I've always considered it a rare piece of luck to catch fog in the mountains somewhere unfamiliar. Moments like that stick with you.
A tiny village on the slope, a deep gorge nearby. From a distance I watched a cloud slowly creep toward the houses: some had already vanished into the mist, and soon it swallowed the whole mountainside.
I didn't go down to the village — I had other plans. Now I do regret it a little: shooting among empty lanes lost in fog could've made for interesting frames. But what's done is done.
By the time I reached the viewpoint on the opposite side of the gorge, the sky had turned gloomier and a light drizzle started. That part of the walk deserves its own post someday. For now, here are just a couple of shots from that encounter with the mist.
I stood at the edge of the abyss and looked down. Almost half a kilometre of emptiness between sheer walls. The fog hung right in front of me, slowly filling the void. My legs felt a bit shaky, not from fear (heights don't bother me), but just from the scale of it all: grey sky above, a milky veil below, stone walls on the sides. And silence.
So there I was at the edge of the abyss and at the edge of the mist. Did that moment stick? You bet — it was etched into memory. Did I go back? More than once. And I hope to return again.
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