Early Spring Surprise

He's accustomed to the vast landscape of the coastal mountain range in British Columbia and he's just returned from a vast array of experiences in New Zealand and Australia which included trekking up a volcano, ascending trails leading to the mountains running down the spine of New Zealand, we just couldn't resist taking him on a trail of an infinitely more modest scale, but one on which he was weaned as an adolescent, then a young man in our familial company during those years when he still lived with us.

The weather was in our favour, with a modestly warm temperature greeting us first thing in the morning and a clear sky, so it was generally agreed that we'd access one of our latterly favoured trails in the Gatineau Hills, hard by Kingsmere. It was clear when we arrived that similar thoughts had occurred to a good many others, as the parking lot had its fair share of vehicles belonging to hikers hankering after a pleasant spring walk. A pleasant hike it is, not physically taxing, just right for little Riley recovering from his surgery.

When we exited the car and accessed the walkway leading to the MacKenzie King estate, Button and Riley reacted as though they'd been winter prisoners locked away from nature for tediously long months. They were eager to run about everywhere, sniffing and happily squatting and leg-lifting to an expression of freedom and relief from confinement. It certainly did feel good to be out in the woods in Gatineau Park, even though the aspect was one of black-and-grey, relieved only by the occasional patch of grass growing alongside the trail.

At that elevation, with a temperature set to reach 14 degrees and a slight wind with cloudy intervals, it was still chilly yet holding out the promise of warmer days and delights to come. We did come across a handful of other hikers, but for the most part had the landscape to ourselves, to look about the still-naked forest, see the occasional chickadee flit about, see distant lakes and farm fields at overlooks and feel the freedom of spring-warmed limbs carrying us down hills and up slopes.

First stop was a small lake, not that long freed from the ice that had held it fast over the now-remote winter months. It was rich with schools of minnows and fat tadpoles, biding their time before morphing into bullfrogs, but it wouldn't be long. We dawdled there awhile, pointing out to each another one group after another of minnows and not being able to restrain ourselves from that old trick of scattering dried plant bits over the water to watch as the minnows gathered and leaped toward the vegetable matter, then spat out the unappetizing teasers.

Too early, I thought to myself, by several weeks, to see any of the early spring flowers. We did see a few Mourning Cloaks and small orange-winged butterflies like comas, and here and there a squirrel - up in a tree a porcupine. We'd seen several deer, not in the park, but on our drive up to the park, off the highway, in a farmer's field. We took Button off leash, confident that she would behave herself as this is her wont, while leaving Riley with leash attached to ensure he wouldn't break out in a run, taxing himself at this still-vulnerable recovery state.

And then I realized we weren't too early at all. There were violets coming along, beside the forested trails, the forest undergrowth and canopy's bareness enabling sunlight to wash over the forest floor. So yes, there were columbine, violets and trilliums, the flowers not yet in evidence but the fresh leafing-out setting the near-stage. But there were patches of blue-eyed grass in bloom, and squirrel corn and Dutchman's breeches, and we hardly knew where first to look.

There were vast green blankets of wild leek whose presence was enough to make us salivate in anticipation of their wonderful taste (but forbidden to pick, there in the park). All the creek tributaries were rushing madly along, taking with them the early spring detritus freed from their icy prisons along the banks of the creek. And there was the occasional sight of a water boatman spiralling at the edge of the water, and here and there a watery din of small waterfalls spilling over rocks and accumulated logs.

Water striders and tiny minnows and catus-fly larvae holed up in the cleverest of housing disguises all busy responding to the rhythms of early spring. We stopped awhile, and sat, we and our son, on a long old log not far from the main creek, where sandwiches were taken out and Button and Riley had their own doggy treats but hankered after the dim possibility of snatching the occasional breadcrumb, bit of cheese, or tomato that might fall to their hopeful little mouths.

Afterward, we continued to identify other little spring surprises, like Indian paint plant, trout lilies, hepatica, and colt's foot. What a bounty of early spring beauty, what an uplift, what a promise fulfilled year after year by nature.

How could I have doubted? Oh ye of little faith!