Day 3 - 6 September 2008
Button refused her breakfast, holding out, as she did yesterday, for a sweetener. Yesterday, I crumbled bacon over her kibble and she deigned to eat everything. Riley requires no such incentives, eagerly consuming everything on offer, inclusive of his post-breakfast bacon treat, but not requiring it as a pre-requisite to breakfast.
Today, I sprinkled finely-diced breakfast sausage over her kibble, and she daintily picked out the sausage bits, leaving most of her kibble rejected. While Riley expressed a willingness to eat all that was left, as I swooped in to deprive him of over-indulgence. He is, unfortunately, overweight, a counterbalance to Button's underweight.
As we sat ourselves at the breakfast table to tackle navel oranges, bananas, eggs and those maple syrup-flavoured sausages, the low-hanging clouds burst into heavy rain. The dwarf goats, barely visible from our picture window vantage, dived for their shelter. No weather-complacent fools, they. I could almost imagine the clatter of their miniature hooves on the wood-plank entry to their shed.
Some while later, the sun emerged again, bright, powerful. Sending steamy wisps of vapour off the drenched pavement of the wide parking space between our cottage and the goats' compound. The wide expanse of grass on either side glistened, the mountain tops on the far horizon just barely visible in the still-lifting, now dissipating gloom.
Still later, as we drove the highway leading to a hopeful opportunity for a forest jaunt - despite the weather forecast informing us of all-day rain events - we looked ahead at the mountains looming before us, ethereal in the perpetual mist of low clouds. We know full well what it is like to ascend mountain sides through the constant drizzle of low cloud cover.
As we reach the parking crescent for our destined walk, the skies release another blister of rainfall, still light enough to lure us into the forest. But as we reach into the car's trunk for our hiking boots and rain jackets, the rain turns definitely emphatic, compelling us to seek immediate shelter in the car, where Button and Riley are keening, anxious that we not forget them.
We decide, grudgingly, to wait out the drenching downpour. To the dogs' seeming puzzlement, we join them in the car. And they settle down again, complacently, their worry we might abandon them forgotten. We're as impatient as they are to get out into the woods. Finally the rain stops pounding on the windshield, the clattering sound diminished, the rain no longer coursing over the car.
We crank down the windows for some fresh air, and realize the rain remains obdurately in full fall, just not the same heavy volume as before. Still too heavy to venture out onto the trail. The leaf canopy above would be utterly sodden from last night's rain, and the morning's downfalls as well. They'd be functionally incapable of providing shelter, constantly shedding the build-up, and with it, any new rain.
It'll soon be done with, we reassure one another. These rain events are usually quickly done over. Initially impressive in volume, and then gradually cranking down and diminishing until finally stopping. Typically, that is, from our long experience in the White Mountains. But there are always exceptional weather conditions, and just as we felt it seemed safe to leave the car, rain suddenly exploded anew.
And was restored to its former ferocity. Again the rain pounds on the car roof, streams over the windshield. We could leave and just give up on the idea of a short trail hike today, sensibly. But we're not entirely sensible when it comes to losing out on a hiking opportunity. So we continue to sit there, hoping the rain will eventually fade out completely.
And we wait and we wait, frustrated by our inactivity. Finally the opportunity we have waited for presents itself. The rain sufficiently diminished to enable us to pull on our raingear, our boots, and get little coats on Button and Riley. And set off. The rain finally spent, for the time being. Fact is, it hasn't been all that long, we've waited, only about a half-hour.
Above, clouds move busily under a grey sky. Rain falls now, not from the sky, but from the drenched foliage overhead. We hike up our hoods, relieved to be out and bustling on the trail.
Today, I sprinkled finely-diced breakfast sausage over her kibble, and she daintily picked out the sausage bits, leaving most of her kibble rejected. While Riley expressed a willingness to eat all that was left, as I swooped in to deprive him of over-indulgence. He is, unfortunately, overweight, a counterbalance to Button's underweight.
As we sat ourselves at the breakfast table to tackle navel oranges, bananas, eggs and those maple syrup-flavoured sausages, the low-hanging clouds burst into heavy rain. The dwarf goats, barely visible from our picture window vantage, dived for their shelter. No weather-complacent fools, they. I could almost imagine the clatter of their miniature hooves on the wood-plank entry to their shed.
Some while later, the sun emerged again, bright, powerful. Sending steamy wisps of vapour off the drenched pavement of the wide parking space between our cottage and the goats' compound. The wide expanse of grass on either side glistened, the mountain tops on the far horizon just barely visible in the still-lifting, now dissipating gloom.
Still later, as we drove the highway leading to a hopeful opportunity for a forest jaunt - despite the weather forecast informing us of all-day rain events - we looked ahead at the mountains looming before us, ethereal in the perpetual mist of low clouds. We know full well what it is like to ascend mountain sides through the constant drizzle of low cloud cover.
As we reach the parking crescent for our destined walk, the skies release another blister of rainfall, still light enough to lure us into the forest. But as we reach into the car's trunk for our hiking boots and rain jackets, the rain turns definitely emphatic, compelling us to seek immediate shelter in the car, where Button and Riley are keening, anxious that we not forget them.
We decide, grudgingly, to wait out the drenching downpour. To the dogs' seeming puzzlement, we join them in the car. And they settle down again, complacently, their worry we might abandon them forgotten. We're as impatient as they are to get out into the woods. Finally the rain stops pounding on the windshield, the clattering sound diminished, the rain no longer coursing over the car.
We crank down the windows for some fresh air, and realize the rain remains obdurately in full fall, just not the same heavy volume as before. Still too heavy to venture out onto the trail. The leaf canopy above would be utterly sodden from last night's rain, and the morning's downfalls as well. They'd be functionally incapable of providing shelter, constantly shedding the build-up, and with it, any new rain.
It'll soon be done with, we reassure one another. These rain events are usually quickly done over. Initially impressive in volume, and then gradually cranking down and diminishing until finally stopping. Typically, that is, from our long experience in the White Mountains. But there are always exceptional weather conditions, and just as we felt it seemed safe to leave the car, rain suddenly exploded anew.
And was restored to its former ferocity. Again the rain pounds on the car roof, streams over the windshield. We could leave and just give up on the idea of a short trail hike today, sensibly. But we're not entirely sensible when it comes to losing out on a hiking opportunity. So we continue to sit there, hoping the rain will eventually fade out completely.
And we wait and we wait, frustrated by our inactivity. Finally the opportunity we have waited for presents itself. The rain sufficiently diminished to enable us to pull on our raingear, our boots, and get little coats on Button and Riley. And set off. The rain finally spent, for the time being. Fact is, it hasn't been all that long, we've waited, only about a half-hour.
Above, clouds move busily under a grey sky. Rain falls now, not from the sky, but from the drenched foliage overhead. We hike up our hoods, relieved to be out and bustling on the trail.
Labels: Peregrinations, Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 12:53 PM
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