I left the camp at five. Nobody else wanted the cold, which was fair, and which is also why the best hour belongs to whoever is willing to lose the sleep for it.
Lake Kaindy holds a drowned forest. Spruce trees that died when the valley flooded a century ago still stand under the surface, their bare trunks rising out of the water like the masts of a sunken fleet. At dawn, before the wind, the lake goes to glass and the trees double themselves in the reflection.
Eight frames
I took maybe sixty photographs. Eight of them are worth keeping. The first is just dark water and a grey line of light. By the fourth the sun has found the ridge and the trunks have turned the colour of old honey. By the eighth a single bird has landed and ruined the reflection, and that one is my favourite, because it is the moment the day decided to start.
“You cannot schedule this. You can only show up cold and hope.”
The full set goes here once the gallery is wired. For now, take my word for it, or better, come stand on the shore at 5:32 and take your own.