Windblown

They call Chicago the windy city, but Great Falls, Montana deserves the tag. When I stepped off the train, the wind blew me backward, step for step. It became necessary to lean forward as though I were harnessed as a mule to the plow. Tall grass swayed and rolled like ocean waves, tumbleweeds rose so high against fences one climbed another's back, jumped over and bounced on with the will of the wind. Aspen leaves swirled and fluttered for miles, without once settling their golden blanket upon the ground. Snow piled into drifts, buried cars, and dwarfed homes. The thing I never understood: How did the cowboys keep those Stetsons on their heads?