RIDGE

We were staying in a log cabin, 3,500 feet up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. I had imagined wide, open panoramas. Instead, on the first morning — and for the four that followed — the thickest fog I have ever encountered pressed itself against the front door. The world beyond the cabin had disappeared.

 

Undeterred, I went looking for it.

 

I moved toward the surrounding woods, wading through a milky glow that only vapour can create. Leafless trees rose up around me, silhouetted against the cool tones of low cloud — imposing, but quietly compelling. There was a strong pull to go further, to step forward into what lay beyond.

 

I didn’t.

 

Whether it was instinct, hesitation, or the earlier advice to beware of bears in the woods, I stayed where I was. I photographed the threshold instead — these gateways into something unseen — and let the rest remain imagined.