Sundance Lake - Hoosier National Forest, Indiana
Yesterday was one of those slow, quiet days that invite you to exhale. I spent it at Sundance Lake, deep in the Hoosier National Forest—miles from anything that felt busy or hurried. The road in was rough, the signal was spotty, and the rain came and went all day—but worth the seclusion.
I started the morning at the viewing platform and stayed for over an hour, just taking in the lake. Rain eventually pushed me back to the van, but not before I captured a few photos. I could hear frogs everywhere but never saw the slightest ripple. The air, though, was alive with birdsong. I pulled out the Merlin Bird ID app and listened along—Song Sparrow, American Crow, Eastern Phoebe, Common Yellowthroat, Red-headed Woodpecker, Indigo Bunting, Eastern Wood-Pewee. A few woodpeckers were working the trees behind me, and it felt like the forest was having a quiet conversation I was lucky enough to overhear.
The van was parked about 100 yards away. I went back, made breakfast, and spent most of the day catching up on messages and cleaning. I’d neglected some things over the past month, so this was a good spot to get back on track. Every now and then, someone would pull in, glance at the lake, and leave just as quickly. It’s not a bucket-list destination—maybe the simplicity of it disappointed them, or the rain chased them off. Either way, I didn’t mind having it mostly to myself.
Around noon, two teenage boys rolled up on a four-wheeled off-road vehicle, shirtless with fishing poles hanging off the back. They were quiet, headed straight to the viewing platform, and stood there fishing for hours in the rain. I never saw them leave, and when the rain got heavy, they just stood there, waiting. Something about that felt timeless.
I wandered out a few times when the rain let up to stretch and walk the road. I found wild strawberries and raspberries growing along the edge, which made me wonder why a bear hadn’t already claimed the spot.
As the day wound down, I returned to the lake one last time. The trail was slick with mud and hard to stand on, but I made it to the platform just in time to see a Grey Heron plunge into the water. It came up moments later with a fish in its beak, flew to a log, and began stabbing at its dinner. I didn’t have my camera, and it was too far anyway—but I watched. Everything in the lake went still after that splash.
By nightfall, the frogs had reclaimed the soundscape. No planes, no mufflers, no road noise—just the quiet of the forest.
At 1:30 a.m., I woke to the sound of a pickup truck. A few people got out and rustled around in the woods, dumping what sounded like bottles and trash before driving off. A few minutes later, silence again. I drifted back to sleep easily.
It wasn’t a dramatic day, but it felt full. Just me, a quiet lake, and time moving slowly.