I was hiking in the Rockies one afternoon when it began to snow. It wasn't very cold, and the flakes were large and wet, and they clung to everything and created the paradox of warmly-colored vegetation protruding through the snow. Behind it all rose a mass of blue-gray mountains. The wind blew. The snowfall turned to sheets. Quite dramatic. It seemed to me an oddity of place and weather which mountain men might have encountered.

In this scene, the men are traveling with Crow Indian scouts. They will no doubt converse in sign language and decide to make camp for the night to wait out the storm, The search for the pass must wait until the weather clears. - HT