A year in the life of Kinross Creek

I discovered the little creek during a hike in the woods last year. It was running fast, carrying off the melting snow cover. It seemed to bubble up at a spring next to a massive granite formation on the hydro corridor. Meandering through the forest, it cascaded off a steep ridge and joined another creek feeding Minden Lake, where we have our cottage.

The creek reminded me of my childhood at Rippleton Road Elementary School in Don Mills, Ontario. During the spring run-off, a tiny creek formed in the ditch next to our school field. After school, we mucked about in the creek, making dams with stones. Here I am 55 years later and not much has changed!

I set a goal to visit Kinross Creek each month over the course of a year, to learn about the annual lifecycle of the creek, its watershed, and the natural world around it. And to write about it in this blog.

Birdsong and wild leeks

One of my favourite moments last year was the return of migratory birds to the Minden area in spring. After foraging for some stone for my little pond projects, I heard the chorus of diverse songbirds in the forest canopy above. With a little help from Merlin, a free app developed by Cornell University, I identified my companions by their bird song. These included the Great Crested Flycatcher, Ovenbird, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Scarlet Tanager, American Redstart, and three different types of warblers: Black-and-White, Chestnut-sided and Nashville.

The same day, I found a patch of wild leeks and harvested a few that went nicely in pizza. The moss and ferns near the creek had turned a lush green.

The beauty of all seasons

Waiting for summer can be over-rated. Each season has its own and equal beauty.

Another favourite moment at the creek was on a minus-10 degree day in the dead of winter. The snowpack was hard and it was easy to get about. After huffing and puffing my way up the hill in the woods, I found a warm microclimate in the creek’s watershed. The sun penetrated the bare canopy of the forest and for a few minutes I could take off my coat. Downstream, I found the spot where deer cross the creek, and gazed at the tracks of their superhighway in the snow. I admired birds like chickadees, crows and Blue Jays, who were toughing it out through the winter.

Fall colours get the glory, and indeed they are splendid when hardwood trees in Minden blaze and fade. But the subtle colours of spring have their own beauty — like the fungi I found in shades of grey and subtle orange, sprouting from a rotting poplar tree. Their shapes reminded me of winter toques.

Forest therapy

The changing sights, sounds, textures and creatures of the forest sooth the soul. It felt like my blood pressure dropped a few figures each time I visited the creek. After some stonework to build out two little ponds, I would take a breather on the hill overlooking our cottage, maybe snack on an orange or a granola bar, catch sight of the horses nibbling grass on a farm field below. A feeling of peace.

And much cheaper than a visit to the spa.

Respecting the land and its people

Slowly, I got the lay of the land and wondered about who had travelled or lived here earlier. Nearby, I found outbuildings and fencing of a long-abandoned farm. There were also stones that the farmer had laboriously cleared from fields and piled on the perimeters.

Next to our cottage, we’re lucky to have the third and fourth generation of a farm family still raising cattle, planting and harvesting crops. Farmer Casey Cox told me about some of the neighbouring farms that used to be a going concern many years ago. We also talked about a ghost road to Minden nearby, where the current Horseshoe Lake Road used to join up with Scotchline. When you hike the ghost road, now used only as a snowmobile/ATV trail, you can spot an abandoned car, and former pasture fields now growing back into forest.

I’m especially fond of one of the Cox farm’s older horses, a sturdy and beautiful breed known as the Appaloosa. He’s still hanging in their at the ripe old age of 32. He gives me hope whenever I catch sight of him on my walks.

The farmers next door are also a rare breed, as many of the small local farms in this area were slowly abandoned over time. Mother nature is relentlessly reclaiming the rugged terrain into forest.

Before farmers, the Haliburton highlands area was the territory of indigenous peoples from the Anishinabaweki and Mississauga Nations. There was no Minden Lake until the 1930s, when a hydro dam was built along the Gull River.

Before that, a winding river and its rapids were a key connector between many lakes in the area. From the height of land at Kinross Creek, you can look down to the larger river valley of Minden Lake and imagine indigenous travel, habitation, ritual, hunting, fishing and trade.

I intend to learn and write more about indigenous life in this area.

