Indian Lake-A trip report with photos

“At first glance I see a stump, protruding from the weed-tangled shore of Indian Lake. My oar smacks the water again and it jumps to life. Powerful legs launching the Blue Heron into the oncoming breeze, legs tucked underneath, bouncing with each beat of his massive wings. I reach for my camera. He turns in a wide arc into the wind, gliding now—just a few feet off the water—his reflection slides underneath him, and then he's gone.

I lower my camera, wishing I’d brought a longer lens—cursing my need to capture every moment like some tourist. I put my camera away and pick up the oar again.



From the rear seat, Duane guides our gear-laden canoe through choppy waters toward the shore. In front of us Dave beaches the kayak. A short time ago he met us at the boat ramp, canoe in tow. Mike and Doug stayed behind at the camp, a secure spot on the point, nestled between two rock walls with a view of the lake in two directions.



This was it—there is no other destination—just a few hours with good friends on a beautiful October weekend. We couldn’t ask for nicer weather.

We lug our gear up the hill to camp. A small fire burns at the center of a well-laid out fire ring. I add our chairs to the circle. The latecomers get the smoky end.



We make quick work of pitching our tents and settle down to relax with a drink around the fire. There is no need to explore. We’ve all been here before. It’s a favorite spot in the Hoosier National Forest and surprisingly little used.

Mike and Dave put out hors d’oeuvres—little piles of cheese, crackers, nuts, and chips and salsa. We settle in and cut a few logs from trees ravaged by some recent wind storm.

Later, noisy geese in tight formation fly high above the lake. I say they’re passing over—maybe to Celina Lake just up the road. Mike disagrees. They’re flying reconnaissance and they’ll circle back. And they do. Lower this time, then directly over our camp. Our presence is unsettling and they move on.

The stiff breeze has moved on now too and the few cotton candy clouds have gone with it. The last rays of sun illuminate a distant ridgeline. There isn’t much of a sunset, just a soft transition from daylight to twilight and into darkness.



We grill steaks and brats over charcoal and bank the fire. The darkness has brought a chill.

In the flickering firelight, conversation turns to our children, their education, religion and the changing of the guard. We discuss the future of a county—with a flailing economy and an aging populace. We hash out the benefits of industry versus tourism and vice versa. We mull the performance of our elected officials. We all have ideas. None of us has answers.

As the embers die our conversation wanes and one by one, sleeping bags are filled. I’m left sitting by the fire—alone with my thoughts and my last cigarette. I make my way to a large rock above my tent and gaze up at stars, so bright they reflect in the glassy waters, twinkling like the last dieing embers of the fire.

Morning stirs and we rise from our beds. The first light of day crawls across curls of fog and sets the water ablaze with color. I raise my camera again, capturing the moment in millions of little pixels. I burn my own image, tucking it away in memory.



Around the fire, sausages sizzle and the smell of coffee percolates my senses. The morning sun has burned the fog off the water but the sky is overcast now. We busy ourselves breaking camp. Gear safely stowed away, we slide back out on the water and point ourselves toward home.



The water is still today and the fall foliage seems to have taken on new color. The only sounds are our oars cutting the water and the soft plunk of lures cast by a pair of fisherman balanced on a johnboat.



As we near the dock I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the smells, the sound of the rippling water, the cool air on my face. Already my thoughts are turning to the busy day ahead, but the image of a brilliant sunrise is still burned on my eyelids.”

“Killer TR. Thanks for sharing. Wish the pics were a little bigger.”

“awww very cute trip report, nice illustrations!”

“Pics are here: http://www.thebackpacker.com/pictures/album/2e3u6vjh.php

I linked the stupid thumbs instead of the pics. Our server went down right after that and i couldn't edit the report before time ran out.”

“Wow, fantastic report and photos! This is the stuff for Canoe & Kayak Magazine!”