17 June, 2008 - Day Seven
Motorcyclists marred the quiet of the morning, conspicuously revving engines on arrival and departure, but it's their holiday time too, so big deal. Cleaned up the cottage as usual, after breakfast, packed for the morning's adventure, then set off. Back to Smarts Brook, to do the loop again, right-to-left. Another uphill haul over looped roots and rocks, growth of dense green close-packed oak, yellow birch, hemlock and pine.
The ever-present dampness of the area nursing lichens, mosses and fungi galore. Miniature landscapes. Potentilla, buttercups, salvia, daisies, Ladies slippers and luxuriant ferns massed in a tangled garden of form and colour in the understory. From the enclosed green comfort of the heavily wooded initial trail we broke through finally onto the cart track, and trudged its gradual ascent, open now to the greater light of the day.
From time to time, vestiges of worn old paths invited the occasional foray back into the more heavily forested portion off the cart track, as the trail moved closer to the running water, and we satisfied our curiosity by casual diversions to look out over the brook slapping over broad granite outcroppings and on down to its inexorable course below.
The brook is in a huge hurry, shooting itself in a great momentum of froth over the expanse of granite that marks its ancient course down from the mountains, to eventually join other, larger, tributaries that make their way over the land and valleys below the mountain ridges. Its huge roaring presence impresses upon us the power and grandeur of both the landscape and the water that inexorably shapes it.
Black, and yellow Admirals flit about everywhere. They're photo-aversive, brightly elusive creatures of the wind. One moment landing, lifting their delicate wings, and folding them, then quickly, before we are able to fully prepare our cameras, lifting off again to resume their spiralling courtship of one another.
Finally, we come across a mating pair, and they're directly in front of us, in the middle of the trail, seemingly oblivious to our presence; not moving at all. One of them does move its wings rhythmically, but the other sits there as though transfixed by some signal event beyond our knowledge. Angelyne and I, each with our cameras, have ample opportunity to snap all the photos we want.
And then Angelyne exudes a huge sigh of revulsion, one that only a pre-teen girl can manage. The butterflies we so admire for their beauty and fragility are also practical creatures of nature, carefully seeking out the most advantageous place to lay their eggs. While the middle of a trail wouldn't seem to fit that bill to us, they're perched on a flattened, fresh scat, and that, for them, appears ideal.
The area remains free of black flies, to our great relief; we've had more than enough encounters with those flesh-eating nasties. The clear skies that were present when we embarked on this hike have gradually submitted to clouds. Our steaming bodies are grateful for the surcease of the sun's heat, the comfort of the shade.
And then, suddenly, the unmistakable sensation of a water drop. Another. On our heads, shoulders. We've packed light rain gear, but it doesn't seem needful to haul them out, just yet. The light rain soon passes, and then - surprisingly - there's more sun. We'd thought, warned by the weather forecast, that the clear skies would give way completely to heavy overcast, threatening rain.
But the upper atmosphere is playing games. Clouds appear again, and the sun disappears, and there are more lazy drops of rain. We're exceedingly fortunate it's such a lovely day, no warmer than the mid-70s. The teasing sun, then cloud, then rain, perpetuates itself for the remainder of the hike, and that's fine, given there's no accompanying nuisance of flying pests.
The accumulated organic detritus of centuries and more cradle our exercised feet. Gradual and modest ascents are balanced by surprisingly steep descents. The trail, being undertaken in reverse, it's anyone's guess which is more difficult; embarking right to left, or the opposite way. It always seems that way, trying to second-guess advantage and energy out-put.
Finally, we're in the home stretch. Angie writes a little message on the damp trunk of a birch, with a sharp stick: "Angie was here". We admire her handiwork, impressed that she's able to assume that the stick would make a legible enough impression on the bark. And it most certainly has. She instructs us that, when we return this fall, we are to look for her message.
She carefully photographs those brief three words of authority and temporary ownership of time and space. Her little conceit. She laughs uproariously on our return to the car, when she discovers that her grandparents have trod upon some uncivil dog's droppings.
The ever-present dampness of the area nursing lichens, mosses and fungi galore. Miniature landscapes. Potentilla, buttercups, salvia, daisies, Ladies slippers and luxuriant ferns massed in a tangled garden of form and colour in the understory. From the enclosed green comfort of the heavily wooded initial trail we broke through finally onto the cart track, and trudged its gradual ascent, open now to the greater light of the day.
From time to time, vestiges of worn old paths invited the occasional foray back into the more heavily forested portion off the cart track, as the trail moved closer to the running water, and we satisfied our curiosity by casual diversions to look out over the brook slapping over broad granite outcroppings and on down to its inexorable course below.
The brook is in a huge hurry, shooting itself in a great momentum of froth over the expanse of granite that marks its ancient course down from the mountains, to eventually join other, larger, tributaries that make their way over the land and valleys below the mountain ridges. Its huge roaring presence impresses upon us the power and grandeur of both the landscape and the water that inexorably shapes it.
Black, and yellow Admirals flit about everywhere. They're photo-aversive, brightly elusive creatures of the wind. One moment landing, lifting their delicate wings, and folding them, then quickly, before we are able to fully prepare our cameras, lifting off again to resume their spiralling courtship of one another.
Finally, we come across a mating pair, and they're directly in front of us, in the middle of the trail, seemingly oblivious to our presence; not moving at all. One of them does move its wings rhythmically, but the other sits there as though transfixed by some signal event beyond our knowledge. Angelyne and I, each with our cameras, have ample opportunity to snap all the photos we want.
And then Angelyne exudes a huge sigh of revulsion, one that only a pre-teen girl can manage. The butterflies we so admire for their beauty and fragility are also practical creatures of nature, carefully seeking out the most advantageous place to lay their eggs. While the middle of a trail wouldn't seem to fit that bill to us, they're perched on a flattened, fresh scat, and that, for them, appears ideal.
The area remains free of black flies, to our great relief; we've had more than enough encounters with those flesh-eating nasties. The clear skies that were present when we embarked on this hike have gradually submitted to clouds. Our steaming bodies are grateful for the surcease of the sun's heat, the comfort of the shade.
And then, suddenly, the unmistakable sensation of a water drop. Another. On our heads, shoulders. We've packed light rain gear, but it doesn't seem needful to haul them out, just yet. The light rain soon passes, and then - surprisingly - there's more sun. We'd thought, warned by the weather forecast, that the clear skies would give way completely to heavy overcast, threatening rain.
But the upper atmosphere is playing games. Clouds appear again, and the sun disappears, and there are more lazy drops of rain. We're exceedingly fortunate it's such a lovely day, no warmer than the mid-70s. The teasing sun, then cloud, then rain, perpetuates itself for the remainder of the hike, and that's fine, given there's no accompanying nuisance of flying pests.
The accumulated organic detritus of centuries and more cradle our exercised feet. Gradual and modest ascents are balanced by surprisingly steep descents. The trail, being undertaken in reverse, it's anyone's guess which is more difficult; embarking right to left, or the opposite way. It always seems that way, trying to second-guess advantage and energy out-put.
Finally, we're in the home stretch. Angie writes a little message on the damp trunk of a birch, with a sharp stick: "Angie was here". We admire her handiwork, impressed that she's able to assume that the stick would make a legible enough impression on the bark. And it most certainly has. She instructs us that, when we return this fall, we are to look for her message.
She carefully photographs those brief three words of authority and temporary ownership of time and space. Her little conceit. She laughs uproariously on our return to the car, when she discovers that her grandparents have trod upon some uncivil dog's droppings.
Labels: Family, Peregrinations
posted by Pieface @ 7:13 PM
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