Climate change and Permaculture

A year in the life of Kinross Creek demonstrated climate change we are encountering and its threats. I was surprised to find the creek never stopped running during the winter of 2023/24, one of the mildest on record. Typically any small watershed in this area will freeze solid with the deep cold of winter. A reduced snowpack also means less fresh water running into the larger rivers and lakes.

In spring, Minden now faces a greater fire risk. Fire captains in local regions implemented a complete fire ban last year during a dry spring, after battling several wildfires that were tough to control. Then in summer, smoke from uncontrolled wildfires in Quebec blanketed the Minden area, turning the sun and sky the colour of rust several times during summer. Individually, we’ll be forced to do more to protect ourselves from extreme weather including extreme heat and heavy rain. Collectively, we must continue to work to address the carbon threat.

I did some online research about permaculture and discovered how small-scale stone dams, known as “check dams”, can retain water in areas suffering drought. Countries like India, which experience drought as well as heavy rains and flood, use check dams to mitigate flooding and retain water.

Stonecraft and family

I decided to do a little permaculture test case at Kinross Creek. Using stone foraged near the creek, I constructed one small check dam. As well, I enlarged two existing ponds that had been created by tree deadfalls. These ponds do not interrupt the flow of the creek, as each has a central spout point directing the water downstream. During fall, the ponds filled up nicely, retaining more water in the little valley.

I named the two ponds after our daughters, Ali and Colleen. One day we’ll have a trek together to see them. Where Kinross Creek cascades off a ridge with the spring run-off, I found a waterfall feature and named it after our first grandson: Sebby Falls.

One of the first creatures to appreciate the new ponds was a deer. In winter, his tracks led directly to the water’s edge. Presumably, he had a nice drink and made his way back to the deer highway.

The road ahead

Now that I’ve witnessed the annual lifecycle of this little creek, I want to interpret it through other eyes. I’m hoping to go back there soon with our friends Rob, a hike leader and outdoorsman, and Jacquie, an artist.

I’d also like to get some expert opinions on the creek’s biodiversity and history.

Thanks to everyone who read, commented and supported me in telling the tale of Kinross Creek.

Signs of spring at Sebby Falls

March, it seems, is the new April. After a mild winter, signs of spring are everywhere: Canada Geese honk and flap northward; Mallard ducks float and paddle on Minden Lake, the old Appaloosa horse next door has shed his winter blanket…

At the point where Kinross Creek drops down a steep granite ridge, a tiny waterfalls is starting to trickle with the spring run-off. Let’s call it Sebby Falls, after our grandson.

My plan was to visit Kinross Creek each month for a year, to learn more about the lifecycle of this little watershed in the forest north of Minden, Ontario.

Today is the 12th month of this journey. Most of the snowpack has melted early. But because the temperature dropped to minus 5C last night, the ground is firm and easy to walk on. With my hiking stick, I navigate up the hill, stopping a few times to catch my breath and admire the muted colours of winter’s end — a carpet of reddish-brown leaves on the forest floor, frost glistening on old blackberry canes, the grey-green of lichen-covered stone.

With the last of the snow melting, Kinross Creek is running fast — probably approaching its peak flow. Ali’s pond is full, its water gushing through a central dip in the stone check dam. Some water has snuck around the west side, so I make a mental note to shore that up when the creek dries in summer.

Downriver, Colleen’s pond is filling and sending a strong current downriver. Typically the creek peters out past Colleen’s pond, but today it runs maybe 50 yards further, right to the edge of a granite shelf and into the valley below.

It’s not exactly Niagara Falls, but Sebby Falls is magical in its own way. The fresh, running water spills over a rock ledge, down moss-covered stone and into a tiny pond before it carries off down the hill. And eventually into Minden Lake.

Sebby (short for Sebastien) lives in Seattle, Washington with his parents, our younger daughter Colleen and her husband Tim. Sebby turns 2 in June. He’s a happy little dynamo. We grandfolk — Nadine and I in Canada, and Mathilde and Nicolas in France, are blessed.

I walk back upstream and snap a few pics of Ali and Colleen’s ponds. Next to the hydro tower, I take off my gloves and pause to snack on a granola bar. As I admire the scenery down the hill to the pastures below, the battery in my hearing device starts beeping. Nothing like a little reality check — and some humility — to interrupt a peaceful moment. And of course there is the reality check that our warmer winters, weather swings, and wildfire smoke are consequences of climate change. March may be the new April, but in many ways I wish it was just the old March.

