Mist

Firehole Canyon, Yellowstone NP, Wyoming. I was born and raised on the East Coast. When I finally travelled West, this--Yellowstone--was first place I visited, and once tasted, I came back often. I tried to grow into the heartbeat of the place. Eventually I branched out to visit all the great rivers of the west, and transitioned from fishing with flies to fishing with film. But the Firehole was a favorite haunt, it's waters heated by thermal overflows and cooled by time, bank to bank cloud when the air temperature was just right. I would wade into the rich waters a mile or better upstream of here, in the early mornings or evenings, to meet the hatches. With a blue canopy above me, I'd disappear into a world of mist. It was early in a new year that I returned, and felt such comfort and familiarity that it was like I never left. Isn't that the way it is with friends though, like you were never apart, absence unspoken, as if you weren't even gone when you walked out of that haze. Around sunrise--who knew, it was just a brightening of the cloud--I found myself in knee deep snow, above the fall and enshrouded in that familiar mist. One word evokes the other, similar, sadder. It has been such a long time since I've seen my friend. Heard from, but not seen; it is not the same. I gave up so much to look into your soul. If only you knew how much you were missed.

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Filename: Missed
Image Size: 2048x1367 / 1.6MB; Yellowstone Yellowstone National Park National Park winter canyon Firehole Canyon Firehole River Firehole Fall river snow snowscape stream landscape landscape photography Ray Palmer Ray Palmer Photography fog mist
Contained in galleries: Black + White

Firehole Canyon, Yellowstone NP, Wyoming. I was born and raised on the East Coast. When I finally travelled West, this--Yellowstone--was first place I visited, and once tasted, I came back often. I tried to grow into the heartbeat of the place. Eventually I branched out to visit all the great rivers of the west, and transitioned from fishing with flies to fishing with film. But the Firehole was a favorite haunt, it's waters heated by thermal overflows and cooled by time, bank to bank cloud when the air temperature was just right. I would wade into the rich waters a mile or better upstream of here, in the early mornings or evenings, to meet the hatches. With a blue canopy above me, I'd disappear into a world of mist. It was early in a new year that I returned, and felt such comfort and familiarity that it was like I never left. Isn't that the way it is with friends though, like you were never apart, absence unspoken, as if you weren't even gone when you walked out of that haze. Around sunrise--who knew, it was just a brightening of the cloud--I found myself in knee deep snow, above the fall and enshrouded in that familiar mist. One word evokes the other, similar, sadder. It has been such a long time since I've seen my friend. Heard from, but not seen; it is not the same. I gave up so much to look into your soul. If only you knew how much you were missed.