There are plenty of challenges to getting good photos in deep snow.

The cold air distresses my camera, fingers, and nose. My camera fights to send power to its outermost parts, and batteries die quickly in weather like this. I wear thin gloves to maintain dexterity, so my fingers are perpetually cold, and my large nose, a hereditary trait from my father, leaks in the winter chill.

Another challenge is moving through four feet of snow. But that’s easily overcome with snowshoes; it’s satisfying to walk atop drifts that would otherwise reach my waist.

I have to be careful not to breathe on my viewfinder. If I do, the glass glazes over and I am blind until I return to my car, start the engine, and thaw it out. I’ve grown accustomed to holding my breath around my camera in the winter, turning my head away to exhale.

Parking is another problem. Most of the highway turnouts are buried. A scene I’m attempting to capture might be a hundred yards or more from a clear turnout. People notice a middle-aged man walking on a snowdrift next to the highway, tripod and camera balanced on his shoulder. I’ve been yelled at, honked at, and flipped off. It’s part of the job, I guess.

These were the challenges I faced on the stone-cold January morning I took this photo. I was attracted to the pine trees. Bright and hopeful against the oppressive snow on their branches. Their green boughs were lush, set against a canvas of perfectly white, freshly fallen snow.

It was a silent, still, magnificent moment as I stood in my snowshoes, holding my breath with my nose dripping.