I am happily settled in at my sister’s home in Edmonton. Always a gracious hostess, she has taken a day off work to take me out to Elk Island National Park, about forty five minutes east of the city.

So close, yet worlds apart! Edmonton is a bustling, growing city of a million people. Construction sites are everywhere, and the traffic flow is not helped by icy roads. But just a short drive away is a place of such tranquility that it seems a different world.

We are alone in the park, with only the animals for company. Still several miles from the entrance gates, we spot a magnificent bull elk browsing amid the trees. He lifts his head as we pass, the great branches of his antlers blending in with the limbs of the poplars. My breath catches in my throat, and my excited squeal is an echo of the same delight I felt as a child visiting this very same park.

We slowly drive through the gates and on into this sanctuary. Suddenly as we round a curve there is a small herd of bison, affectionately and incorrectly called buffalo, grazing in the open spaces between the trees.

I get out of Kathy’s SUV to get a better look. One enormous mountain of shaggy wool and horn, standing nearest the road, lifts his head to look at me as I cautiously edge a little closer. I’m ready to dash back to the safety of the vehicle (although in a serious one-on-one, my money would be on the buffalo!) but the powerful animal just eyes me contemplatively for a moment and goes back to his grazing. As I watch, he lowers his head into the snow, using his thick short horns to push the snow aside to get at the grass beneath. I take a few more photos, wishing for more sun, and we’re ready to move on.

The hiking trail is about 5 kilometers long, and well worth it. The weather is cold, but we are prepared with warm clothing and boots. The snow on the trail is somewhat packed by the snowmobile of the ranger, making an easier walk, but off the trail we would quickly be up to our knees in the season’s accumulation. Even with the packed trail, animal tracks are everywhere.
The forest is sparse in this area, with wide grassy spaces and low scrub bushes between the patches of great black poplars, with here and there a few young brown birches. The animals are there, the evidence plain all around us, and from time to time we hear the yipping howl of coyotes in the not-too-distance. I listen for the birds, but there is only silence.
We trot along the trail, marvelling at the beauty and the comfortable solitude.

The rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker punctuates the quietude around us, and after listening and following for several minutes, we are rewarded with a brief glimpse, too quick to identify the species, as the fair-sized bird takes wing and flies off deeper into the forest.
Nothing more disturbs the deep silence of the winter forest. Kathy and I speak quietly, not wanting to intrude on Nature’s downtime, as we continue on our way. I am surprised that I hear no birdcalls – no chickadees announcing their names, no sparrows twittering in the trees, not even the mournful caw of a crow.

All around me is an intense quiet, wrapping around me like a cloak. I can feel the quiet extending all around me for miles, nothing disturbing it, no ripples in the tranquil pond. I am at the centre of an oasis of calm, and the serenity penetrates my soul, untying knots and releasing pressure.

As we load our gear into the vehicle, I know that this peace will remain with me, and I will be able to hold onto it for as long as I need.
As we leave this beautiful natural oasis, snow begins to fall.