Shel Zolkewich

The landscape starts to roll ever so slightly, blanketed by endless grasslands that welcome grazing Angus, Hereford, Charolais, Limousin and Simmental herds. Atop the knolls sit abandoned two-storey farmhouses, their painted siding weathered to grey, window panes long gone, yellowing stalks of corn crops now skirting the silent porches. Redtail hawks zoom over the backs of burly bison while roadside signs promise hot coffee and hearty meals.

A quiet cove where ocean blue water laps gently to the shore. Soul warming sunny days. The smoky aroma of fresh salsa drizzled on a hot tortilla. If this is the Mexico of your dreams, head for Puerto Escondido for this winter’s getaway.

Fourteen year-old Carlos Lavallee Jr. reaches into a roomy bag and begins to haul out silky brown marten pelts, stacking them on the tables in front of prospective buyers. He’s worked hard since the first snow fell in Easterville, setting traps and preparing pelts. And today, at the December Fur Tables in Thompson, he hopes to be amply rewarded.

FLIN FLON— The first bite is bison tartare topped with pickled wild blueberry, resting in a tiny Tostitos Scoop, the kind that usually accompanies a big bowl of salsa.

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In the ditch, I spot my first clump of wolf willow, and I say the words out loud. “Wolf willow.” And laugh a little at my homage to the title of the book by long-dead American writer Wallace Stegner w...