I don’t dislike Indiana Dunes. I resent that it calls itself National Park. I guess someone had to give a National Park to Indiana so every state feels included. You hear “national park” and your brain starts preparing for something mythic: towering mountains, ancient forests, landscapes that fundamentally alter your relationship with geology, God and yourself. Then you arrive and realize you are at a reasonably nice beach near Gary, Indiana.
Not even an astonishing beach. Just a solid Midwestern beach with commitment issues. A bellow average Californian one. There are sand dunes, sure. Some grass. A few trails. But the entire time you can see industrial smokestacks looming in the distance like the world’s least inspiring loading screen backdrop. Nothing kills the spiritual majesty of nature quite like trying to contemplate wilderness while a steel refinery quietly hovers on the horizon.
The whole experience feels weirdly...mid. Like the kind of place where Michael, from the Office, says, “You know, this would be a really good spot for a company picnic.”
And look, if you live nearby? Absolutely go. Walk the beach. Watch the lake. Have a nice afternoon. But the phrase “national park” creates expectations this place simply cannot survive. Calling Indiana Dunes a national park feels like grade inflation for landscapes, like DEI for states.