The Grey Fox

I used to think the perfect photograph was waiting for me at the top of the mountain. So one autumn, I joined an expedition to find a rare grey fox that lived only on the high, cold slopes. I was the photographer. Six of us walked up for three days, carrying our tents and food on our backs.

The mountain did not care about my plans. On the second day, it began to snow, and the wind was so strong that we had to stop and wait inside the tents for hours. My hands were frozen. My camera was frozen. I lay in the dark and thought about my warm flat at home, and I asked myself why I had come.

On the fourth morning, the snow stopped. I climbed out of the tent before the others woke. The sky was turning pink over a sea of white peaks, and the air was so clear and cold that it hurt to breathe. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I was just standing there, amazed, and forgetting all about the fox.

And then I saw her. The grey fox was sitting on a rock, not far away, watching me with calm dark eyes. I was shaking, but I lifted my camera slowly. While I was taking the picture, she turned her head, looked straight at me for one long second, and was gone.

I never sold that photograph. It hangs by my bed. The fox is only a small grey shape against the snow, and most people would not look at it twice. But I know what it cost, and I know what I felt. That cold, hard week gave me the best experience of my life.