Holy humidity batman. About half way through my walk home I transformed into a wet, whole wheat noodle, making walking, especially uphill, rather difficult. When I got home, I ate myself for dinner with a bit of parmesan and a drizzle of olive oil.

6:00PM/25C

I thought they were kidding. The news people. The river really is high…gobsmackingly high. I’ve been watching the Big Muddy for many years, and let me tell ya, this is spectacular. A canal near the south end of the Cloverdale Footbridge acts as a kind of off-ramp for the water when it overruns the bank. It’s dry most of the year, and some years it never sees river water. As of this afternoon, you can’t even see the canal; the entire area is flooded. And the river is running so fast, it’s extremely loud (and incredibly close) as it slices by the cement pillars of the bridge. Even the riverboat is moored just slightly east of the boat dock because, well, I’m not quite sure. I’m guessing because the current would knock the boat against the dock, which is almost underwater anyway. I don’t mean to be insensitive to anyone whose basement has been flooded, but extreme weather is exciting, and in the end all this rain is of great benefit to our drought-stressed trees. Also, rain is nice.

On the other hand, when you’re leaving work and you’ve spent the entire day thinking about an afternoon walk, rain is not nice. Someone offering you a ride home is nice. Going for a walk a half hour after you’ve arrived home, had some waffles, and watched the clouds give way to sun is very, very nice.

Being housebound for almost a week, a walk takes on a singular purpose: exercise. Hoofing it is all well and good, not to mention necessary, but being out in the woods when millions of water droplets are shimmering in the sun, and worm-stuffed robins are singing so joyfully in the treetops, it’s tough to hold on to that single-minded purpose. Slowing down is inevitable. A racing heart calms. Shoulders relax. I had to remind myself to pick up the pace. A bit.

Surprisingly, Mill Creek was full but not as full, or as fast as I’ve seen it, especially during spring run-off. However, I missed the cresting, which was probably yesterday. There was flattened, wet grass high up on the banks, almost two feet higher. That would have been something to see.

Another day.

Oh, and Happy Summer! Longest day of the year. Wheee….

Sunrise-5:05AM/Sunset-10:07PM

A reprieve…of a few minutes, or hours, hard to say with the bruised skies on the horizon. I didn’t bring my gear today so I stole a quick walk home in my work clothes. Brutal. I missed my shorts, but then I always miss my shorts, especially when I’m at work, in my work clothes. It appears now that I could have taken a longer route, but as is typical with June, every ten minutes of sunshine is followed by 50 minutes of rain. Wanted to go puddle-hunting in fact, and talk about shooting fish in a rain barrel….there are giant puddles everywhere. I’ve heard talk of spectacular lake formations near the Low Level Bridge and over by 98th Ave. Intriguing, but I’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Supposed to be sunny and warm. Can’t wait. And I’ll bring my shorts.

5:00PM/16C

Poor bedraggled magpie. Yeah, I said it, and I’ll say it again. I felt sorry for him, and all the birds (except the dirty, dirty pigeons) on this wet saturday. It’s pissing rain, as the Queen would say, and my overfilled bird feeder has been the hot spot of the neighbourhood. I awoke to the sight (and ear-piercing sound) of a thoroughly soaked magpie, a young one I think, standing on the rail in a little puddle of it’s own making, waiting impatiently for breakfast. I obliged, and even shelled the nuts because his dripping, messed-up feathers really got to me. Even now, a bluejay is picking through the seed, it’s crown askew, looking altogether miserable. Love to invite them in for a towel-off and a warm beverage, but the C.A.T. might be problematic. Hard to say, she hasn’t budged from couch all day. I know the feeling. No walks in the foreseeable future. S’posed to rain like this for the rest of the weekend. Guess I’ll stay inside and shell a few more peanuts.

1:37/14C

Almost ran home today because every sign pointed toward an imminent deluge. Tree-bending wind, darkling shadows on the horizon. Turns out, it was wasted energy, and I should have walked for longer. It’s not raining yet, an hour later, but it will be, and for the next several days. Living in Alberta, I still have drought brain, even after the soggy mess of last summer, so rain is always welcome. Sounds nice, smells nice, and everything looks green and healthy. There are still trees with residual die-off from years of drought, but the view is predominately lush. I’ll take the rain, as Michael Stipe says.

5:09PM/13C

Dear Poodle:

You are correct in your assessment of me, I am a dog lover. And apropos to this situation, I not only welcome the opportunity to pet dogs in the river valley, I encourage it. Sometimes I do this with a gesture…an open palm for instance. Other times, I psychically transmit my receptivity to physical contact, which may or may not develop into full-on fondling, if appropriate.

Such was the case today. A beautiful walk in the woods, the sun warm on my back, my thoughts firmly cast in the moment, as opposed to where they usually hang out~in the disappointed past or the fretful future. Carefree in other words, and happy to be outside on such a lovely, late-spring day.

And then you came along.

I’m not a huge fan of poodles, but I have to say, you looked very jolly indeed in your black bouffant wig, sporting an ear to ear grin. When you came bounding over the hill, your master off in the distance, I knew you were coming for me, and so I did what I always do: I held out my hand, palm side down so as to not appear hostile. Milliseconds before my hand made contact with your face, I noticed the white outline of spit foaming around your mouth. But, it was too late to do anything about it, and so I got slimed. Clearly, you had been exerting yourself, because this was not a normal amount of gob bubbling over your shining lips, now slathered up my arm and dripping off my fingers. Images of Old Yeller minutes before young Travis blows his head off comes to mind. Of course, you do not have rabies, it’s just spit. Thick, glutenous strings of dog spit. I have been up to my elbow in a dog’s mouth plenty of times, either shoving medicine in or pulling something out, and getting frenched by the family pet is a weekly occurrence. It’s not that I’m squeamish, it was just the sheer volume of slobber spraying from your mouth. By the time your oblivious owner called you back, after several failed attempts to wipe my hand on your head (disguised as petting, of course), I was drenched. When he waved at me, I waved back, gobs of spit cobwebbing between my fingers. Next time dog, how about a courtesy wipe in the grass, or better yet, on your companion’s body parts?

The man and his perilously friendly poodle were just a few feet from me, so I carried on, as if nothing traumatic had just happened. Maybe it’s the Canadian in me, but even in my distress, I could not rub my hand on my shorts. It would have seemed…I don’t know, unfriendly, like his dog was diseased. Clearly this dog was far from sick, and was in fact in possession of a pair of superior salivary glands. I picked up my pace, the spit drying to a sheen on my

arm, gluing all the little hairs in place. Finally, when I could no longer hear the poodle prancing in the bushes behind me, I bent down in the tall grass and wiped my hand, arm, and parts of my thigh on the leaves. And then I rubbed them on my shorts. And then I did it again.

In spite of the ‘poodle incident’, it was a lovely walk through south Mill Creek. After drying myself with grass, I felt energized to the point where I ran the set of stairs near the mill house (with the rooster) a few times. Maybe some of the dog’s exuberance was present in molecular form in the gob, and it transferred into me via every pore in my body from my shoulder to my knee. With that kind of quantity, if not quality, anything is possible.

My walk ended in a trip to the grocery store, and I confess that yes, I did touch fruit with my be-slobbered hand, some of which I purchased. Wash your fruit kids, you never know where my hand has been.

2:45PM/21C