Snowbound
Despite the hugely deep and wonderfully white blanket of daily-renewed snow all about us in this nation's capital - or perhaps because of it - we fully understand and revel in our selves as citizens of that great frozen North - Canada. This is, we're told, an "old-fashioned" winter, the likes of which we haven't seen for many a year. We can recall winters of waist-deep snow on our lawns, and having to carefully make our way through downtown streets too laden with fresh snow for municipal crews to adequately remove.
Of plodding our way down the street to catch the express bus downtown to work, and wondering where we would be able to jump to in safety, off the bus at bus stops that hadn't yet been cleared away. Of attempting to walk along snow-bumpy, and ice-laden streets, trying to make our way home after a long day at work, with the sun setting and sending dark shadows everywhere about us. Our winters of late have been more of a tepid variety; nowhere near as much snow, with tardy spring washing it quickly away.
This winter is something else again. Looking across at our backyard neighbours' back lawns from the height of our raised deck, I see a sea of undulating white, with low-rise decks, swimming pools, bushes and trees completely engulfed, swallowed by that great maw of white. And turning my gaze higher, roofs well mantled in a thick layer of snow, beginning to slump as it curves from the heat of the mid-March sun, toward the edges, over the eaves.
And early mornings, letting our little dogs out to the back for their first release of the day, waiting awhile before sliding the doors shut, happy to hear the nightingale-sweet song of a cardinal perched high in the trees at the corner of the lot. That's one side of this winter. The other being the sheer weight of all that snow bearing down on roofs built to a sloppier code, and those roofs collapsing monumentally upon whatever lies below.
A week ago a young family with father, mother and two infants barely escaped their bungalow, alerted by a strange groaning sound from above. Then watching, mouth agape, as the roof of their home fell into a space it had no business intruding upon; the walls holding it up sliding apart, and the house standing there finally, awry, bewildered at its strange alteration. The young family lives temporarily now in the home of a relative.
In Ottawa also, parking garage roofs have collapsed. Schools have been evacuated while the sturdiness of their snow-compromised roofs are being assessed. Last week the roof of a riding arena outside Smiths Falls collapsed; most of the horses escaped, two died. Several days later in Morin Heights, Quebec, the roof of a food warehouse collapsed, killing three women. Seniors residences, shopping centres, sports arenas, have been emptied temporarily.
Today, in Shawinigan, a woman and child made it to safety as the roof of their house collapsed from the snow-weight. A 52-year-old male resident was less fortunate. There is great uncertainty being expressed about the safety of people in these extreme conditions. Warehouse stores like WalMart with their flat roofs, are taking precautions, sending employees up on to the roofs with shovels, cautioning them to take care in shovelling.
As for us, we stood aside yesterday as a large Caterpillar tractor tussled mightily with a build-up of snow preventing the melt from coursing into catch-basins; the tractor like an enraged beast, clawing the ice and snow from the roadbed, and shoving, shoving it up and over and beyond the road. Finally, we were able to clamber our way over the collected snowbank, into the ravine for our walk, to tread there in a narrow defile, newfallen snow elaborating the branches of trees.
Today we did a similar clamber, under clear skies and an energetic wind. Miraculously, the trail has somehow been widened; we guess snowboarding kids, people on snowshoes, a stray rhinoceros, who knows? We're grateful for the ease with which we are now able to trundle down the long hill into the ravine proper. Yesterday's tender new snowfall is almost gone from the trees; the wind now and again lifts what remains and hurls it to the ground.
The occasional fist-sized snowpuff falls directly upon us from above. And 'above' isn't quite what it used to be; branches that were formerly high above now protrude at eye level and pose a problem as we proceed over the deep layered snow trail. Occasionally, the wind nudges a deep layer of snow off a branch, and it falls luxuriantly, a windfall, a shower of light flakes of snow, dispersing languorously, like ghostly ectoplasm.
Crows gather noisily atop a copse of pine trees. Resting, cawing, rising from the steeples, carried by the air currents, returning to the trees. When we on occasion pass others out with their dogs there is hardly room to pass, coming abreast, taking care to place boots, mindful of the depths to which they'll sink, treading incautiously off the beaten track. There are deep, very deep imprints where others have sunk precipitously, stepping aside too hastily off the trail.
The ravine bridges are so completely engulfed by successive snowfalls, we find ourselves treading across their lengths at an absurd height. Where normally the bridge rails reach to chest or shoulder height, they're now at ankle height. As for the wood-slat benches scattered here and there, they are no longer there; disappeared, sunk deep in snow apathy. No place now for a weary traveller to rest, they must forge on. Not that we ever availed ourselves of them, in any event. Just marvelling at their disappearing act.
Turning a corner, there, at eye level, a thrumming Hairy woodpecker, on an elm. The elms are hard put to survive, so many of them, mature and immature have gradually succumbed to Dutch Elm disease. The Pileated woodpecker has been extraordinarily busy of late. Gaping and raw holes of recent vintage are seen here and there on otherwise-healthy-looking trunks of pine and spruce, the white snow below littered with long splinters of wood.
