The Climbing Elm

This tree and I were friends for years. I discovered shortly after we moved into the house nearby that this is a stellar climbing tree. It is an Elm tree, the last one in the neighbourhood to survive free of Dutch Elm Disease. It has clearly always been in good health, as its growth is regular and freely branching. The trunk forks every three feet or so, providing crook after crook to plant a foot in. If you manage to plan it right you can just climb up as if it were a rather odd-shaped ladder.

As a kid I used to climb up about 15 or 20 feet, then perch on a branch to survey the neighbourhood. In those days the neighbourhood mostly consisted of bush. There were a few houses, 2 or 3 that I could see from the tree, and lots of trees in all directions. My perch in the elm gave me a good view of woodpeckers, robins, warblers, nuthatches, chickadees, kinglets, and geese in the spring and the fall. A totally different perspective on the busy community of life around me. There wasn't usually much noise of people in the neighbourhood in those days, but the birds and the squirrels kept up a steady racket.

The neighbourhood is a little close in to the city, and over the years it gradually filled in. Most of the large lots have been subdivided and more houses built. Most of them have kept the large trees around the lot, but it's not the same uninterrupted forest of scrub oak that it used to be. This picture was taken on my last climb up the climbing elm. My parents had sold the house and were about to move out. I took one last climb to thank the tree for all the summer afternoons I spent held securely in its strong branches.

I think the elm is still there. I wonder if anyone else has discovered what a good climbing tree it is?

Snow Geese in Spring

Six strings of silver and black
Ripple against the blue sky,
Bright feathers glinting in the noon sun,
Calling “Stay together, safer together,”
Hurrying homewards, steadily north and west
To the past and the future.

Frozen Garden

At this time of the year I always get the urge to start gardening. I need to resist the urge. Whenever I start plants indoors in January or February, they have a long hard time of it indoors before they ever see the sun. When it's sunny and the days lengthen, it's hard to remember that we have more than three months to go until the last frost.

Most years I have planted mainly flowers. In recent years I have been experimenting with herbs with some success, and the last three years I have grown some vegetables too. This year I want to expand this corner of the garden to accommodate more space for vegetables and herbs.

Last year I planted several tomato and pepper plants and grew some against this fence, and others on a second-storey, south-facing balcony. The ones on the balcony baked and eventually developed blossom end rot, but the tomatoes in the garden fared a little better. This year I plan to make space for more tomato plants, pole and bush beans, lettuce and a couple of squash plants.

I went out in the snow the other night, pacing out the space and picturing in my mind where each plant will go. This will have to be enough for now!

The Merlin Tree

We live in an older house in an older neighbourhood, with mature trees and bushes on all sides. The dominant feature of our back yard is this spruce tree. I don't know how tall it is, but we have a three-storey house, and it stands well above the roof. It provides generously for a small ecosystem of creatures. Chickadees and nuthatches comb its branches and bark daily through the year for small insects. Red squirrels strip it annually of cone-bearing twigs, many of which they carry promptly into our roof, but that's another story.

The most exciting tree-dwellers from our point of view are the ones that don't actually eat from it, but nest in its branches. Every second summer since we have lived here, a pair of merlins nest high in the branches, about halfway up the portion pictured here. We have never seen the nest, or been able to spot them sitting in it, but we know they're there! Early in April, as soon as the snow starts to soften, we hear them calling to one another from the tall trees in the neighbourhood. If we look carefully we can often spot them sitting on exposed branches.

They spend a few weeks going from tree to tree, calling loudly. They seem to be inspecting the possible nest sites and discussing their various merits. Eventually they settle on one. Two summers ago, and two summers before that, they chose our tree. Both times they have raised one chick to maturity, and by late summer we see the three of them taking short flights around the neighbourhood. This time of the winter they are still somewhere far to the south, but already we hope they will come and raise their family here again this spring.

The Newf Who Will Not Swim

When we adopted a part-Newfoundland dog, we expected our dog to swim. We expected a dog who would adore swimming, who would have to be dragged or bribed out of the water. A dog who would splash enthusiastically off docks to rescue drowning swimmers, fishing nets, or other assorted jetsam. We did not expect our dog to be terrified of deep water. To be fair, he is only half Newfoundland (we think).

The first time we took him to a beach, he was quite willing to wade, but looked at us suspiciously when we invited him further into the lake. I went deeper and deeper, and he just looked at me with a worried look in his eye. After several minutes of me calling him from deep water, and him whining, he apparently decided that I was not going to come out of that dangerous water without some help. He set off bravely into the depths, until he reached the point where his feet no longer touched the bottom. Then panic set in. Instead of swimming, he tried to climb the water with very little success and much splash. The more he splashed, the more upset he got. To his credit, he kept going until he reached me, then turned around and headed right back to shore. He went right out onto the beach, and refused to put even one toe back in the lake no matter how I called. After a vigorous shake, he ran around in faster and faster circles, growling and snapping at nothing the whole time. So much for swimming!

In fact, his lack of swimming ability has not slowed us down much. We are not that big on swimming either. We prefer canoeing, and he is quite happy to ride along in the canoe. We got him a life jacket, just in case.

Liriodendron tulipifera

I first fell in love with the Tulip Tree when I was a student in Victoria. There were several large trees planted outside the UVic Library, and I first noticed them in fall when their leaves started to fall. I loved their unique four-pointed shape, like a maple leaf with the centre point folded in. I eventually paid more attention to them in spring, when I noticed an enticing scent. The flowering branches were so high up it took me several days to connect the scent with the yellow-green tulip-like flowers borne high in the trees. This cemented them in my mind as a favourite tree, although at the time I had no idea what they were called.

Years later, I found these delightful trees in their home in the Carolinian forest. I purchased a guide book for the Niagara Glen walking trail, and there under "trees" was the lovely Tulip Tree, with its unique leaf and flower. It took a few more visits to the glen before I figured out which were the right trees. I really need to learn to look up high! In dense canopy, the Tulip Tree is one of the tallest, so the branches are reaching for light high above the trails below. Now that I know the bark I can find them more reliably.

The Niagara Glen is a small remnant of Carolinian Forest at the bottom of the steep Niagara gorge. The cliffs have saved the Tulip Trees and several other unique species from being cut down to make room for vineyards and orchards. I was glad to see a few saplings growing among the understory; these lovely and graceful tree will still be towering over the cool shade for many generations.