Shades of Death

Ghosts, Ravines, and a Whole Lot of Sweat

It was a quiet Sunday morning—quieter than usual, even for a place where "quiet" is the default setting. I wasn’t sure what the day held. More bridges? A hike? A bike ride? The forecast promised “above normal temperatures,” which in Midwestern speak means “you’re gonna sweat through your socks.” Knowing the parks would be packed on a Sunday, I opted for serenity over splash zones and chose Shades State Park over Raccoon State Recreation Area (translation: fewer jet skis, dogs doing cannonballs, and humans roasting like rotisserie chickens). Nothing against any of that—I just wanted calm, shade, and the chance to hear my own thoughts for once.

I caught up on blog posts, emails, and peeked at social media just to remind myself that I still live in the 21st century. Then I headed for Shades. My Harvest Host had told me about a fourth-grade memory—back in the day, there was a community movement to “Save the Shades.” Turns out, he wasn’t exaggerating.

Tucked deep into Indiana’s sandstone gorges, Shades owes its very existence to a band of locals who weren't about to let bulldozers have the last word. After landowner Joseph Frisz died in 1939, developers sniffed around the rugged land, ready to chop and pave. But in 1947, a group of regular folks said, “Nope.” They formed the "Save the Shades" committee and raised over $250,000 (a jaw-dropping sum back then) to buy the land and hand it over to the state. By the end of that year, it officially became Indiana’s 15th state park. Locals still remember the slogan, and some—like my Host—can recite it from their elementary school walls. They saved not just a patch of trees, but a sacred quiet that still hums through the ravines.

Six Ravines Challenge

I pulled into the park just after noon. It was an easy 18-minute drive from the farm, and the lack of a car line at the gate felt like a small victory. The attendant handed me a pamphlet with the usual assortment of maps, rules, trail descriptions, and friendly exclamation points. I pulled into a shaded area, rolled down the windows, and read the intro:

“Long before the first settlers came to the area of Shades State Park, Native Americans lived among the virgin forest, steep ravines, and cliffs along Sugar Creek…"

It read like the opening to a ghost story—and fittingly so. The area was once ominously known as The Shades of Death. Whether the name came from deep shadows, murdered husbands, or Native legends, no one really knows. Eventually, the state decided “Shades of Death” was a bit much for family outings, and trimmed it down to “The Shades.” But the ghosts still get their airtime—usually around campfires with marshmallows.

The map offered 10 trails. I opened AllTrails and the first suggestion was the “Ravine Challenge.” It was 4.3 miles, a bit more than I had planned, but it passed through all six ravines. How hard could it be? (Cue ominous music.)

I packed three liters of water, my camera, and walking sticks—which I debated bringing. I’m so glad I did. This wasn’t just a hike; it was a full-contact stairmaster in a mossy jungle gym.

I parked at the upper lot and, within five minutes, took a wrong turn. AllTrails politely scolded me, but I saw the trail looped back ahead and kept going. The start was deceptively easy: wide, flat, gently shaded. Then I hit Trail 8 (Shawnee Canyon) and began descending into a tangle of tree roots, boulders, and a polite little stream that pretended not to be slippery. My pace dropped from “hike” to “calculated survival.”

I climbed out of the canyon and turned up Trail 7 (Kickapoo Ravine), which featured many steps and a descending group of Chinese students. We chatted for a bit. They had no water, no poles, and sneakers that wouldn’t survive a puddle. Youth: nature’s armor.

Trail 7 merged with Trail 4 and brought me into Frisz Ravine—named for the original landowner and probably cursed by the ghost of his glutes. It was the toughest section: dozens of fallen trees, steep inclines, and a nearly vertical ladder glued to a cliff wall. I imagined a group reaching that point only to hear, “Yeah, I’m not climbing that.” At the top, I met a man and his daughter. “It’s easier going up,” I said. He nodded, then looked at my hiking poles and said’ “Smart move.”

Trail 5 was no joke either, but manageable. Most of the trails looped down to Sugar Creek and then back up, a repeated cardio-and-quadriceps duel. Prospect Point—on Trail 1—offered a beautiful overlook of Sugar Creek and Canoe Island, with a wooden platform so close to the cliff edge I could feel the wind negotiating with gravity.

Later on Trail 1, a young woman climbing a long staircase asked if I knew where we were. I pulled out AllTrails. “I have that app!” she said, “but I’ve never used it.” So I gave her a quick tutorial. She was carrying a compass and paper map, going full Lewis and Clark. I admired the throwback, but my phone battery was rapidly dying—as if in protest.

By the time I checked my mileage, I had already hiked 4.3 miles and clearly had another mile or two to go. The humidity was so thick that the bugs gave up trying to land on me, afraid they might drown. I eventually slogged back to the van, changed into Crocs, poured a cold glass of juice, and let a fresh breeze sweep through the open doors. My shirt went straight onto the mirror to dry. I looked like a one-man roadside yard sale.

By 5:30, the parking lot was deserted. I took a quick nap before heading back to the farm. Not a car in sight. The entrance booth was empty, as if the entire park had exhaled and gone to bed.

Back at the farm, the sun lingered just above the flat horizon. It’s one of those quirks of the eastern time zone’s western edge—where daylight stretches like it’s on vacation. I tried to capture the burning orange sun sinking behind a distant silo, but the photo didn’t do it justice. It never does.

A little later, Walter, my Harvest Host, rolled up in his buggy. He just wanted to check in. “Need anything?” he asked. I told him tonight was my last night. He said, “You’re welcome anytime. I hope you come back.” It was sincere and quiet and kind—like the land itself.

Dinner was simple. Afterward, I pulled out gear from the garage to clean off the mud from that near-tornado encounter a few days back. Feeling grimy, I took a cool outdoor shower in my swimsuit. It was refreshingly primitive—and definitely not the last time I’ll do that.

Clean, fed, and fading fast, I opened the van’s rear doors and let the evening wind slip through the screens. The air smelled faintly of cornfields and silence. I drifted off, the only sound a whisper from the Midwest night—steady, quiet, and beautifully still.