The road bends west through Vernon Parish, carrying us past pines and hardwoods that meet above like clasped hands. These are the kinds of drives that invite quiet—no rush of interstate noise, just the hum of tires and the sudden flash of sun through branches.
It was a Saturday, when the Plain Travelers (that’s us) set out. We’ve passed this way before, but time reshapes memory. What felt a little over a year now comes like rediscovery. Vernon Lake spreads wide under restless clouds, and man-made Anacoco Lake, smaller but no less steady, waits just down the way. Together, they hold a kind of stillness that has less to do with silence and more to do with the weight of place.
We found a pull-off and wandered to the water’s edge. The pier reached out like a crooked finger, and the clouds moved overhead in long rows, their shadows breaking and mending the surface.
Lakes teach patience in a way rivers cannot. A bayou keeps reminding you of the journey downstream, pulling your thoughts toward what’s ahead. But lakes—especially these small Louisiana reservoirs—invite you to notice what simply is. The far tree line draws the horizon like a quiet border, as if to say: here is enough.
The road bent right under another arch of green. Branches knotted above us, a living cathedral roof.
The lakes have their moods. One moment soft light, wisps of white feathering the sky.
The next, darker clouds gathering their strength, pressing in over the still water.
From a pier angled left into the lake, the scale of it seemed larger, as though distance had stretched.
But then the eye falls back on something small: a spit of land, trees holding their ground, stubborn against time.
There’s a spiritual rhythm in watching the skies change above water. The old hymn writer spoke of “change and decay in all around I see,” but here the changes are softened—clouds reshaping, light shifting, waters holding steady. Creation is moving, yet it keeps its witness.
We lingered along the shore, not saying much. Sometimes that’s the gift—shared quiet, the easy company of someone who sees what you see.
On the drive back, the canopy returned, branches crossing like old friends.
These by-ways don’t shout their worth. They wait. Rediscovery isn’t about novelty, after all, but about letting familiar ground speak fresh to you. Vernon and Anacoco Lakes may not headline a travel guide, but they carry the steady voice of place, of water and trees and sky still bearing witness. And that, we think, is worth the drive.
Have you had any recent road adventures? I’d love to hear about them in the comments section below!
That’s it for now. Thanks for showing up. It matters.
Veni, Vidi, Scripsi 