Sky High

On Monday morning I thought about a nearby area which a neighbour mentioned to me just days before. She told me of how she crosses one of the main parkways bordering our park, and enters into the valley on the opposite side. She warned that passage was difficult with newly-fallen snow because very few people seem to know about the area. Hers are the only human footprints she usually sees on her regular strolls. I decide to add mine to them that day.

I tend not to be terribly adventurous on my own. I'm the kind of person that prefers to explore and share new finds with somebody else, so I considered waiting for the next weekend when I could probably convince Frank to come along with me. But that annoying voice in the back of my head kept telling me to scout it out first. "It might turn out to be a boring trek and I don't want to be dragged all over Hell's half-acre and back for nothing." Yes, that voice belongs to Frank. So, with my camera slung over my shoulder, I made the nerve-wracking traverse up and over the snowbanks and across our area's busiest road, into the valley of the creek which runs away from our pond.

At first I saw footprints, and I followed them knowing I was probably in the right place. They stopped abruptly though, and I realized that someone had determined that the snow was too deep to continue. This person had likely turned around and retreated by matching his or her own steps. I decided to continue onward. Several times, I thought it might be best to return another day, but my feet kept taking one sinking step after the other. I stopped occasionally to look up and around, or to unzip my jacket and remove my gloves, or snow from my boots. The sun was reflecting strongly, reminding me that despite the knee-deep fluff, spring truly was around the corner.

I trudged amid rabbit and other animal tracks for about a half-kilometer, noting the strange combination of nature and industrial surroundings. To my right was the creek, fed from the lake in our park, and which runs into the Credit River and ultimately Lake Ontario. To my left was a large car dealership with outdoor loudspeaker which occasionally blared announcements of incoming phone calls for one employee or another. Despite these interruptions, I could easily focus on the beauty around me.

On my right, the creek babbled as it wound its way toward open water.

A mini waterfall sang loudly.


This beautiful old tree on the far side of the creek seems barely rooted to the lower part of the slope.

Looking up, I could see various birds in flight. Two hawks soared together just outside of my camera's range. They appeared to be weaving toward and away from each other, in a majestic dance across the sky.

Occasionally, one or the other would veer in closer to me and I was able to take a couple of shots (Please click on each image for a slightly larger view).

This one traveled from tree to tree, in search of a better vantage point from which to assess his surroundings.

Eventually I was able to focus on a couple of different hawks as they landed briefly in the branches above.

My wishes alternated between a closer landing and a better zoom.

As I continued walking, a hawk landed on a tree branch almost directly across the creek from me. I focused my camera and captured several shots. This noble creature reacted to every subtle sound a split-second before it became audible to me, and it watched my every movement as I waited for it to tire of sitting still.

I was being watched closely.

Alert to every sound, he would turn toward the direction of the loud speaker an instant before I could hear its announcement. I surmised that the hawk might hear a crackle from the speaker which was not within my own hearing range.

I had hoped to capture its departing flight but it proved to be more patient than I was. I continued onward after at least fifteen minutes of vigilant observation. A few more steps and I'd focus again but he wouldn't budge. Finally, I decided to explore just a bit further along the bank of the creek, a bit fearful of stepping too close to the slope, lest there be a sudden drop that I couldn't detect beneath the blanket of snow. A moment later, the snow was getting deeper and more difficult to navigate, so I decided to return, only to find that the bird had departed silently while my back was to him.

I can only hope that winter takes leave as quickly.