1st-2nd March 2014
Finding Dumesti: A sunrise dream in the heart of Apuseni
I first laid eyes on Dumesti through someone else’s lens.
It was a photo I stumbled across late one night, buried deep in a scroll of golden hills and morning mist. A frame so surreal it looked like a painting—sunlight pouring like liquid gold over soft green hills, and in the middle of it all, a small, crooked wooden house, half-lost in fog. I didn’t know where it was, but I knew one thing: I had to find it.
And I wasn’t alone in that pull.
A good friend of mine—another photographer just as passionate about chasing light—had also seen Dumesti in pictures and was equally eager to witness it with his own eyes. So we packed our gear and hit the road in his car, both quietly hoping that the reality would live up to the poetry we had seen in those images.
It was early spring, and the Apuseni Mountains were still caught in the slow transition from winter to green. The trees stood bare, their branches like sketches against the pale morning sky. Everything felt raw and quiet, as if nature itself was just beginning to stir from hibernation.
The road to Dumesti curved endlessly through valleys and forest, the kind of road that feels like it’s leading you deeper into a secret. We drove in the early hours, headlights slicing through the mist, hearts already racing at the thought of what the sunrise might bring.
And then we arrived.
Just as the first light crept over the horizon, we stepped out into a silence so profound it felt like entering a cathedral. Fog rolled lazily through the valley, hugging the soft curves of the hills. And there they were—those crooked wooden shelters, once used for animals, now standing timeless and proud, like ancient sentinels waiting for the day to begin.
There was a hush in the air, like nature holding its breath. The hills rolled out in velvet layers, covered in soft, dreamy fog. And then it happened: the light.
The sun rose and the world slowed down.
It wasn’t lush—not yet. The trees were bare, the grass just starting to show hints of green. But that bareness gave everything a purity, a minimalism that somehow made the light even more powerful. There were no distractions. Only form, contrast, and that perfect, delicate glow of morning.
We had both seen it in photographs. But to stand there, side by side, cameras in hand, watching the world turn gold in front of us—it felt like stepping inside a moment we’d been dreaming of.
Dumesti revealed itself slowly, quietly. It didn’t shout for attention. It whispered. And in that whisper, we found everything we’d been searching for.
It was a photo I stumbled across late one night, buried deep in a scroll of golden hills and morning mist. A frame so surreal it looked like a painting—sunlight pouring like liquid gold over soft green hills, and in the middle of it all, a small, crooked wooden house, half-lost in fog. I didn’t know where it was, but I knew one thing: I had to find it.
And I wasn’t alone in that pull.
A good friend of mine—another photographer just as passionate about chasing light—had also seen Dumesti in pictures and was equally eager to witness it with his own eyes. So we packed our gear and hit the road in his car, both quietly hoping that the reality would live up to the poetry we had seen in those images.
It was early spring, and the Apuseni Mountains were still caught in the slow transition from winter to green. The trees stood bare, their branches like sketches against the pale morning sky. Everything felt raw and quiet, as if nature itself was just beginning to stir from hibernation.
The road to Dumesti curved endlessly through valleys and forest, the kind of road that feels like it’s leading you deeper into a secret. We drove in the early hours, headlights slicing through the mist, hearts already racing at the thought of what the sunrise might bring.
And then we arrived.
Just as the first light crept over the horizon, we stepped out into a silence so profound it felt like entering a cathedral. Fog rolled lazily through the valley, hugging the soft curves of the hills. And there they were—those crooked wooden shelters, once used for animals, now standing timeless and proud, like ancient sentinels waiting for the day to begin.
There was a hush in the air, like nature holding its breath. The hills rolled out in velvet layers, covered in soft, dreamy fog. And then it happened: the light.
The sun rose and the world slowed down.
It wasn’t lush—not yet. The trees were bare, the grass just starting to show hints of green. But that bareness gave everything a purity, a minimalism that somehow made the light even more powerful. There were no distractions. Only form, contrast, and that perfect, delicate glow of morning.
We had both seen it in photographs. But to stand there, side by side, cameras in hand, watching the world turn gold in front of us—it felt like stepping inside a moment we’d been dreaming of.
Dumesti revealed itself slowly, quietly. It didn’t shout for attention. It whispered. And in that whisper, we found everything we’d been searching for.
