Summer Is Here

It has been hot, hot, hot the last few days. Temperatures in the 30s, with wide blue skies and a searing sun. We know that once we're in the ravine, dipped down in there from street level, the prevailing atmosphere will not be quite so heat-locked, there will be relief from the baking sun.

All the greenery down there helps, immeasurably. The green canopy, for one thing, shielding us from the cloudless sky, the transpiration of the trees, even the water in the creek, though it's at a low ebb right now.

We see the occasional dragonfly, with iridescent green body, flitting about looking for the kind of prey we applaud their appetite for. But there appear to be scant few mosquitoes about, today. Perhaps they too prefer to avoid the searing heat. Perhaps the last storm we had washed their larvae out of the standing water they make their early presence in.

Damsel flies too are in evidence, with their black winds and fabulously bright iridescent blue bodies, decorating the landscape.

It's so hot that the driveway, which we'd had newly finished several months ago, and is still glittering black, is hot enough to burn the pads off our little dogs' feet. So we heft them along to the entrance of the ravine, a short trek up the street.

It's hot enough that even the road surface is unbearable. Hot to the touch, and burning to bare little-dog paws. When we deposit them on the ground preparatory to delving into the ravine we're assured they won't suffer any heat trauma.

But they're panting anyway. We used to take water along for them, but found they would refuse it in any event, until we arrived back home. So for the hour that we're in the ravine, they manage without.

Once we're in there, it's measurably cooler. There's a slight breeze, and that helps, but even without that the cooler night temperature lowered the collected heat from the days previous, and it's in fact, quite pleasant.

The dogs begin their usual browse, sniffing about, and dawdling while we make our way swiftly downhill. Me, to begin the first deposits of peanuts, a daily ritual. One that I know quite a number of the wildlife prowl about, waiting for. I'm convinced that a few of the squirrels, both black and red, recognize our voices and connect them to the largess left behind.

Simply because, all too often, we find them there, lingering at the base of trees where I always leave a handful of peanuts. At the beginning of our daily jaunt, at the very base of the first hill, there's a huge old pine, and under it I begin leaving peanuts. And on our return, an hour later, I leave a few more, because the original deposit will have been taken. Invariably, a tiny red squirrel will be there, impatiently awaiting the initial deposit. And there, again, haunting the base of the tree, until we return.

This day there are no birds in evidence but robins, lots of them. And we see the fragility of a robin's egg, impossibly Kodachrome blue and shattered. The ravine is a cornucopia of wildflowers now. Joining the buttercups, daisies and hawk weed now are cinquefoil, cowslips, pink clover, cow vetch, flea bane and anemones. Aromatic bedding grasses are now in bloom sending their scent everywhere we walk along the trail. Blackberries and raspberries and thimble berries are now in bloom, as well.

There is a rain of browned pine needles, and small tan seeds scattering everywhere on the forest floor, carried by the wind from their heights. As we proceed I leave peanuts in holes in tree trunks, in crotches, on bridge rails, confident they will all be discovered and devoured. They are placed, in fact, in routine places along our route. Places - caches, which squirrels and chipmunks and birds have long since discovered, and return to, to claim their booty.

We revel in the additional relief of the occasional, stray breeze that has miraculously made its way through the trees to refresh us as we amble along. Down there, in the ravine, the temperature begins to seem reasonable, bearing scant resemblance to what we'll encounter once again as we ascend on our return trip.