1st-4th May 2014
Apuseni Mountains: Dumesti through the mist
I thought I had seen the best of Dumesti.
Back in early spring, when the trees were still bare and the air still carried a bite, I stood in that quiet valley for the first time. It was subtle, minimal, ethereal. But something about it stayed with me, like a whisper I couldn’t quite forget. So when May rolled around and nature had fully awakened, I went back.
This time, it was a different Dumesti.
I returned with a close friend and fellow photographer, eager to see what Dumesti would reveal this time. The journey felt like visiting an old friend, but one you hadn’t seen in full color yet. We knew the road, the hills, the rhythm of the place. But we had no idea what was waiting for us that morning.
It was still dark when we arrived, and we parked in the same quiet spot where the land opens up in soft layers. The silence was comforting, familiar. But as the first hints of light crept into the sky, we noticed it...the fog.
Thick, dreamy, and dancing between the folds of green hills, the fog moved like breath. And then, just as the sun began to rise, the spectacle began.
Rays of light sliced through the mist, creating this golden theater of contrast and softness. It felt like the entire valley was performing just for us. Every minute, the scene changed, light rays shifting direction, fog curling and lifting like it had a mind of its own, revealing and hiding the little wooden houses that once sheltered animals.
Now those same shelters stood amidst a sea of green, surrounded by wildflowers, bathed in gold, and wrapped in mist like cloaks. I had seen them bare and skeletal back in spring, but now, they looked alive. Framed by vibrant grass, under a sky slowly melting from gray to peach.
We kept looking at each other in disbelief... “Are we really seeing this?”
It was the kind of morning that made you forget time. The kind of light show no camera could fully do justice, but we tried anyway, racing between angles, shooting in silence, sometimes just stopping to stare in awe.
Just as the sun began to pour over the hills, a friendly dog appeared out of nowhere, tail wagging, tongue out, completely at home in the wild landscape. He followed us for a while, curious and calm, and before long, he became part of the scene. At one point, he stood perfectly still atop a small ridge, his silhouette etched against the glowing sky like a loyal guardian of the valley.
What struck me the most was how different Dumesti felt. In spring, it was raw and poetic. In May, it was lush and cinematic. Yet the soul of the place was the same. Still quiet. Still slow. Still full of stories whispered by the hills and sung by the wind.
And somehow, the contrast between the two visits only deepened my love for it. Dumesti doesn’t just show itself...it transforms. With every season, every sunrise, it becomes something new. And if you’re lucky enough to be there at the right time, it lets you witness magic.
Later, as we were leaving, winding slowly back down the dirt road, we crossed paths with a young boy leading a small herd of goats. He wore traditional countryside clothes and a colorful hat that seemed almost too big for him, yet suited him perfectly. The sky was cloudy, casting a soft, diffused light over the scene, giving everything a muted, nostalgic feel. There was something timeless in the way he walked...calm, confident, as if part of the land itself. I managed to capture that fleeting moment, and in that single frame, I felt like I had preserved a quiet echo of rural life that rarely finds its way into photographs.
Those mornings in May, I felt like we had been let in on a secret. A green, glowing, fog-dancing secret, hidden somewhere in the heart of the Apuseni Mountains.
Back in early spring, when the trees were still bare and the air still carried a bite, I stood in that quiet valley for the first time. It was subtle, minimal, ethereal. But something about it stayed with me, like a whisper I couldn’t quite forget. So when May rolled around and nature had fully awakened, I went back.
This time, it was a different Dumesti.
I returned with a close friend and fellow photographer, eager to see what Dumesti would reveal this time. The journey felt like visiting an old friend, but one you hadn’t seen in full color yet. We knew the road, the hills, the rhythm of the place. But we had no idea what was waiting for us that morning.
It was still dark when we arrived, and we parked in the same quiet spot where the land opens up in soft layers. The silence was comforting, familiar. But as the first hints of light crept into the sky, we noticed it...the fog.
Thick, dreamy, and dancing between the folds of green hills, the fog moved like breath. And then, just as the sun began to rise, the spectacle began.
Rays of light sliced through the mist, creating this golden theater of contrast and softness. It felt like the entire valley was performing just for us. Every minute, the scene changed, light rays shifting direction, fog curling and lifting like it had a mind of its own, revealing and hiding the little wooden houses that once sheltered animals.
Now those same shelters stood amidst a sea of green, surrounded by wildflowers, bathed in gold, and wrapped in mist like cloaks. I had seen them bare and skeletal back in spring, but now, they looked alive. Framed by vibrant grass, under a sky slowly melting from gray to peach.
We kept looking at each other in disbelief... “Are we really seeing this?”
It was the kind of morning that made you forget time. The kind of light show no camera could fully do justice, but we tried anyway, racing between angles, shooting in silence, sometimes just stopping to stare in awe.
Just as the sun began to pour over the hills, a friendly dog appeared out of nowhere, tail wagging, tongue out, completely at home in the wild landscape. He followed us for a while, curious and calm, and before long, he became part of the scene. At one point, he stood perfectly still atop a small ridge, his silhouette etched against the glowing sky like a loyal guardian of the valley.
What struck me the most was how different Dumesti felt. In spring, it was raw and poetic. In May, it was lush and cinematic. Yet the soul of the place was the same. Still quiet. Still slow. Still full of stories whispered by the hills and sung by the wind.
And somehow, the contrast between the two visits only deepened my love for it. Dumesti doesn’t just show itself...it transforms. With every season, every sunrise, it becomes something new. And if you’re lucky enough to be there at the right time, it lets you witness magic.
Later, as we were leaving, winding slowly back down the dirt road, we crossed paths with a young boy leading a small herd of goats. He wore traditional countryside clothes and a colorful hat that seemed almost too big for him, yet suited him perfectly. The sky was cloudy, casting a soft, diffused light over the scene, giving everything a muted, nostalgic feel. There was something timeless in the way he walked...calm, confident, as if part of the land itself. I managed to capture that fleeting moment, and in that single frame, I felt like I had preserved a quiet echo of rural life that rarely finds its way into photographs.
Those mornings in May, I felt like we had been let in on a secret. A green, glowing, fog-dancing secret, hidden somewhere in the heart of the Apuseni Mountains.
