When Hairy Met Sullen

I woke up in a bad mood this morning. It was an inauspicious start to the day. Cats hungry. Raucous crows outside fighting over whatever it is crows fight about. Everything? Whatever, I was feeling cranky too.

Being the middle of a long weekend, the need to do something a little out of the ordinary was niggling me at the edges. My inner athlete was saying, “Hey, get off your ass and do something! Today’s a good day for a bike ride.” So a bike ride it was. We live beside the PPJ Cycloparc, a bike path that extends from the Quebec border on the Ottawa River, and meanders along the river’s edge for about 82 km towards Ottawa. Well, I had no intention whatsoever of going that far, but a little 5 km spin would be just about right, take 20 minutes and leave me feeling slightly superior to my John, who was standing around, drinking coffee, with a hose in his other hand watering the garden in a better mood. Off I went.

Back 20 minutes later, John says, “I know what we can do today...we can go see the new trail they built up to Oiseau Rock. Oiseau Rock towers over the river near Deep River, and is a sacred site for the Algonquin. It’s got native pictographs that are historically significant and years of local graffiti that isn’t. While interested in seeing the site from the top down (as opposed to being in a boat and looking up, which is how I’ve always seen it before) there is a major problem with this suggestion. I hate hills and I hate climbing. Downhill skiing? Good. Cross country? Bad. Flat? Perfect. Up? No.

But, I thought, maybe I could give it a go, just to be a good sport. So grumbling flitting gaily around the house I begrudgingly cheerfully gathered water bottles, bathing suits, bags of nuts, and some fruit. The drive -about 20 km from here - heads straight up into the hills (up in a truck is ok) on a poorly maintained gravel road, with lots of sharp turns and loose boulders waiting to attack. Approach signage is minimal, as in one small 8” x 11” plastic sign featuring a pictograph. And if you happen to be blinking at the time, well so sad, you’re lost. Which we were within minutes. However, John does have a great sense of direction (compared to me, who is directionally challenged) and we ultimately found the parking lot at the edge of the trail. There was a sign there explaining the significance of the site, and how the natives revered it. What it clearly did not say was how long the trail is to the top of Oiseau Rock. 4 km. One way. And the very first 100 m was pretty much straight up. Hill. My inner athlete thought “absolutely no effing way Great!” And off we went. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. For 2 hours. Did I mention that it was 26 C? (83F). No? Well it was. But, and here the truth be told, it’s a beautiful trail, through some virgin forest, green and verdant and filled with birdsong.

FINALLY we got to a sign that said: Oiseau Rock 2 km. Parking Lot 2 km. Had it been Grand Central Station I would have sat down and wept. And still we walked. We passed three other groups...all returning from the lookout...all quite cheerful and quite sweaty. They mumbled encouraging words as they passed. John cheerfully smiled and said hello. I didn’t.

And then it happened. A bend in the trail, and a small white sign depicting Scenic View. Don’t Fall off the Cliff.

We had arrived at the top and could see the beach far, far below us. The boats looked like tiny toys, the people tiny ants.

The view of the Ottawa Valley, spectacular. Half way down the rock was the lake people climb up to swim in, and we decided we weren’t going to climb down to swim in, then back up to the top of the mountain again. That was asking too much. Way too much.

But we had done it! And so we had a celebratory drink of water and a plum. I won’t bore you with the details of the return hike. It was brutal and I almost expired with heat exhaustion challenging. With the air conditioning on full, we made it back home to the beach, and into the kayaks in record time. Paddling out to the swimming hole I realized I was feeling better...fit and full and content.

Diving into the cool water, it was a great way to end the day – and to celebrate 16 years together! An anniversary to remember.

( And next time we wash our hair in the river, I’ll remember to bring conditioner too)

Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving, we are encouraged to be thankful for the many gifts we have received throughout the year whether it be good health, food, shelter, friends aplenty and family to embrace.
I am thankful, very, for all of the above. But, I am really thankful this year for the kayaks that John bought so that he and I could spend time exploring our shorelines. We rarely found the time to do this -maybe once or twice all summer.
But then came the magic moment for me. A quiet time, no wind, no work, a perfect time to take the kayak and find out what was down in the bay to the right. The minute I slipped into the kayak, gliding quietly over the water beneath , rocking ever so slightly... time just shifted. I began to breathe.
My paddle started to write its own ode to the river. And slowly the shoreline began to reveal itself.
Walking along the shore you are tethered to the land, and your viewpoint is always outwards, over the water.
In the kayak, my viewpoint rotated inwards, towards the land, towards whatever was between it and me.
I was seeing the plant life from a linear perspective...a duck, an otter, a muskrat...this is how they see the river. Is pretty purple plant a thought only humans can have? Does the mallard look and like too?

