With the tree canopy still months away, you spot different things in the forest. Some bizarre fungi are sprouting on a dead poplar. My boot hits a rock and I look down to see a striking, white quartz stone. I spot more quartz near the trail — a secret quarry? In the farm field near the road, the old Appaloosa has made it through the winter. Soon the songbirds will return from their migration.

Back at the cottage, we receive a zoom call from Sebby. He is eating porridge and reciting the first seven letters of his ABCs. He wants to show us his little wood train set and tracks. In the neighborhood enroute to Sebby’s favourite park, daffodils are swelling. To the east, the splendid Cherry trees at the University of Washington will soon be covered in pink blossoms — more signs of spring.

Woodland art at Kinross Creek

Fresh snowfall and chillier temperatures make it feel more like winter in Minden Hills after an unusually mild December and January.

In the woods towards Kinross Creek, the sightlines are longer through the bare hardwood trees above a crisp, white forest floor. On my yard-sale snowshoes, I get up the hill and, as usual, find myself following deer tracks to my destination.

Crossing the creek, I notice an unusual pattern on a large tree stump maybe a hundred yards down the deer highway. From a distance, it looks like a Haida totem pole.

Up close, I can see that a woodpecker has been at this old maple stump, carving a series of holes to get at insects inside the decomposing wood. Some of these holes have caught and cupped the recent snowfall — creating a natural artwork in the forest.

Nearby, a smaller tree bent over in a storm creates a magic arch for the deer to pass under on their journey.

I’d assumed the creek would be frozen solid in February, but with recent thaws it is carrying off a fair bit of water from the surrounding valley. In Ali’s pond, I catch the reflection of the bare tree tops and a small conifer upstream.

I’ve been reading a bit about “vernal” ponds like this, which swell in spring and often dry out in summer. Because they are not big enough for fish, many provide habitat for amphibians such as frogs, toads and salamanders, as well as fairy shrimp (a crustacean) and insects. I make a note to check out areas of the creek next summer for more signs of aquatic life.

Using my ski poles for balance, I tramp up to the hydro tower, which has its own strange geometry, not to mention a warning about voltage. It’s minus 10 Celsius this afternoon, and I recall our teachers warning us in winter not to lick the metal fence next to our elementary school. I have no plans to touch this particular hydro tower today, mostly because up above it is carrying 220,000 volts.

On the way down the hill, I spot a few more interesting shapes and textures — a dense bird’s nest woven into the spikey branches of a thorn-apple tree, and some wildflower seeds waiting to take flight above the snow pack — nature’s art.

The Appaloosa in winter

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

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

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.

Forest yoga at Ali’s pond

Kinross Creek went dry for about six weeks this summer but with the longer nights and recent rains in October, the creek is trickling again and, for the first time ever, filling up Ali’s pond.

Happy Birthday, Ali! The little semicircle of stones gathered nearby are catching the creek nicely to form your new pond — a stone smile in the forest.

It was cold and windy on the walk over this morning. Canada Geese mingled with mallard ducks in a protected arm of Minden Lake. The geese will fly south soon. Some mallards might stay the winter in open waters, near the rapids.

The local farmer has brought his cattle back from summer pasture and will sell some at auction next week. Those staying on the farm this winter are roaming the fields to nibble the last fresh grass. After the frosts come, a good stockpile of hay and silage closer to the barn will keep the cows fed over winter.

In the forest, it’s calmer and quieter, with a palette of diverse colours. The dried leaves that were shed by the tall maples here mingle with splashes of colour. Bold scarlet leaves linger on small oak trees, yellow poplar leaves flutter, and a few lush green ferns remain on the forest floor. Fungi of different shapes, sizes and colours bloom on the trunks of fallen trees. The forest takes a breath before winter sets in.

As I approach Kinross Creek, huffing and puffing up the hill, I catch sight of the new pond, with trees reflected in it.

I muck around, moving some stones to reinforce the small dam. I bend over, stretch my legs at odd angles for balance, then stand up with my hands on my hips to ponder. From a distance, someone might guess I am practicing some kind of strange forest yoga.

With the water level still low, I gather a few large stones to form a new set of stepping stones just upriver. These will make it easier to ford the creek next spring.

I suspect the new pond will continue to fill into November, as the creek’s watershed gets wetter with the dew of longer nights, and with more rain expected in the forecast.

