British Columbia

Cold, wind‑scoured ridges and long ranch valleys frame British Columbia as a tactile, weathered province where conifer scent and rain stitch pasture to mountain. Rusting fences, corrals, and aging barns interrupt broad, lonely ranges; telemetry dots on maps translate roaming wolves into bureaucratic coordinates. The province carries a moral weight here — the place conservationists name when they reveal Pluie's fate — and a single gunshot in these hills snaps abstract migration into raw human consequence, forcing politics, grief, and contested stewardship to converge on its damp slopes and legal horizons.