FOGGY CATHEDRAL
The forest was barely awake when I arrived. Fog curled low between the trunks of the Sugar Pines — not rushing, just drifting, like the forest itself was exhaling in its sleep. Everything was softened, hushed.
These trees — so impossibly tall, so straight and still — stood like guardians in a world between worlds. I walked slowly beneath them, the sound of my own footsteps swallowed by the damp earth and thick air.
Through the lens, it was like photographing a memory. The fog blurred the distance, wrapped the trunks in secrecy, and made every detail — every droplet, every breath of light — feel sacred.
There was no need to search for a perfect frame. The beauty was everywhere. In the way the mist kissed the bark. In the rhythm of trunks fading into the white. In the quiet.
Fog doesn’t hide the forest — it reveals something deeper. Something felt more than seen.
And on mornings like this, in the presence of the pines, you don’t just take photos. You listen. And you remember how to be still.
The forest was barely awake when I arrived. Fog curled low between the trunks of the Sugar Pines — not rushing, just drifting, like the forest itself was exhaling in its sleep. Everything was softened, hushed.
These trees — so impossibly tall, so straight and still — stood like guardians in a world between worlds. I walked slowly beneath them, the sound of my own footsteps swallowed by the damp earth and thick air.
Through the lens, it was like photographing a memory. The fog blurred the distance, wrapped the trunks in secrecy, and made every detail — every droplet, every breath of light — feel sacred.
There was no need to search for a perfect frame. The beauty was everywhere. In the way the mist kissed the bark. In the rhythm of trunks fading into the white. In the quiet.
Fog doesn’t hide the forest — it reveals something deeper. Something felt more than seen.
And on mornings like this, in the presence of the pines, you don’t just take photos. You listen. And you remember how to be still.