It will be neat to return here to get another look at the pond before the ground is frozen and the snow flies.

Downstream, the area around Colleen’s future pond is mostly dry and full of leaves — that will be my project next spring, when the creek runs faster with melted snow.

Today, I realize it’s getting harder to find stone in the forest with all of the fallen leaves, but a large moss-covered stone suddenly presents itself, next to an old tree. I wiggle it and realize it’s part of a mound of big stones — likely piled here years ago by a farmer. It’s the motherlode!

Next time I visit I will excavate a few of these big ones. They’re too heavy to lift, so I plan to coax, flip and roll them over to the creek.

To me, there’s a freedom in the coolness of fall. As the leaves come down, you can see the forest contours and walk anywhere. There is a different energy that comes with the change of seasons. I pause near the hydro tower and admire the view of the farm and cows below. I inhale cool air and head back down the hill. Next to the road, beige milkweed pods release their seeds on silky-soft wings.

Our daughter Ali turns 32 tomorrow in New Zealand, where spring has sprung.

Love you, Ali — Happy Birthday!

Riverbed restoration at Kinross Creek

The first fall colours in Minden Hills are subtle — the purples and whites of wild asters blooming in September on the roadside, yellow goldenrod, the browns and beiges of forest fungi, green milkweed pods ripening. Not quite the splendor of traditional fall colours — of maple and other hardwoods we will see in October — but just as rich and diverse in their own way.

Kinross Creek is bone dry downriver of the two “check” dams built this spring. As the nights get longer with heavier dew, the creek should flow again soon, spilling into Ali’s pond with its stone semicircle smile. The creek is in the woods near the hydro corridor, about a 40-minute hike from our cottage.

I use the opportunity to wander along the dry creek bed, downriver to the edge of the valley, the spot where Kinross Creek transforms to a cascading waterfall when the snow melts each spring.

There are hundreds of stones of diverse shapes and sizes revealed in the dry creek bed today. For someone who likes working with stone, this is mecca.

A site for the next check dam presents itself. The top of a huge dead tree has fallen across the creek. When the water ran here earlier this year, the deadfall created a natural pond. But it also diverted the flow of the creek to the side, away from its original course. The remaining vertical tree stump is a sentinel, about 8-feet high, marking the spot.

So I start to pull away the fallen part of the trunk and limbs from the creek bed, to replace them with the next stone check dam. This stone feature will restore the original creek course and feed into Colleen’s pond just downriver.

The woods are still and cool — no bird song but for the occasional screech of a Blue Jay and coarse cry of a crow. The mosquitoes and blackflies that pestered me over the past few visits have vanished.

I mine maybe 25 stones from the dry creek bed and arrange them into the start of a one-rock-high check dam, following the contours of the original creek bed. After a few minutes, I realize my heart is thumping pretty fast — my stonework excitement seems to be giving me a cardio workout.

With the tree cleared and first stones in place, I start to head out, but stumble upon another small stone-pile in the forest. It’s not quite the motherlode, but will add 20 stones to this effort.

In the woods around here, even though I keep my eyes peeled for stones, it is often my feet that find them. When one sticks out of the forest floor to catch my foot, it is typically the tip of an iceberg of many stones — likely piled up by farmers who worked this area before the farm was abandoned.

Likewise, it is often my feet that find remaining relics of barbed wire fences strung perhaps 75 to 100 years ago. When a jagged piece of wire threatens to snare a human rambler, I bend it back out of harm’s way.

The cool weather and subtle colours of early fall make for a nice walk back, after the heat of mid-summer. I come upon a strange and splendid drooping fungi, hanging from the end of a log. Milkweed pods swell and will release their feathered seeds to fly away later this fall.

I’ll be back in October to check the creek flow and start work on the next pond.

Foraging stone for Ali’s pond

I’ve visited Kinross Creek several times since spring. Each passing month reveals a new chapter in the annual cycle of the little creek and the natural world around it.

— In April, the creek was gushing with spring run-off. Reaching a cliff downstream, it cascaded into a bigger stream feeding Minden Lake. In the surrounding forest, a hard pack of snow, criss-crossed with deer tracks, continued to melt after the long winter.

