Call of the North to Thompson

By Irene Butler

A distant lone howl pierced the night sky. It set off a chorus of howling that wolves engage in to solidify the pack’s social structure and to signal their presence to neighbouring packs. A platter-sized moon cast a silver glow on the flowing water; the scent of pine wafted from the forest nearby. A shadowy raven flew overhead; this one appeared to have reached the four-foot maximum wingspan for these heavy-billed corvids. My husband Rick and I were sitting on the rocks beside the Burntwood River at the outer edge of Thompson – where the city ends and the wilderness begins. Although we were reluctant to leave this tranquil fusion with nature, it was time to head back into town.