The Hunters

The HuntersIn that Bitter Cold, water turns to dry dust for the lightest breath of air to play with. There is no landscape and there are no landmarks. A hillock of powdered snow ripples and flattens; the ripples coil and convolute, and all in half an hour you have a head of hair, a brain, the helix of a freakish ear, a diagram of unearthly trajectories, and at last a pure valley virginally ridged.Here, 29 of the 32 winds blow from the south toward the Pole, and they make chaos. Hence, when day b...