Lost in the Fog: A Morning in Gyeongju

Some places get under your skin, like a good song or a strong cup of coffee. Gyeongju is one of those places for me—a time capsule of Korea’s history wrapped in natural beauty. It’s a city that doesn’t just beg to be photographed; it demands it. The open historical sites, the crisp autumn air, and the kind of light that would make even the most jaded photographer clutch their camera a little tighter—it’s all there.

This time, my mission was simple: catch the sunrise and let the morning light guide me through this ancient city. It wasn’t about chasing a checklist or crafting the perfect shot. It was about being in the moment, breathing it in, and letting the city do what it does best—astonish.

The First Stop: Hwangnyongwon

The day began at Hwangnyongwon, a striking pagoda near Bomun Lake that has become one of my go-to spots. Why? Easy parking, easy access, and always a sense of serenity—usually. But on this morning, serenity quickly faded.

As the creek shimmered in the soft dawn light, I strolled to the bridge to compose a more shots. Getting my fill, I drove around to the main attraction the tree-lined street looking directly on the the pagoda. it was all going according to plan. But then came them: a pair of foreign photographers who seemed less interested in capturing the beauty of the place and more in sabotaging everyone else’s experience. One guy was practically glued to the middle of the frame, strutting like he owned the road.

It was annoying, sure, but maybe it was the universe giving me a nudge. Sometimes, you’ve got to read the signs and move on.

The Foggy Surprise at Cheomseongdae

I jumped back into my SUV and gunned it toward Cheomseongdae, the ancient observatory surrounded by autumn’s crown jewel: pink muhly grass. But as I was driving, something unexpected happened—fog. Thick, dreamy, otherworldly fog that clung to the ground like it had been summoned just for me.

This wasn’t just good lighting; this was nature showing off.

Camera in hand, I bolted toward the observatory, adrenaline pumping. There was one other photographer there—a kindred spirit who gave me the universal nod of approval. No words, no posturing, just mutual respect. We both knew we were witnessing something rare, and there was no time to waste.

I shot the muhly grass as it disappeared into the mist, its pink hues blending into the ether. The morning felt alive, charged with energy.

Racing the Light

With the fog slowly lifting, I made my way toward Woljeong Bridge, a stunning structure that takes on an almost mythical aura in the right conditions. The clock was ticking—the golden hour doesn’t last forever—but I wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.

The bridge emerged from the fog like something out of a dream, the sun piercing through in soft, hazy beams. It was surreal. I worked the scene from every angle, moving like a man possessed, snapping the bridge, the nearby forest, and the sunflower field by the stream.

By the time my last camera battery gave out, I was running on fumes—but in the best way. My hands were cold, my coffee was gone, and my face probably looked ridiculous from grinning like a fool.

The Drive Home

As I cruised back toward Ulsan, the weight of the morning hit me. This wasn’t just a photography session; it was a reminder of why I do this. It’s not about the gear or the likes or the endless post-processing. It’s about these fleeting, magical moments where everything aligns—the light, the weather, the scene—and you’re there to capture it.

Gyeongju never disappoints, and this morning was no exception. If you’ve been on the fence about heading out early, let this be your sign: grab your camera, chase the light, and don’t let anyone—or anything—stand in your way.

Because sometimes, the fog clears, and you’re left with something extraordinary.