I don’t think I would have ever seen this if I didn’t put my head behind a camera day after day after day, even when there doesn’t seem to be anything to look at. It’s what this country does to you, the landscapes with the forever horizon. When I first came here I felt so exposed. People could see me from miles away. I didn’t see any consolation that I could see far. I didn’t want to see far. Back in Massachusetts, the woods run so thick you can’t even see the land. You have to guess at it as you walk over it. You look from the safety of one wooded place to the next. You’re not looking far, ever. Across a small field on a farm, or over a river, up a street in the safety of a town. People out here, if they’ve ever even met someone from the East Coast, think they’re pushy and confident and maybe arrogant, but they do that in a very protected life. Out here, where you’re exposed, you have to trust things, you have to trust the land, have to trust what’s coming. You look far, you have to be able to watch far what’s coming. I live in town but around this time of year I hear stories about people getting stuck out on the far corners of their land, or coming back from Grand Forks when something hits. Everybody seems to have a story about coming back from Christmas or getting lost in a blizzard on New Year’s morning at some ungodly hour. Back home, people would never even go outside or at least leave town if they couldn’t see what might be coming. And they don’t know how to look at what’s coming.