June 2, Smarts Brook, N.H.

Back in New Hampshire, in the White Mountains, more specifically the Waterville Valley. Our old haunts. Why we go there in early June is questionable. To contend with blackflies, with inclement weather. On the other hand, for energy-expending activities like ascending mountains, uphill treks, hot weather isn't conducive to comfort and success, either. So early June it is. And here, despite a light rain, we find ourselves once again driving in the White Mountain National Forest.

We've planned for our first hike to do the Smarts Brook trail. We've stopped to procure our permit for the week, stick it on the windshield, and park at the trail head; pull on our hiking boots, and off we go. Button and Riley are off leash and sniffing and snuffling about, eager to go. In fact, as soon as the car was parked, before the ignition was shut off, they were both pealing their anxious yelps to get started. There's a lot of blow-down from severe storms at the start of the trail, following Smarts Brook as it tumbles down from the mountains above.

The water courses furiously over rock slabs, around huge boulders, its sound booming in our ears. We stand there, transfixed, our first view of the descending mountain stream, swollen with new rain, tumbling over and around, rushing through lapses in the rock face, washing over the lichen clinging to the rocks. Beside the mountain stream, the forest of benign old maples, birch, pine.

As we ascend, the bright red rock of the cliffs begin to reveal their height, towering over the stream bed. The understory of dogwood is in bloom. The rain begins to lift and we see, through the maze of needles from surrounding pine, hemlock and spruce, some blue sky among the fast-moving clouds.

Ferns are unfurling beside the trail. There are bright pink heads of Ladies slippers, bright white bunchberry flowers, purple and yellow violets, and wood sorrel growing in between hemlock seedlings. There's a sweet raspberry fragrance on the air, but we can't imagine where it's coming from.

We ascend slowly, relishing the unfolding scene, looking to the right, to the left, unwilling to miss anything, for everything is notable, from the rocky outcroppings rich with moss and lichen, to the irresistible painted trilliums beside a group of Ladies slippers, to the huge granite erratic hosting its own miniature forest of ferns and violets.

Riley toddles stolidly behind us. Button, ever the adventurer, forges irrepressibly ahead. There are rich black, boggy areas on the trail, well tramped by hikers' boots, easily sidestepped by treading on smooth rock outcroppings close to the ground, inviting us to hop from one to the other.

The humidity level remains high, an odour now pervasive of mould assails us. The trail begins to narrow, pulling us away from the stream and its insistent roar. We move up onto the Pine flats where the Ladies slippers still nod shyly from under hemlock, pine and spruce and emerge finally to a more open area. This takes us to a shallow descent, and then forest swallows us again into its dense and dark embrace.

We've accessed the Yellowjacket trail. We hear the calls of an oven bird, some thrushes. Mosquitoes begin to zero in on Button. They love her black coat, her hormones. They always ignore Riley. A few Swallowtails flit about lazily.