June 16, 2008 - Day Six
We woke to another overcast morning. No morning sun to wake us early, in anticipation of the coming day's adventures. But nothing daunted, we still looked forward to poking about and making the most of our outdoor opportunities. Exposing our granddaughter to new experiences.
She has readily adapted to the notional reality of being in an entirely different country, albeit one next door to her own. Truth was, although the geography changed before her eyes, not too much else did. Nature doesn't recognize humankind's political and artificial demarcations on her imperial landscape. So for Angelyne it represents a gradual remove from the familiar.
She's a rural-dwelling child to begin with, and once we departed Ottawa and drove through Montreal, rural was about all she saw. Including Vermont and New Hampshire. The change is anything but radical, but for the mountain landscape, which is truly monumental. She swiftly adjusted her sight-lines and recognition patterns to encompass the surrounding mountains, everywhere we travelled.
And shared with us the awe of its immensity, the green ripeness of it all. But then children are like that, able to adapt so readily to change, to welcome it, even challenge it. She has grasped the realities she saw, understood that the people she came across and spoke with are no different than those she is accustomed to, day-to-day, and has emerged a trifle more sophisticated than previously.
As for our own routine, it's not, after all, that unfamiliar to her, since she's long been accustomed to being in our presence and care. Just in a different, slightly more exotic setting. She now has a firm idea of what she will encounter each day. Firmly grounded in the company of her grandparents, and more than willing to share with us whatever the day offers. Presence in another country isn't so dramatic, after all.
Well, the night before offered thunderstorms and thundering rainfall. With more promised in the days ahead. Which is precisely the reason that we selected our day's jaunts as we did. The more difficult and exposed clamber up the twin mountains on the one slightly cool, windy and clear day. The overheated temperature of the following day bringing us to Smart's Brook, where the close canopy of trees kept us relatively cool.
Now we were returning under a low dense cloud cover, to cover the entire loop, and clad in light rain gear. Well buttressed by the kind of breakfast that child craves; grapefruit, banana, orange juice, bacon, cheese omelette, toast, cream cheese and honey, and tea. Fortified against the unlikely (for us) but inevitable (for her) pangs of hunger a mere two hours post- breakfast.
We accessed the trailhead this time on the opposite end, necessitating an immediate and fairly perpendicular clamber over a rocky and awkward natural "staircase" to take us from level to level on our way to the initial fire road that commences alongside Smart's Brook. Despite the dark threat above, no real sign of rain descending on us. Enough mosquitoes, however, to ensure our vigil isn't entirely relaxed against inconvenience.
They're a nuisance, but nothing as bad as the black flies we found so ubiquitous up until now on our other climbs. We know enough to anticipate their presence at the opposite end of this loop, where the trail swings closer to the brook itself. Because of the threat of rain we took only one camera with us, so we were handing it about as each of us at various times bethought to take photographs.
It's really wet underfoot but the forest floor is nicely covered with sufficient detritus - aeons-worth, in fact - to have absorbed all that rain, keeping us out of what could have been mucky conditions. Angelyne busies herself composing scenic shots of the wildflowers, the butterflies, the immense boulders laden with flourishing lichen, ferns and flowering plants.
We take a familiar, often-visited side-trail to get a little closer to the brook. When we approach close enough, looking down, she shoots the raging torrent that is this mountain brook, tumbling over huge erratics and rock piles. The sound thunders about us, receding as we make our way back to the main trail. Button and Riley are curious, treading carefully over small rocks, sniffing.
Doubtless picking up the scent of other dogs that have been there before them, leaving their own particular odours. Their obsession in picking up the scent almost leads us to believe they're on the trail of other animals - as for example, moose - which we've been informed in the past, can sometimes be seen on an off-trail leading to a large wet-land.
Solomon's seal, dogwood, lilies-of-the-valley, Dutchman's breeches, Ladies slippers are all there in abundant glory; bright and saucy floral tributes to the season. Luxuriant mosses, colourful lichens, mountain sorrel, bunchberries, all entwined with pine, hemlock and spruce seedlings, newly burst from the fecund soil.
The dim forest ambiance enhanced by the darkly lowering sky. The sodden foliage casts a strange glow of green light over the landscape. The forest floor is soft, absorbent. Kind on our booted feet, and aromatic. Coming across shy but insouciantly bright clusters of pale pink orchids entrances us with their transient beauty.
We've been two hours on the trail, looping off the cart track onto a stout bridge of squared pine timbers, onto the more densely canopied trail meandering off into the forest. Eventually we make our way up again into the pine flats - the furthest we ventured on our initial jaunt days earlier - then gradually wind our way through the flats, descend alongside the brook, where the natural stone walls of the chasm enclose the running water.
The black flies rise once again to greet us. The insect repellent we'd applied earlier doesn't dissuade them effectively at all. We swat at them ineffectually. They will have their minuscule and painful flesh tidbits of us long-suffering humans. Not as long-suffering as animals like deer and moose, helpless to counter their attacks, though. We're relatively shielded by our clothing, and alert to their presence, are able to divert more than are successful in biting us.
Even poor little Button and Riley become targets. Ah well, amend that. For some reason biting insects seem to avoid Riley. We don't know whether it's a gender thing; he's male. If his hormonal odours aren't attractive to them, or whether his light apricot colour doesn't attract them. But poor Button, with her black hair and female hormones, seems to drive them to a feeding frenzy, and she hates them.
The rock walls of the chasm never fail to astound us with their stolid, confident presence. The colour of the rock intensifies with their dampness, and turns from a clay-like brown to bright, dark red, with black striations. Festooned with all manner of mossy growths, some resembling miniature ferns; small forests of green growing within the elongated cracks of the granite.