— In May, the creek ran strong as trilliums and wild leeks popped up around it. The plants were getting a brief moment in the sunshine before the hardwood forest spread its leafy canopy. The forest filled with the song of returning migratory birds, after their winter in the south.

— In June, Kinross creek was still burbling nicely. With about 50 stones gathered from an abandoned farm field nearby, I built my first one-rock-high check dam. It would direct and slow the water flow into an expanded small pond downstream.

— In July, the creek was slowing to a trickle. This afforded the chance to create a semicircle of stone, enlarging a natural pond — a stone smile in the forest. We’ll call this one Ali’s Pond after our oldest daughter, an adventurer now living half-way around the world in New Zealand.

These small so-called “check” dams are permaculture techniques often used in more arid areas to preserve water run-off. Permaculture may sound virtuous, but the best reward for me is mucking about with stone, augmenting the little creek in this watershed.

I was back at the creek just once in August. From our cottage, it looks tantalizingly close — near a hydro tower west of us. (In the photo below, you can see a second tower at left in the distance — that one is near Kinross Creek.)

In reality, it is a trek to get there. Once you leave the road, there is some bushwhacking through forest and a reasonably steep climb.

I discovered that the creek had partially filled my new pond, but barely flowed below it. To reinforce and shape the two check dams, I foraged for smaller stone in the stream bed to fill gaps in them.

Then I went on a treasure hunt. Years ago, the people who farmed this area moved stone off their fields into rough rows or piles. In my trips to Kinross Creek, I’ve stumbled upon several caches of nice stone. When I find a new cache, I know I can return to mine it later.

My August trip yielded about 25 more larger stones for the next pond downstream. That will be Colleen’s Pond, after our youngest.

Two months after the longest day of the year, the nights were longer, cooler and heavier with dew.

With some more rain, I expect the creek will start to run steadily again in fall.

Smile! — you’re at Kinross Creek

Late July, and the little creek is almost dry.

The stream had started to run in April with the melting snowpack, and was still gurgling nicely in late June. But despite some rain lately, this summer’s heat has slowed the creek to a trickle.

On my walk along Horseshoe Lake Road, an old draft horse looks up briefly from his grazing to greet me. Next time, I gotta bring an apple for him. Alongside an inlet of Minden Lake, a Great Blue Heron startles and takes flight with slow flaps of his long wings.

I cut off the road into the forest, and climb the hill under the hydro line. It’s maybe a 40-minute walk to get to this peaceful spot in the woods.

A feast for the Grackles

Chokecherries are ripening. My father-in-law once recalled making choke-cherry jelly, using liberal amounts of sugar to balance the bitterness of the berries. The birds in Minden Hills certainly like the tiny, red berries. The black Grackles have started to mass in bigger flocks now, and perform gymnastics on the berry bushes to obtain their treats.

The blackberry canes are also putting up this year’s crop — the long, spikey canes in the open area under the hydro line can easily rip your blue jeans, so I keep to the woods nearby, where the shade keeps the blackberries at bay.

Enlarging the pond

Today’s mission is to enlarge a little pond on the creek, using some stone I collected earlier in the season. A few dozen larger stones are placed to create a big smile — a semicircle dam.

In the middle of the dam, a couple of smaller rocks create a drain to direct the pond’s flow downriver over a splash pad of thin stones. Once the creek starts flowing fast again, I will be able to adjust the height of the pond by changing up the stones around the splashpad.

In the new dam, mossy-green pond stones mix and match with others collected from the edge of an abandoned farm field nearby.

I’ve mucked about with stone quite a bit, but these techniques are not my inventions; they come straight from some cool YouTube videos focusing on permaculture. In arid areas such as India and the southern US, check dams help retain water before it flows away quickly. Minden Hills is not lacking for water — at least so far — but I wanted to experiment to enlarge some existing ponds on the creek. Maybe the deer who crisscross this area will appreciate a new watering hole.

Upriver from today’s stonework, a smaller “one-rock-deep” dam checks the flow of the creek coming into the new pond site. It will be neat to see how both stone features built this year respond once the water flows faster, perhaps in late fall.

Some stepping stones would be nice too in future, to make it easier to cross the creek at this spot.

A drizzle begins to fall through the thick summer canopy of mature hardwood trees. Luckily, the walking stick I used to get up the hill this morning is also an umbrella — rain protection for the trip home.