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Fifteen years ago, as we packed our bags for the move to Minnesota from Illinois, we asked a fellow Midwesterner who had made the move Up North a decade before, "What is Minnesota like?" We had snow growing up, too, so what was the big deal?

One day in winter, he said, you'll wake up and it will be snowing. You'll go to work, come home, go to bed, and it will be snowing. You'll get up the next day, go to work, come home, go to bed, and it will be snowing. Day three, you'll get up, go to work, come home, and, maybe around dinnertime, the snow will finally stop. That's what Minnesota is like, he said. It snows. For days.

Ask Minnesotans and—against all logic and without a doubt—they'll say that winter is one of the things they love about their state. It's a love nearly without shame, because deep down, Minnesotans seem to know there's something strange about enjoying a season filled with sleet, wind chill, and engine block heaters. Even now that the first real signs of spring are starting to appear, Minnesotans wouldn't mind a few more inches of snow, just to "freshen things up." Perhaps the sweetest thing about Minnesotans is that they don't see that this is very, very odd.

On the way to becoming Minnesotan, there's more to adapt to than just the winter.

I have a joke about Minnesotans: What is a Minnesotan's favorite place to drive? Give up? It's the left lane. That's where you'll find them—cruising along in the left lane of the highway, a clog of other Minnesotans behind them. Transplants learn to adapt and pass them on the right.

The first time a Minnesotan asked me if I could "borrow" her a quarter, I had to sit down and think. I still feel like I'm in a British stage play when friends talk about their "auuuunt." And, I've cleverly avoided any getaway that involves starting a cabin's water heater or removing a dock from a lake because I'm sure I will explode or drown.

Then there's the legendary Minnesotan modesty. Transplants might want to learn about the best of Minnesota, but the natives don't exactly help. Maybe they don't want to boast, but Minnesotans seem most comfortable letting newcomers discover the state's highlights on their own. In a way, that's the beauty of Minnesota. The best of it is subtle, like a snowfall; it creeps up on you, bit by bit, until it's all around you.

Like my favorite example of Minnesota at its finest—Palisade Head. My family had driven up to the North Shore a half-dozen times before we noticed the envelope-sized sign reading, "Palisade Head." A small arrow pointed east. As a child of the prairie, I hadn't heard the word "palisade." For the first 30 feet of winding road, I thought it might be a picnic area, and the "head" part confused me.

Boy, is it not a picnic area. Palisade Head is a breath-taking, awe-inspiring, gargantuan cliff. As one of my husband's geology books says about this astounding formation, "Be careful near the edge of the cliff, because some columns could collapse." Editors apparently deleted the next sentence, which I believe was, "If this should happen, you—a screaming, flailing, doomed projectile—will plummet to your death down the nearly 350-foot high sheer cliff of rhyolite, quartz, plagioclase, and feldspar."

Geology aside, Palisade Head is one of those remarkable natural waysides that reminds you of your puny, temporary spot in the universe. So there it is, one of the most astonishing geological formations in the United States, and, more often than not, Minnesotans forget to mention it—though whether it's out of shyness or secrecy, I can't tell.

To become Minnesotan, you have to learn to balance the state's challenges against its wonders. The ends of your fingers may split open in winter's dryness, but you can stand on the sidewalk in front of your house at midnight in your pajamas and your parka watching the Northern Lights shimmer overhead. In summer, you'll be gnawed on by an endless array of biting bugs, but you can also sit in a stilled canoe at sunset and watch the lake join the sky.

Winter may be the best thing about Minnesota, but it still takes some getting used to. The things we love aren't always easy to love. And sometimes their most lovable characteristics are a little hard to find. The best parts of Minnesota are the parts you discover yourself, without a guidebook or a guide. The light at certain times of day. A quiet place that lets you be yourself. The views that take your breath away. The little moments that fill your heart. And once you're a Minnesotan, you'll find that it goes on like that. For days.

—Nancy Garner Ebert lives in St. Paul, where she's hoping for a few inches of snow—just to "freshen things up."