. A bird at least two years old, then. Giving the cardinal a last fond stroke on its ruffled crown, Dan pulled the plug from some clear plastic piping, maybe eight inches in diameter, which described a U shape from the desk top to the outside. He reached into the pipe, released the bird, and away it flew.

Follow-up Photos — and a Contest

Here are two updates on my entries of March 12 and 13.

1. (See “Long Winter’s Journey into Spring) After more than a week of house arrest and puny little walks around the block while his leg was healing, Cardiman got three days in a row of hikes in the woods — two in Owen Sound and one here along the local river. Friday’s hike was an hour long; Saturday’s and Sunday’s were more like two each. All that fresh air and exercise has been doing both him and me a world of good.

2. (See “Cute and Conscientious” and “Symbol of the Turtle”) Guess what? All three species of my family symbolically adopted a baby sea turtle in my honour! Here it is now, reading my latest entry. I think there should be a name-and-genderize-the-sea-turtle-stuffy contest. Winner gets…umm…uh… How ’bout, winner gets to name any topic, and I’ll write a 500-word tale about it? Deadline March 30!

Going to Blazes

The Bruce Trail runs along the Niagara Escarpment in Ontario from Queenston to Tobermory. Back in 1967 when it was officially opened, before Canada went metric, it was about 500 miles long; now it’s 845 kilometres (plus half again as much in side trails). We like hiking bits of it on sunny days.

At Inglis Falls on Friday, doggles and I walked a few yards of Bruce on our way around a loop trail. Yesterday at the Pottawatomi Conservation Area, we strolled or struggled along another 2.2 km — about a mile and-a-third — to the town line before retracing our steps.

Up we went along the edge of the cliff, from Jones Falls through cedar scrub into the birch woods at the top. The line of hard-packed snow was mostly level or gently sloped, but occasionally we had to clamber up a steeper spot. Two or three times I dropped the leash so that my kneeless fox and I could find our way over the tricky bits at our own pace, and not jerk each other off balance. Each time, he waited for me to catch up and take the leash again.

And a good thing, too. There was plenty of great sniffing to be had for the discerning nose, and the little herding dog could have taken off to round up red squirrels, mice, fox, chipmunks, cottontails, deer, or grouse. And he could have tangled with a coyote or fisher, and come out the loser. And he could have been sprayed by a skunk. And he could have been killed by a dose of porcupine quills. And he could have been bitten by a rabid raccoon. And he could have slipped on the snow right over the edge of the cliff.

Instead, my canine companion and I enjoyed a carefree hike, connected together by six feet of purple nylon strapping. We stayed on the trail, going from blaze to blaze, ignoring the impromptu paths to the precipice that other humans had made. He sniffed, and I saw, tracks of all kinds. We noticed the grouse droppings, the porcupine browsings, the pileated woodpecker chippings. We also noticed that I had left my bookbag and water bottle in the car.

Since dehydration can cause carelessness, I phoned my partner, who was down by Jones Falls near the parking lot, and she brought the bottle up to us. Meanwhile, I used a mossy outcropping beside the trail as a misericord, and Poggles scrambled up to sit beside me. The outcropping was on the inside, not the cliffside, of the trail, so that we faced towards the view. I gave my dog teeny chunks of cheese. We relaxed. There were no birds except a few chickadees calling “Yoo-hoo!” and some Canada Geese scrutinizing the cornfield down below. The only other sound was the far-off swish of traffic.

Suddenly, I heard a whistling. It was the wingbeats of a crow, who flew up the escarpment face, over the treetops, and away. Pupster didn’t care about the bird; he did, however, crane his neck in astonishment as a chipmunk crossed the trail and proceeded up a log about two feet from his wide eyes and flaring snout.

My partner arrived a few minutes later with the water and her camera. On our return, she took lots of photos; we admired the grouse droppings and the tree chewings and the various animal tracks; and back down at the river, we watched a chestnut- coloured weaselly minkish thing galumphing along the far bank.

We were safe, we were sated, and we were starving. A few miles down the road at the Chatsworth Coffee Time we sat in the car, lunching on burgers and the fattest, hottest, crispest onion rings I’ve ever eaten. Poggles had a couple of bickies in the back seat, and then settled down for the two-hour ride home.

You’re Nobunny Till Somebunny Cares

May you experience this holiday weekend in the combination of safe, sane, sacred, and silly that fits you best.