Holding my Breath

In weather like this, I wear thin gloves to keep my dexterity, so my fingers are perpetually cold. And my nose leaks, a hereditary trait from my father.

In weather like this, I have to be careful not to breathe on my viewfinder. If I do, the glass freezes over and I can’t see through it until I return to my truck, start the engine, and thaw it out. I’ve learned to hold my breath around the camera in winter, turning my head away to exhale.

In weather like this, most highway turnouts are buried, so I park wherever I can and walk. People notice a middle-aged man trudging along a snowdrift beside the highway, tripod and camera balanced on his shoulder.

I’ve been yelled at, honked at, and flipped off.

But on this January morning, I stood in my snowshoes, holding my breath, nose dripping, and closed my eyes in prayer as I tripped the shutter.