That early morning, we unmounted the doors of the chopper. I strapped myself in, legs hanging outside, cameras in my hands. The pilot leaned in and said, “I’m going to take you to my secret fishing spot.” He lifted off, and I knew right away we were headed for something rare. A short flight led us into another world, suspended between solidity and spirit. Mountains dissolved into clouds, valleys disappeared into mist, like a memory forming and fading in the same breath. The land turned abstract, a theatre of vapor, spirits, emerald, and granite. The haze muffled everything, but an inexplicable presence was felt all around. In each opening, each pocket of mist, an incredible living tableau appeared; quiet, like a spirit gently exposing itself, peaceful. I don’t think we exchanged a word. We were completely under the spell, watching how nature can be both wild and perfectly composed. We kept gliding over the water; there was no fishing spot. Vapor is not weather. It is the trace of a spirit passing through.