All kids working.
Parents safe and accounted for.
No meetings, commitments, must-dos.
Cloudy, but not raining.
A little wet, perhaps, from the deluge of rain we had the day before.
We did what any sane, rational people would do.
Head to Mactaquac with the dogs for an all afternoon hike.
That was yesterday's adventure.
Mactaquac is about a 20 minute drive from our house.
It's a provincial park, and hosts the Mactaquac Dam.
As soon as we cross the bridge crossing the dam, Frankie and Tikka begin their dog and pony show.
Yipping, whining, crying, and in Frankie's case, releasing a ginormous poop on the sheet in the back of the car.
And an inhumane stench that followed us for the remainder of the drive.
The price of excitement.
As soon as possible, the dogs launched themselves out of the car and began their explorations.
This is the first time we've been to the trail this summer, so the dogs were stretching their legs and exercising their muscles after a long winter of waiting and waiting and waiting for when they would return to one of their favourite haunts.
I love the lily pads.
So does Frankie.
In spite of constant failure, he still keeps trying.
Three signs awaited us when we reached the trail.
As if. . . I'd be glad to allow anyone to try and leash our crazy canines through the varied terrains that comprise this hike.
This one was new. There were several along the trail.
This sign was also new.
And consider it a bit of foreshadowing.
Also, never rely on any belief that your husband knows the name of the trail you're embarking upon.
I did.
Ignoring the sign, my first mistake.
Listening to Stephen, my second.
We've been on this trail countless times, but this was the first with a camera.
Being able to capture what we've walked through and taken for granted over and over again made this trip even more entertaining than usual.
Over the worst of the muck, water, bog there are planks.
And given the amount of rain we had, there weren't enough planks.
Believe me.
In fact, we encountered a number of puddles, small streams where none existed before.
Solely a result of Saturday's rain.
Meaning in several spots we had to improvise ways through or around these unanticipated roadblocks.
And of course, on every leg of this journey, our canine companions.
This was one of the newly created streams.
Frankie found a stick trapped underneath the log supporting the mini bridge and was determined to get it out.
Until something new caught his attention.
As it always does.
The dogs are both a variety of shepherd, and both have demonstrated herding techniques.
When we take one of our leisurely sojourns through the woods of New Brunswick, they don't necessarily stay with us, but we are never out of their site.
Or at least they don't stay with me.
As the camera holder with the bad knee, I inevitably fall behind.
Which suits me fine as it gives me some much needed alone time.
However, every few minutes or so, one of the hounds will backtrack to make sure I'm okay.
I find their ministrations far more caring than Stephen yelling, "DAWNE ARDITH!!!! ARE YOU ALRIGHT????"
Being alone gave me all sorts of time to take pictures of things I thought were interesting.
When Emily was younger and would accompany us on these hikes, she was always fascinated with these little holes, or other nooks and crannies along the way.
She believed they were fairy holes, opening to hidden caverns where fairies had built an entire underground world.
A world she was convinced she would one day see.
I long for those days of innocence.
Has anyone ever tried bird's nest soup?
Normally, this little waterfall is not nearly as active.
Of course, neither are we.
We love this trail because in the middle of it there is bridge. . .
Across this bridge is Tikka and Frankie's nirvana.
The Little Mactaquac Stream.
Full and rushing from Saturday's rain. . .
There's also a lean to. . .
. . .benches, a fire pit. . .
And the water.
Always the water.
This is one of Frankie's favourite spots.
He really loves being in the water.
Tikka isn't as fond of the water. She's more content to let Frankie play and leave her alone.
But she isn't adverse to a little play time if the mood suits her.
This was also a favourite spot of dear friend John, who died October 31, 2008.
When we came back here for the first time after he had passed, we wrote on the walls of lean-to to remind him that we haven't forgotten him.
Stephen has taken me on some wild and wacky adventures.
The Coastal Trail hike that was a "slight" incline, he said.
More like a 90 degree angle straight up.
After 6 hours, I could hardly make it to the car, which was the most beautiful sight I'd seen at that point.
