In a fog

Ah, yes. Out this morning with the camera, in a valley filled with fog. It was cold, really cold - down near freezing. The fog was the heavy, wet kind - not the light dry morning ground fog but the sort that tastes and smells damp, that wets your fleece jacket and numbs your fingers into stiffness, and turns the sharp pop of the duck hunters' shotguns into a softer, thicker thump.

On the drive down into the valley, I woke from my morning stupor to realize I'd stopped in the middle of the road - the visual part of my brain, already awake, had activated my foot and stopped the car, waiting for the thinking part to recognize the need to get out the camera.
In the valley, it was a continuous flow of photos, without pause. Every time I stopped in a spot, thinking there was one photo there, it turned into a stream of half a dozen.

With only my thin, fall gloves on, it took only an hour and a half before my fingers were too stiff to work the camera easily. Naturally, as you're headed home, everywhere you look there's another photo. I had to stop on the road home; the forest was still full of fog and was just too enticing to resist even with stiff hands.

What I don't understand is why it's so hard to overcome the inertia that keeps me from heading out with the camera when it's always such a pleasant experience.