Roadways clutter with debris of passing motorists and the cold draws the filth out, into a grim reflection of the gray, moistureless clouds above. Cold will descend, has descended, descends over the pine forests which stop only when they reach the sea, or we cut them back and till, plant and live.

There is so little old growth forest left. In the cold, it seems impossible to have such an impact on so vast and inhospitable an expanse.