Once you have seen the shapes of the snowdrifts huddled behind the sage clumps, you seem to see their shapes everywhere. The very hills themselves seem just an overgrown drift. And so they are. The land here is ruled and shaped by the wind. Just as the snow is sculpted and swept into spectacular scenes, the people take on a character peculiar to coping with harshness bigger than themselves.
Time becomes relative.
When the wind makes the snow flow across the ground in a dense fog that obscures the road, appointments are postponed with a casual attitude. We'll go next week. Plans are tentative until you are there. No one lives crouched in their houses fearing storms. Most people go about their lives, ignoring the weather till it rouses up in indignation to demand that we respect its power.