I paddled further along the shore, and the reeds began to thicken as I approached the bay. This particular morning was the quintessential hazy, hot and humid summer blessing of a morning. I was determined to get as close to this world as I could. And did. I was surrounded by buzzing, humming, practically sighing, life. Bees, birds, bugs - and they all ignored me completely. I was no threat in my little blue kayak and so they continued around me, and I soaked it all in.
There is a whole world that we don't usually get to witness...this watery realm that has inspired artists and poets and songwriters (and bloggers).
I am so thankful that I could just, literally, point and click. Pure artistry presented on a lily pad. By Nature...
but captured this fleeting morning by me. Come winter, I will remember this. If I lived in a big city I would crave this.

The glimmering water world revealed itself in glorious showy perfection. A water lily...point and click. I am in awe.
And I am becoming, like George, curiouser and curiouser. I look around me, and there, just there - is a trail of sorts...an opening in the ever thickening reed bed. Who has been here before me? When? I am driven to paddle ever onward, now in complete sympatico with les voyageurs who first explored this beautiful river. They kept paddling, looking for furry gold. I kept paddling, wanting to know where the trail led. I was eight years old again!










How can one say "No" ?
Well, perhaps one can, but I certainly took the bait- hook, line and sinker.
This, as you can see, is practically a little river!



So, on I forge.









Every explorer is presented with diversions. I am not unique, but the white lily beside me is. Up close and personal, it is beautiful. I breathe deeply and smell the sweet clean scent of summer. And still I continue, for I am on a mission!





This little journey has totally captured me. I don't know what I am expecting to find really - perhaps a little cabin or campsite that someone is in the process of establishing. Perhaps a simple clearing.



What I truly didn't expect to find was a dam!
And of course, it makes perfect sense! Quiet, private, end of bay, lots of reeds, fallen trees -it's prime real estate for a beaver. I've seen lots of beaver dams before, and beaver lodges, and beaver ponds. I've seen lots of beavers. But until this morning, I had never paddled up the beaver stream, right to the beaver's dam door!
Needless to say, I couldn't get out of the kayak, and after much backing and forthing I managed to do a U-turn and in fairly short order, I was homeward bound.



However, the morning wasn't quite over yet. As I paddled east the sun was warm on my face, and directly overhead, I heard the distinct call of the Osprey. I often see her fly by, fish held firmly in her feet, heading towards the bay I am now leaving.









I know you aren't supposed to look directly into the sun, but if there's an Osprey there, well, you just do. And then you point and click.






My adventure, my perfect summer morning, was almost -but not quite - over...


I paddled towards home, and in the last minute or so, brought out the camera for one final shot of our beachfront cottage that we love.
Now, it may look like there's a bit of morning mist burning off the cottage...and if you thought that, then you'd be wrong.
Because what you're actually seeing is a mini-miracle. It's actually water condensation in the camera, and proof positive that John is a true whiz, who was able to rescue all of these pictures from the camera, which I dropped into the river as I pulled the kayak ashore!
As I bent over to pick up the kayak, the camera, nestled ever so snuggly into my bathing suit strap, dropped into the water. I picked it up immediately but... it was total toast.
( I thought.) Next day, I had a new camera (which I love, and for which I am thankful), and a week later I found a folder on the desktop, entitled Susan's Lost Pics. Again, I am thankful!
Best day on the river all summer, best outcome possible as a result. Happy Thanksgiving!

Defining Summer ...

Some things say "Summer" more than others.
Soaking up the sun on a kayak in the middle of the river is definitely
a summer thing I long to do (just like my daughter's doing in this shot)...
especially when it's 40 below, and the wind's howling and it's the middle of January!

Daisies say "Summer" too. They're so bright and cheerful, and compliant! They're pretty and perky, and bend with the breezes, and they're not overpowering, like uh... Begonias.

I never knew 'til I planted some this summer that I'm not really all that fussy about Begonias. In fact, they're too much really! They remind me of someone's old Aunty Flo, who's a little gin fizzled, her hair's awry, her lipstick is smeared, and she's about to start crying. I'd never even given Begonia's a thought before this summer but there you have it. I prefer the pert and sassy daisy! Sort of the cheerleader of flowers. Ol' Flo is just too much of a good thing, gone overboard.


The plants I really love, which deserve the Best Plants of the Garden Award, are Hostas and Ferns. I have lots of both, and they're the Dignitaries of the Sideyard. They add culture, class, texture, and subtlety (unlike a Begonia which will never win an award for tact). They appear every year, just as they are supposed to, they perform perfectly, and they're really no trouble at all. They're diplomatic, and if they were movie stars, they would be the Cary Grants and Katherine Hepburns of the plant world, you know, movie stars of my parent's era, which had more filler and less thriller.