Tag Archives: building ponds

The Appaloosa in winter

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A walk in the woods is easier in winter.

For one, no bugs. No blackflies or mosquitos to crawl in your ears, or ticks to fasten themselves to your ankles.

No blackberry canes to claw at your jeans. Today, in the open area on the hydro line, those canes are mostly flattened by a few inches of snow cover.

So far this season, the snow’s still shallow enough to walk anywhere in a pair of boots and not get your feet wet.

Best of all, with the trees bare and the forest floor white, you can appreciate the bigger picture — the contours of the forest, ridges of rocky Canadian shield, and the shape of the watershed feeding my little getaway at Kinross Creek.

I use a ski pole to help navigate my way up the hill from the road, and immediately find deer tracks. Deer blaze proven trails in the woods, often finding the flatter routes and paths of least resistance through obstacles like rocks, trees and valleys. In winter, their hoofprints in the snow are evidence of these ancient superhighways.

I follow the deer tracks over to the little creek, which, despite the minus-5 temperature this January morning, is flowing steadily in the area connecting Ali and Colleen’s ponds. The drystone work I did last summer catches the flow into the two ponds but also directs it through central run-downs where the creek continues downriver.

The water’s burbling soothes the soul in this quite woodland. No birdsong today except for the odd caustic commentary of two crows in the treetops.

And no stonework tasks on my ramble today. I can just potter around the creek, and take a look down the hill at the farmland sprawling to the east. Several draft horses are munching hay next to a small shed.

Yesterday while driving along the road, Nadine and I caught sight of an old horse wearing a quilted coat for warmth. He was wandering solo, munching shrubs at the roadside. Was it the Appaloosa? Hard to tell. His head was grey but the coat camouflaged his body.

Appaloosa horses have origins in the US Pacific Northwest and are known for their versatility, speed and distinctive leopard spotting. They are handsome beasts.

The last time I saw the Appaloosa was in 2021. He was already 28 years old then and not long for this world. His spotted coat was still gorgeous but he was moving stiffly and had some vision trouble.

On my trek today, I chance upon Casey, the 3rd generation farmer at this beef cattle operation. His tractor plows are lined up awaiting more snow expected in the next few days. In winter, he and family run a snowplow business, earning seasonal income while keeping local roads and laneways open. I chat with Casey for a few minutes and inquire about the mystery horse with the coat.

Indeed, it’s the Appaloosa! He’s hanging in there! The older horse had started to shy away from the younger horses but had helped out by fostering a colt in the barn, out of sight of the road. Then this fall, Casey told me, the Appaloosa perked up a bit and was let back into his old field.

We’ve had our cottage on Minden Lake nearby since 2011 and I’ve seen the Appaloosa in the field each year whenever we pass by, so I guess I’m a little sentimental. I’m not the only one. A local gent who runs in this area said he’s always been cheered by the spotted horse when he jogs past the farm. Likewise our daughters enjoyed catching sight of the Appaloosa as he roamed his favourite field. I took a pic of the horse a few years ago in his prime…

He’s 30 years old now, well into his golden years, and wearing a coat for warmth in winter. But wandering the field perks him up, the same as a walk in the woods puts a kick in the step of the guy visiting Kinross Creek.

Winter wildlife at Kinross Creek

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The first big snowfall in Minden Hills reveals the trails of wild creatures. Going up the hill towards Kinross Creek in December, I find the paw-tracks of a coyote and the hoof-prints of a deer on my route. To those, I add the boot-prints of a late-middle-aged man.

Looking back down the hill from the hydro tower, I can see our blue cottage on Minden Lake. Cows still roam the farm field nearby, nibbling the last of the taller grass and a few shrubs. Their territory will shrink soon with more snow and colder temperatures. The farmer has put away a long line of hay bales and a mound of sileage to get the herd through the winter.

I amble over to Kinross Creek, which is still running and trickling into new ponds named after Ali and Colleen. I’d wondered what wildlife the ponds would attract over time, and it appears that their first visitor has been a thirsty deer. Its tracks run parallel to the creek, then make a sharp right turn to the edge of Ali’s pond. I hope this wild creature had a cool drink and refreshing pause on its journey.

It would be interesting to test the water in this creek. I expect it would be about as clean and fresh as you can get anywhere. The creek bubbles up from a spring surrounded by boulders, about 200 yards north of the ponds. It meanders through mixed forest and around a few thorn-apple trees then drops into a sinkhole, passing under a massive granite formation on the hydro line.

