Luhr Park sits just outside La Porte, Indiana, 94 acres of wetlands, woodlands, and prairie. I’m here before sunrise, the blue hour, as they say. Fog lingers over the fields and between the trees. The air is damp, the cold sinking in slow, but it feels good in the lungs.
Growing up, I only saw this place once a year. My idea of nature then was an undeveloped lot, weeds taller than the kids playing in it. But every spring, my class took a 20-minute bus ride to this little patch of wilderness. We walked the trails, searched the water for signs of life, and listened to the trees groan in the stiff Midwest wind.
When I was older and could come back on my own, I did. I would run the trails before sunrise while I mentally fortified myself for the day ahead. Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d come out even earlier, camera in hand, waiting for the first light to break through the trees.
Later, I started bringing my mom and younger brother. We’d walk the trails while we talked, vented, and worked through whatever we had on our minds. She called it her therapy. My brother called it an escape.
It used to be a five minute drive. Now, I live almost an hour away, but I still make the trip.
The road hasn’t changed. Flat fields on both sides, broken up by a few bare trees and the occasional farmhouse. The turnoff is easy to miss. No big signs, no reason to stop unless you know it’s here.
The lot is empty this early. Dawn softens the edges of everything; the pavement, the trees, the yellow glow of the streetlights. I sit in the car for a moment, listening to the engine settle, then step out.
At the trailhead, a marker stands where it always has. Not new, not old, just there. The path ahead is damp from last night’s rain, packed dirt giving slightly underfoot.
Further in, a bridge crosses over the wetlands. The wood flexes under my step, and my boots work to find traction on the wet wood. I pause halfway across. The water below is dark where it isn’t still frozen. The air smells like wet leaves and rain.
There used to be a lookout point at the end of this trail. Now, the bridge just stops. I stand at the edge for a minute, looking out at nothing in particular. The landscape shifts in ways you don’t notice until years have passed.
Circling around the pond, the path dips, filling with rainwater in spots. I sink slightly into the mud, enough to leave a mark but not enough to hold me there.
The trees are quiet today, bare branches stretching toward the sky. No wind to clear the mist.
Back on the main loop, there’s a bench overlooking the pond, a memorial plaque bolted into the wood. I wonder how much time they spent here, what this place meant to them.
The reeds along the shore are stripped of color, bent slightly under their own weight. In a few months, they’ll be green again.
I keep walking. The light has shifted now, the cast going from blue to gold. I used to run this route daily. I knew every twist of the path, every uneven step and rogue tree root. I realize that I still do.
I’ve been across the country, camped in deserts where the air pulls the moisture straight from your skin, hiked mountains where breathing feels like work, ended up lost in swamps so dense with life it hums. But I keep coming back here. Even in winter, even in the cold, there is always something that brings me back home.
Andrew West
andrewowestphoto.com
To get involved with protecting our woods in Indiana, reach out to our Conservation Committee Chair Julie Lowe - j_lowe66@yahoo.com, or head to our volunteer page.