Fog, Film and a Borrowed Tripod

A friend lent me a tripod that is older than I am. It weighs about as much as a small dog and has exactly one working leg lock. I carried it to the edge of a field behind the woods because the forecast promised fog at dawn.

The forecast was right for once. The fog arrived early and stayed for hours. Frost covered the grass, and when the sun finally rose behind the trees it didn't burn through the fog — it lit it from the inside, in long pale beams.

I had planned to photograph the field appearing through the fog. Instead I photographed the light itself: the beams between the trunks, the way the trees turned into flat grey shapes and back again.

A borrowed tripod is a good teacher. It refuses to be rushed.

Working slowly with a heavy tripod changes how you look. You can't chase anything. You pick a spot, you commit, and then you wait for the world to do something in front of you. I returned the tripod with a thank-you note and a print.