We didn’t stage this photo. We simply waited for it to happen, because we knew it would. After three winters of documenting frost tourism in Phetchabun province, we’ve learned that this scene plays out at every viewpoint, every morning, without fail. Friends travel together, drive five hours through the night together, arrive at the same misty hilltop together – then disappear into their screens the moment they step out of the car.
The temperature was maybe 8 degrees when we took this shot. The frost had melted an hour earlier, leaving only damp grass and soft mist rolling through the valley. To our two subjects, this was arctic conditions requiring maximum layers – colorful scarves bought at the 7-Eleven in Lom Kao, beanies purchased from a roadside Hmong vendor at 4am, blankets borrowed from their homestay. Just out of frame, their friends stood in tank tops and shorts, breathing in the view these two were swiping past. Same air temperature, completely different experiences of it.
Using a Canon R5 with a 50mm lens at f/2.8, we positioned ourselves to capture this intimate moment of shared absence – two people together yet somewhere else entirely, thumbs moving in sync while the morning light softened around them. The muted Phetchabun hills behind them asked for nothing, demanded no content, offered only quiet. The hills lost.
What makes this image resonate is its uncomfortable truth about how we travel now. These two will post their frost photos and get hundreds of likes from friends in Bangkok. They drove five hours to be here. They’re finally here. And here is somewhere else – a screen, a feed, a carefully filtered version of the moment they’re missing while creating it.