Then there was the fateful first hike, where Stephen took Em and I through marshes, bogs, and then said the heartwrenching, "do you know where we are?"
At this sign we zigged when we should have zagged.
Resulting in another 6 hour hike.
One that should have taken less than two hours.
Em in sandals.
And looking at Stephen as if she could have gladly throttled him if she had of been tall enough to get her hands around his neck.
Our one and only time canoeing where we fell into the Saint John River five times.
The farmhouse from hell vacation of last summer.
Our attempts to get to the beach at St. Martins, also last summer.
Until we finally realized it was a beach too look at only, and not one upon which human feet or canine paws could traverse.
That caused us a shit load of grief, believe me.
Add yesterday to our list of misadventures.
That sign we ignored because it didn't refer to our trail?
Shouldn't have ignored it.
Because after we had our rest and the dog's frolicked at the lean to, we continued on our way, thinking that things were exactly as they should be.
We crossed a smaller, and very oddly placed bridge that comes just before the next major bridge.
Who puts a bridge here?
And then, because I am always behind, I heard words I didn't ever want to hear.
From Stephen's mouth to my ears.
"Isn't there supposed to be a bridge here?"
Yup, there was.
But it isn't there anymore.
Clearly something had washed it away.
Leaving us in a bit of a quandary.
At this point we were already 3/4 of the way through the trail.
And we had two logical options.
1. retrace our route, go back the way we came.
2. find the shortest, shallowest point of the fast currented creek, remove our shoes and socks and cross the creek.
Stephen ix-nayed option one.
After managing through and around all the wet, mucky places we'd already been, he was quite reluctant to turn back.
I wasn't thrilled either way, so it didn't matter to me what we did.
So long as we did something.
Option two it was.
Removing our shoes and socks and placing our tired feet on the cool ground was quite refreshing.
But that was the end of the refreshments.
We found a place to cross.
Seeing the bottom was reassuring.
The number of wet, slippery rocks covered with the fast moving current was not.
Our little stream, where the dogs frolicked and played, usually about as deep as my hand, was now up to my lily white knees.
Throwing the camera and case in Keith's backpack (the only one we could find, in spite of having several around the house) I grabbed onto the back of Stephen's jacket and into the brink we went.
Frankie and Tikka were apoplectic that we had decided to join them in the water.
So trying to maneuver through, over, around, beside, the slippery rocks with two 80 pound dogs weaving in and out of our legs made the journey more precarious than it already was.
Only once did it seem like I was going to drag us into the water and it was actually using Tikka for support that we didn't.
And before you know it, our feet were on the bank of the other side of the creek, our journey a success.
Except being in all that rushing water made me have to pee.
Which lead to the final part of our adventure.
When we FINALLY got back to the car, the dogs safely in the back, I announced to Stephen that I needed to go to the bathroom.
So I did.
Not exactly as comfortable as our loo at home.
But it did have the necessities.
A hole in the ground.
With an accompanying toilet seat.
After doing what I had to do, I returned to the door with plans of getting back to the car and snoozing while Stephen drove us back home.
To the shower.
Which we desperately needed at the time.
But. . .
I couldn't get the door to open.
It wasn't just locked, it was stuck.
I pushed, kicked, attempted a Jackie Chan move that always works in the movies, nothing worked.
Nothing.
I did the only thing I could do.
"STEPHEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" hoping he could here me through the trees and over to the parking lot.
"I'M LOCKED IN THE BATHROOM!!!!!!!!! I CAN'T GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!"
Did I hear any reassuring comments, phrases of comfort.
No.
He started the car.
And for a brief moment, I thought he was going to leave me stuck in an outhouse in a provincial park.
I really did.
And then the car stopped.
He got out.
And opened the door with no trouble, looking at me like I had lost my mind.
"It wouldn't open. Honest. Do you really think I wanted to yell at you to rescue me from an outhouse???!!!!!!"
Stream crossings.
Demonic outhouses.
All in a Sunday afternoon in my looney world.
Anyone wanna go on a hike?
Title Lyric: The Water is Wide by The Indigo Girls and Jewel from Lilith Fair: a Celebration of Women in Music
