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There’s a small set of seasons that lurk after the best of winter, but before spring is in the air. You’re emerging from the wonders of a White Christmas (TM) --- those beautiful, light, star-filled dustings of a snowfall, so picturesque. Then slogging into the wet, deep, and ongoing snowfalls that you shovel every day. And then --- worse! --- the melting of that semi-season into the wet, drippy, soggy next phase --- the season of mud. Both the slogging snow and mud seasons are drags on the spirit for those who live through them --- they possess an endless feel of oppression. Contrast this with the blazing sun and hot desert environments of, well, Westerns. Even in the most desperate of Western films, the atmosphere is usually sunny, with vistas of mesas and rock formations as far as the eye can see. Think John Ford Westerns as a prime example. It’s as if the West is centered in Monument Valley, Arizona --- everything farther west is California, and everything eastward is St. Louis. And 98% of American Westerns follow suit…

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