Pont-Rouge
Mist rises into the air, freezing almost immediately after landing on the body of my camera.
The sound is deafening and adds an atmosphere of magnitude.
The mist rises and lands as ice.
My feet punch through an inch of frozen ice before sinking into the snow, the crampons attached to my boots the only things keeping me from sliding down the dune of frozen spray.
The mist rises and lands as ice and forms into a layer.
My right gloved hand never releases the camera, and begins to freeze into place, index finger just above the trigger of my camera, the folds of the glove becoming immovable wrinkles, caked with a glaze of frozen water.
The mist rises and lands as ice and forms into a layer, a reminder of my vulnerability.
My eyes take in the entirety of the spectacle as the water from a thousand years ago continues its cycle up and down the waterfall as I begin my own cycle of movement up and down the frozen ice.
The mist rises and lands as ice and forms into a layer, a reminder of my vulnerability and endless desire to be in these spaces.
-
There's ice above and below me as I swing back and forth, attached to an anchor I haven't put eyes on.
I push myself away from the pillar and crane my neck to see through the viewfinder as he begins to climb. Having been in this position before, I know I'll be sore for days.
Everything creaks and groans around me. I wonder when the ice above me will decide to cleave off and come crashing to the ground...
I push myself a bit farther out into space.