Just south of that solid rock, after disappearing completely, the creek springs up again in a tiny, grassy marsh. From the marsh, Kinross Creek burbles through Ali and Colleen’s ponds.

And when the current is strong during spring run-off, it will gush downriver over a cliff into another creek valley below, feeding Minden Lake.

Now I’m standing in the woods imagining Paddle to the Sea, the short film by Canadian artist and canoe tripper Bill Mason. His film tracks the journey of a boy’s carved canoe during spring run-off and raises flags about the perils to the natural world of industrial pollution. Kinross Creek does not have the scale of Ontario’s Great Lakes, featured in the classic film, but I find the natural world and small watercourse here to be a beautiful microcosm, and deserving of care.

With the recent snow cover, most of my stonework for the ponds is done for this year, so today I can just keep my eyes and ears open, hike about and enjoy this peaceful spot.

Only one bird keeps me company here today — I can hear the “dee-dee-dee-dee” of a chickadee up in a bare hardwood tree. I’m overheated, so take off my toque and jacket for a few minutes and munch a granola bar. My own mellow roast moment.

On my way back down the hill, I spot a group of young Blue Jays cavorting and screeching in the treetops of conifers. They will need that energy to get through the deep cold of winter in Minden Hills.

Most colours in the great outdoors are muted now, except for some brilliant-green moss on the forest floor and a hint of pink in the morning sky, next to the farmer’s hay bales.

Following the road back home, I spot two more sets of tracks — tiny ones in the snow from a squirrel making his last stash of food, and the hefty hoofprints of the cows next door.

Building a foundation for Colleen’s pond

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A touch of frost overnight in mid-November. On my walk over to Kinross creek, the morning sun is low, casting long shadows off a horse in the pasture next to the road. He’s nibbling the last of the grass before the snow flies.

With the longer nights, heavier dew and recent rains, Kinross Creek has now filled up Ali’s new pond!

To boot, the creek is now gurgling downriver again, towards the future site of Colleen’s pond. (This stretch had mostly dried out for a couple of months in summer.)

When I was here in October, I discovered a pile of larger stones nearby. My task today is to get them over to the creek to start the foundation for Colleen’s pond. With help from a spade, I pry up the big stones and send them rolling down the small hill to the creek. They are too heavy to lift, so they get rolled end-over-end the rest of the way.

In the bare canopy of the hardwood forest, two Blue Jays keep an eye on me, and confer in a call-and-response screech. The prettier song of a chickadee can be heard faintly, too.

Both bird species are survivors — they find or stash enough food to get them through the cold winters in Minden Hills, when most other birds have migrated south. Tiny Chickadees squirrel away seeds in the cracks of trees — even in the cracks of siding on our cottage next to Minden Lake. This gives them little caches of food to visit throughout the winter. The bigger and bolder Blue Jays seem to enjoy the canopy of conifers like Balsam, which provide shelter and likely some seeds and berries that are easier to find when the snow falls.

I wrestle the larger stones into the creek bed and begin to build out the foundation of Colleen’s pond. Basically I’m enlarging a pond already created in this spot by an enormous fallen tree. The rotting tree limbs have been moved aside, and a stone semi-circle is going in at the downriver half of the pond.

I stand on stepping stones in the creek to consider my work in progress, and note my next tasks: smaller stones on the west side, and some bigger stones to bring the east side into symmetry.

It’s getting warm in this tiny river valley. Protected from the wind and with the deep frost still about a month away, the creek area still features lush green moss. Fallen maple leaves drift and swirl in the water.

My balance is not great. After moving the big stones, I am getting achy, impatient and slightly fuzzy-brained. I want to do some more work but risk slipping off a rock and having to make an embarrassing cell phone call to Nadine. “Help, I’m flat on my back, up on the hydro corridor.”

I wander up to Ali’s pond to wash my hands and admire the stillness of this spot.

On the hike back down the hill, I scout out some stone for my next visit. I squirrel away a couple of small piles and note their locations. These will be used to finish up the foundation for Colleen’s pond.

The forest fungi enjoy this time of year. On a huge fallen poplar tree, the strange shapes and subtle greys of a fungi remind me of a forest Banksie. Just like an urban Banksie painting, the beauty of the natural world can flash and vanish.

On second glance, each individual fungi looks like a little toque.

Back at the road, my horse friend is still nibbling — to beat the next frost.