If you listen, you can hear the river ice as it freezes and thaws, shifts and buckles, expands and contracts. To my ears it is the alien chanting of some far-flung mountain monastery. Mantras of an order older than the kingdoms of Man, perhaps even before the times of dragons and titans when the world was yet young.
Winds of Tibetan viciousness have sculpted interesting drifts across the landscape. In some places, the snow can be a crusted knee-high dune, in others a bare dusting of fine powder. Sometimes, the sound of footfalls is jarring to the cacophony of silence.