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Robert Hilles' collection of stories, Calling the Wild, is chilling and transporting. Recounting the tales of surviving in Northwestern Ontario is a captivating trek throughout a terrain that is often vicious and fiercely fantastic. A reflective and accepting narrative voice compels the reader throughout seemingly unrealistic acts, and the malicious events of nature. Spontaneous and wild like Martin Amis, this collection of stories by Hilles is Canadian writing that outlines the aggressive woodlands. One might be weary of reading about a damageable potential embedded within bare human hands, or the continuous punching of a dead bear in the gut, yet Hilles triumphs in detailing what is hypnotically Canadian.

Hilles writes a grotesque combination of wild memories amongst subtle gates of mysticism. "Chickadee," a description of the disappearance of a hunter, stuns a community with an unseen presence. After the fact, characters wonder if he lingers upon the outskirts of a forest of endless poplar, spruce, and pine, and perhaps vengeful wolves. "What kind of hunter leaves his gun behind? Either scared or stupid, but Chickadee was neither of those." The answer to the rapid vanishing of Chickadee is multiple: nature, choice, a tourist, or an accident. Calling the Wild is a pensive manipulation of these possibilities. Alongside pimply faced detectives, irregulars and industry, or the hides of a dozen wolves, the character of Chickadee is part of a Canadian tale passed on from father to son.

In memory, a hope for a wizard at the end of the yellow brick road, or a man in a red suit with a bag of presents, is enticing. "Ghost Lake" is this mirage, and yet it is neither childish nor vain, for this retreat portrays nature's rewards: unending fish, crystalline lakes, and pristine wilderness. Ghost Lake is described as a hunter's ideal, a lake of paradise, especially amongst bear laden woods or catfish embedded lakes. Sadly, the narrator and his brother discover a lake that is not a Canadian cornucopia, hidden in the criss-cross roads, for its quality is criminal. The narrator admits that a rusted car bumper and stench at the shore of a lake is not the discovery of Ghost Lake. The stories unravel with pernicious discoveries, and the reader hopes for any allusion to a secret garden, or a swift, harmless Chickadee. This style of writing is captivating, and these stories are precise images of attachment.

The wild that is not of the woods, yet natural to this childhood, brotherhood, and family, is portrayed in "Panda Café," "Bear Country," and "Wild, Hazel Eyes." Viewing these wild actions is a result of a remarkable retelling of vice and primitive pulse, whereupon the nimble and frail humanity of family is the hungry text that accompany each piece. Unquestioned shoplifting, reproving vulgarity, and madness that threatens the well being of two sisters, are some of the ethical statements of a text that is replete with befriending the wild.

The events shared by these families are only likeable through the unflinching family bonds that carry this text along. Each tale recounts an unemotional and ruthless disaster of nature, or miserable recollections. "Shooting the Horses" is not for the squeamish. "The two of them then shoved dirt over her, beginning with her hindquarters and working toward her head. A few times her body shuddered as a shovelful struck her." The narrator recollects these tales because of their source, his own father. Hilles jolts the wild, and reinvestigates memory. Immediate family, families of neighbors, and memories of family are what reign during these pictures of mayhem. On remembering his mother, Hilles writes, "My father stood at her side with his arm around her and she leaned toward him. That was the most physical affection I ever saw between them." Hilles does not write about perfected fathers who embrace their sons. He quotes the people who meant the most to him through enduring events, and similar to Hemingway, his terse descriptions listen to the actions of the punishing wild, and the idea of one's own family within definite decisions.

The reader and narrators are readily affected by "September," whereupon a gruesome, unexpected event of murder corrupts a lodge on Hay Island. Hilles introduces the recollection with, "…I remember my father telling me. At the time of the telling, the weight of worry had shifted from his shoulders to mine. The telling involves deceased merchants, a town buzzing with rumour after rumour, and the morals of an accused handyman named Neil. One wonders if Mr. Hilles was a companion of Neil, or where the narration begins or continues, especially since this is the last tale. Condemning corruption and making a journal of atrocious actions mirrors Hilles' television preferences: "The Twilight Zone, The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, or The Perry Como Show."

Throughout the year, Neil works at repairing refrigerators, and manages to care for his wife and eleven children. September, with the children returning to school, is restful for Neil. He plans lazy afternoons with his wife, and travels alongside the shore without an option of being lost. Neil is a fixture in the community, just like the mechanics of his knowledge. Neil's charisma of being the "best in town" offers him deals with hospitals, hotels, and even tourist lodges. The tale does not imagine a violent Neil.

Neil was the worker who didn't want anybody looking over his shoulder, especially a pushy owner of a lodge. When the narrator is encouraged to reveal exactly what happened during a murderous and wild tragedy, Hilles writes, "Some people think Neil's children drove him to it. I'm not sure that's true, but you be the judge." The story invents possibilities: a husband shooting his wife or a double suicide.

Hilles complements his novel A Gradual Ruin, and once again, readers marvel at the multiplex community and tourist life in forested regions. Pondering the wild from numerous angles, these stories set an almost haunting, yet touching tone in Canadian writing. Salt Spring Island, Ontario and her visitors are described within a remarkable read; and the wild that is unavoidably Canadian becomes a universal gesture of understanding family events.