In the movie “Fargo” there’s a scene that stops me cold with incredulity every time I watch it. Not the stuff-a-colleague-in-a-wood-chipper scene, which, by the way, I find entirely credible.

It’s when one of the kidnappers buries nearly a million dollars in ransom in snow drifts next to a fence along a desolate highway — and marks it with an ice scraper.

“You’re never going to find it again, idiot!” I yell at the TV screen. “What if you need that scraper before you buy a new one?”

I grew up in northeastern North Dakota, near the Canadian border, very near where the highway scenes in “Fargo” were shot because the Coens had to cross the border from Minnesota to find enough snow.

Retreating south after Christmas, I pulled my Flip camera out, documenting for you that the distinguishing feature of the winter landscape in this area is that there are no distinguishing features. You can be riding along in a car and doze off — ideally as a passenger as I swear I was — with a scene like this out your window.

When you wake up, you will see this.

I exaggerate. Sometimes it will look like this.

I keep three ice scrapers in my car. You just never know.

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