Field Notes: A Dawn at Vestrahorn
We arrived in a hush of predawn wind, dunes combed by the night. Wet sand turned mirror-black as tide retreated. I knelt to frame grass blades against their mountain reflection, breath fogging the LCD, heart steadying with the first gull’s call.
Field Notes: A Dawn at Vestrahorn
The peaks ignited briefly—gold threading through the gray, then vanishing behind a slow cloud door. I bracketed exposures, stepped back, and watched a stranger lower their camera, simply listening to the surf. Sometimes the photograph is the pause you carry home.