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A Winter's Tale: Capturing Fire and Ice
My first winter as a landscape photographer was nothing short of a baptism by ice. The destination that day was Storforsen, with temperatures plummeting to a staggering minus 25 degrees Celsius. It was a harsh initiation into the northern cold I had willingly sought, testing the limits of my endurance and resolve from the outset.
The freezing air clawed at every inch of exposed skin, but the scene before me was mesmerizing. Steam rose dreamlike from the untamed, unfrozen rapids, its ethereal plumes creating a vivid contrast against the frozen world around it. Above, the sky blazed with fiery tones of orange and crimson, as though the heavens themselves were aflame, casting a surreal glow over the landscape.
To prepare for the elements, I had outfitted my camera with a thick winter cover—a protective layer designed to shield both my hands and my gear from the biting cold. Yet, even as the thunderous roar of the rapids filled the air, a profound stillness seemed to envelop the scene, as if the frozen world had paused to hold its breath.
In that quiet, the camera cover began to feel like a hindrance—a bulky barrier disrupting the tactile connection I craved. Unable to tolerate the detachment, I stripped away the cover, exposing both my camera and my hands to the brutal cold.
What followed was a punishing dance: frame the shot, adjust the settings with stiff, aching fingers, then hastily thrust my hands inside my jacket, pressing them against my stomach for a fleeting burst of warmth. The routine was agonizing but necessary.
The frostnip that bloomed on my nose was a small sacrifice. Every moment of discomfort was worth it. To stand amidst such raw, unfiltered beauty, bearing witness to the untamed artistry of nature—this is why I endure. These moments are the ultimate reward.