I’m not one for early mornings, which is a shame because my favorite time of day is dawn. That brief window when the sun just begins to rise, casting soft light over a sleeping world. There’s a kind of quiet then that you can’t find anywhere else. Streets are empty, beds are still warm, birds are already busy with their songs, and the grass is glazed with dew that’s just starting to fade in the light.

It’s a time I always romanticise, but rarely experience.

Yet here I was, at 5am, filling a water bottle and stuffing the last of my gear into my camera bag. The ritual feeling like a minor act of rebellion against my own instincts. The window was still dark, but a faint bluish hue hinted at the coming day. I layered up, flung the bag over my back, and stepped outside. The air hitting like a cold slap; crisp, pine-scented, and sharp enough to wake the dead.

Žabljak was still asleep as I drove through the empty streets. I parked at the forest’s edge and stepped out into silence. No cars, no people, just the dense stillness of pines and the cold breath of dawn. The trail to Crno Jezero isn’t long, maybe 20 minutes on foot, but in that moment, with the trees closing in around me, it felt like I was crossing into another world.

The forest opened up, and there it was — Crno Jezero, quiet and vast in the early light. Low clouds hung heavy above, cloaking the mountain peaks in a thick grey shroud, but the air below was crisp and clear. The surface of the lake was eerily still, as if holding its breath, waiting for someone to break its slumber with the first ripple of the day.

There was no wind, no sound, no movement. I stood still, barely breathing, not wanting to break whatever spell was hanging over this place. The mountains were hidden, but the stillness didn’t feel incomplete. If anything, it made the lake feel even more like a secret the world hadn’t noticed yet.

I started walking slowly along the trail that traces the lake’s edge, the only sound coming from the soft rustle of pine needles and the casional snap of a twig from under my feet.

Here and there, I stopped. Sometimes to take a photo, other times just to look. It’s mornings like this when reflection isn’t something you consider; it’s a natural reaction, like taking your first breath.

A quiet spot along the shore beckoned me to site. The ground was damp, and the air still, I kept my hands buried in my pockets. I watched the mist drift and lift, slow and steady, like the lake was waking up one breath at a time.

I didn’t think about anything in particular. That was the beauty of it. The stillness didn’t demand reflection, it allowed it. No pressure to solve anything, no need to chase thoughts down. Just the simple, grounding presence of water, trees, and time.

This is why I chase places like this. Not for the photo or the story, but for the way they make everything else go quiet. You don’t need to explain a moment like this. You just feel it and let it settle.

I stayed there for a while, long enough to lose track of how long it had been. And for once, that felt like the point.

By the time I had completed the loop of the lake, I felt lighter. Not because anything had changed, but because I had remembered how much peace there is in stillness.

These are the moments I chase. Not the dramatic ones, but the quiet ones. The kind that remind you to look, breathe, and be where you are.

Black Lake didn’t give me anything profound. It didn’t have to. It just offered a moment of silence, a moment to take in the beauty that surrounds us, and a moment to sit still and do nothing, and that, sometimes, is everything you will ever need.