Roofs on our street are overhung with melting snow. Deeply piled up there, contorted, cantilevered in peculiar shapes, hanging over the eaves. They present as a problem, lest they spontaneously - as they most certainly will, eventually - slide in a heavy goopy drift on unwary passersby, or homeowners, below.
Of plodding our way down the street to catch the express bus downtown to work, and wondering where we would be able to jump to in safety, off the bus at bus stops that hadn't yet been cleared away. Of attempting to walk along snow-bumpy, and ice-laden streets, trying to make our way home after a long day at work, with the sun setting and sending dark shadows everywhere about us. Our winters of late have been more of a tepid variety; nowhere near as much snow, with tardy spring washing it quickly away.
This winter is something else again. Looking across at our backyard neighbours' back lawns from the height of our raised deck, I see a sea of undulating white, with low-rise decks, swimming pools, bushes and trees completely engulfed, swallowed by that great maw of white. And turning my gaze higher, roofs well mantled in a thick layer of snow, beginning to slump as it curves from the heat of the mid-March sun, toward the edges, over the eaves.
And early mornings, letting our little dogs out to the back for their first release of the day, waiting awhile before sliding the doors shut, happy to hear the nightingale-sweet song of a cardinal perched high in the trees at the corner of the lot. That's one side of this winter. The other being the sheer weight of all that snow bearing down on roofs built to a sloppier code, and those roofs collapsing monumentally upon whatever lies below.
A week ago a young family with father, mother and two infants barely escaped their bungalow, alerted by a strange groaning sound from above. Then watching, mouth agape, as the roof of their home fell into a space it had no business intruding upon; the walls holding it up sliding apart, and the house standing there finally, awry, bewildered at its strange alteration. The young family lives temporarily now in the home of a relative.
In Ottawa also, parking garage roofs have collapsed. Schools have been evacuated while the sturdiness of their snow-compromised roofs are being assessed. Last week the roof of a riding arena outside Smiths Falls collapsed; most of the horses escaped, two died. Several days later in Morin Heights, Quebec, the roof of a food warehouse collapsed, killing three women. Seniors residences, shopping centres, sports arenas, have been emptied temporarily.
Today, in Shawinigan, a woman and child made it to safety as the roof of their house collapsed from the snow-weight. A 52-year-old male resident was less fortunate. There is great uncertainty being expressed about the safety of people in these extreme conditions. Warehouse stores like WalMart with their flat roofs, are taking precautions, sending employees up on to the roofs with shovels, cautioning them to take care in shovelling.
As for us, we stood aside yesterday as a large Caterpillar tractor tussled mightily with a build-up of snow preventing the melt from coursing into catch-basins; the tractor like an enraged beast, clawing the ice and snow from the roadbed, and shoving, shoving it up and over and beyond the road. Finally, we were able to clamber our way over the collected snowbank, into the ravine for our walk, to tread there in a narrow defile, newfallen snow elaborating the branches of trees.
Today we did a similar clamber, under clear skies and an energetic wind. Miraculously, the trail has somehow been widened; we guess snowboarding kids, people on snowshoes, a stray rhinoceros, who knows? We're grateful for the ease with which we are now able to trundle down the long hill into the ravine proper. Yesterday's tender new snowfall is almost gone from the trees; the wind now and again lifts what remains and hurls it to the ground.
The occasional fist-sized snowpuff falls directly upon us from above. And 'above' isn't quite what it used to be; branches that were formerly high above now protrude at eye level and pose a problem as we proceed over the deep layered snow trail. Occasionally, the wind nudges a deep layer of snow off a branch, and it falls luxuriantly, a windfall, a shower of light flakes of snow, dispersing languorously, like ghostly ectoplasm.
Crows gather noisily atop a copse of pine trees. Resting, cawing, rising from the steeples, carried by the air currents, returning to the trees. When we on occasion pass others out with their dogs there is hardly room to pass, coming abreast, taking care to place boots, mindful of the depths to which they'll sink, treading incautiously off the beaten track. There are deep, very deep imprints where others have sunk precipitously, stepping aside too hastily off the trail.
The ravine bridges are so completely engulfed by successive snowfalls, we find ourselves treading across their lengths at an absurd height. Where normally the bridge rails reach to chest or shoulder height, they're now at ankle height. As for the wood-slat benches scattered here and there, they are no longer there; disappeared, sunk deep in snow apathy. No place now for a weary traveller to rest, they must forge on. Not that we ever availed ourselves of them, in any event. Just marvelling at their disappearing act.
Turning a corner, there, at eye level, a thrumming Hairy woodpecker, on an elm. The elms are hard put to survive, so many of them, mature and immature have gradually succumbed to Dutch Elm disease. The Pileated woodpecker has been extraordinarily busy of late. Gaping and raw holes of recent vintage are seen here and there on otherwise-healthy-looking trunks of pine and spruce, the white snow below littered with long splinters of wood.
Roofs on our street are overhung with melting snow. Deeply piled up there, contorted, cantilevered in peculiar shapes, hanging over the eaves. They present as a problem, lest they spontaneously - as they most certainly will, eventually - slide in a heavy goopy drift on unwary passersby, or homeowners, below.
Labels: Environment, Particularities, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:27 PM
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