The granite walls appear smooth in texture, indomitable, ancient, belying the gradual influence of the rushing water in its inexorable dominance of the landscape.
She has readily adapted to the notional reality of being in an entirely different country, albeit one next door to her own. Truth was, although the geography changed before her eyes, not too much else did. Nature doesn't recognize humankind's political and artificial demarcations on her imperial landscape. So for Angelyne it represents a gradual remove from the familiar.
She's a rural-dwelling child to begin with, and once we departed Ottawa and drove through Montreal, rural was about all she saw. Including Vermont and New Hampshire. The change is anything but radical, but for the mountain landscape, which is truly monumental. She swiftly adjusted her sight-lines and recognition patterns to encompass the surrounding mountains, everywhere we travelled.
And shared with us the awe of its immensity, the green ripeness of it all. But then children are like that, able to adapt so readily to change, to welcome it, even challenge it. She has grasped the realities she saw, understood that the people she came across and spoke with are no different than those she is accustomed to, day-to-day, and has emerged a trifle more sophisticated than previously.
As for our own routine, it's not, after all, that unfamiliar to her, since she's long been accustomed to being in our presence and care. Just in a different, slightly more exotic setting. She now has a firm idea of what she will encounter each day. Firmly grounded in the company of her grandparents, and more than willing to share with us whatever the day offers. Presence in another country isn't so dramatic, after all.
Well, the night before offered thunderstorms and thundering rainfall. With more promised in the days ahead. Which is precisely the reason that we selected our day's jaunts as we did. The more difficult and exposed clamber up the twin mountains on the one slightly cool, windy and clear day. The overheated temperature of the following day bringing us to Smart's Brook, where the close canopy of trees kept us relatively cool.
Now we were returning under a low dense cloud cover, to cover the entire loop, and clad in light rain gear. Well buttressed by the kind of breakfast that child craves; grapefruit, banana, orange juice, bacon, cheese omelette, toast, cream cheese and honey, and tea. Fortified against the unlikely (for us) but inevitable (for her) pangs of hunger a mere two hours post- breakfast.
We accessed the trailhead this time on the opposite end, necessitating an immediate and fairly perpendicular clamber over a rocky and awkward natural "staircase" to take us from level to level on our way to the initial fire road that commences alongside Smart's Brook. Despite the dark threat above, no real sign of rain descending on us. Enough mosquitoes, however, to ensure our vigil isn't entirely relaxed against inconvenience.
They're a nuisance, but nothing as bad as the black flies we found so ubiquitous up until now on our other climbs. We know enough to anticipate their presence at the opposite end of this loop, where the trail swings closer to the brook itself. Because of the threat of rain we took only one camera with us, so we were handing it about as each of us at various times bethought to take photographs.
It's really wet underfoot but the forest floor is nicely covered with sufficient detritus - aeons-worth, in fact - to have absorbed all that rain, keeping us out of what could have been mucky conditions. Angelyne busies herself composing scenic shots of the wildflowers, the butterflies, the immense boulders laden with flourishing lichen, ferns and flowering plants.
We take a familiar, often-visited side-trail to get a little closer to the brook. When we approach close enough, looking down, she shoots the raging torrent that is this mountain brook, tumbling over huge erratics and rock piles. The sound thunders about us, receding as we make our way back to the main trail. Button and Riley are curious, treading carefully over small rocks, sniffing.
Doubtless picking up the scent of other dogs that have been there before them, leaving their own particular odours. Their obsession in picking up the scent almost leads us to believe they're on the trail of other animals - as for example, moose - which we've been informed in the past, can sometimes be seen on an off-trail leading to a large wet-land.
Solomon's seal, dogwood, lilies-of-the-valley, Dutchman's breeches, Ladies slippers are all there in abundant glory; bright and saucy floral tributes to the season. Luxuriant mosses, colourful lichens, mountain sorrel, bunchberries, all entwined with pine, hemlock and spruce seedlings, newly burst from the fecund soil.
The dim forest ambiance enhanced by the darkly lowering sky. The sodden foliage casts a strange glow of green light over the landscape. The forest floor is soft, absorbent. Kind on our booted feet, and aromatic. Coming across shy but insouciantly bright clusters of pale pink orchids entrances us with their transient beauty.
We've been two hours on the trail, looping off the cart track onto a stout bridge of squared pine timbers, onto the more densely canopied trail meandering off into the forest. Eventually we make our way up again into the pine flats - the furthest we ventured on our initial jaunt days earlier - then gradually wind our way through the flats, descend alongside the brook, where the natural stone walls of the chasm enclose the running water.
The black flies rise once again to greet us. The insect repellent we'd applied earlier doesn't dissuade them effectively at all. We swat at them ineffectually. They will have their minuscule and painful flesh tidbits of us long-suffering humans. Not as long-suffering as animals like deer and moose, helpless to counter their attacks, though. We're relatively shielded by our clothing, and alert to their presence, are able to divert more than are successful in biting us.
Even poor little Button and Riley become targets. Ah well, amend that. For some reason biting insects seem to avoid Riley. We don't know whether it's a gender thing; he's male. If his hormonal odours aren't attractive to them, or whether his light apricot colour doesn't attract them. But poor Button, with her black hair and female hormones, seems to drive them to a feeding frenzy, and she hates them.
The rock walls of the chasm never fail to astound us with their stolid, confident presence. The colour of the rock intensifies with their dampness, and turns from a clay-like brown to bright, dark red, with black striations. Festooned with all manner of mossy growths, some resembling miniature ferns; small forests of green growing within the elongated cracks of the granite.
The granite walls appear smooth in texture, indomitable, ancient, belying the gradual influence of the rushing water in its inexorable dominance of the landscape.
Labels: Family, Peregrinations
posted by Pieface @ 5:47 PM
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