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In Montana, whether you're a farmer, whether you're a fisherman... you know that the climate is changing, and we need to do something about it.

Summertime in Montana, I become a monosyllabic baboon. I want to ride with the cowboys, go to brandings, doctor cattle, and train my horses. But in a few months, the snow starts to fly. The days become shorter; the yellow color of interior light becomes delicious. I look at my shelves, and every book just glows, and I want to be inside of that.

I remember three- and four-week-long snow days, and drifts so deep a small child, namely me, could get lost in them. No such winter exists in the record, but that's how Ohio winters seemed to me when I was little - silent, silver, endless, and dreamy.

Although I love snow, it messes things up terribly around Seattle, with all of our hills. I worry about my loved ones driving.

It's not the winter that bothers me - it's the summers.

It rained a lot in New Hampshire, and when I skied, the snow was icy and hard, and the mountains were small.

I grew up thinking of snow as a luxury you visit.

Occasionally I have come across a last patch of snow on top of a mountain in late May or June. There's something very powerful about finding snow in summer.

Winter in Maine is a time of alternating rest and frenzied activity.