A Windy Climb into Legend: Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore

It was the week before Memorial Day, but northern Michigan clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. The weather had the sharp edge of early spring, and the wind off Lake Michigan made sure we didn’t forget it. Bundled in jackets, we pressed on—because when else do you get to climb 400-foot sand dunes shaped by ice, wind, and time?

Inside the town-based visitor center of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, we got a crash course in geology and glacial power. The dunes are built atop steep, rocky slopes formed by ancient glaciers that carved Lake Michigan. Over time, wind piled sand upon sand until it cloaked the rock below, creating what are now the tallest freshwater dunes in the world. It’s a breathtaking meeting of Ice Age legacy and modern-day awe, perched on the edge of one of the world’s largest reservoirs of freshwater.

Unlike the vast wilderness parks out west, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore weaves in and around towns, homes, and lakeside cabins. It reminded us a bit of Canyon de Chelly in Arizona—another place where land designated for preservation lives alongside people who’ve called it home for generations. As we drove past Glen Lake toward the Dune Climb, the landscape felt like a lakeside community more than a traditional national park. Even the official picnic area nestled in a break between lake houses, on the picture-perfect shore of Glen Lake.

Picnicking, however, was no leisurely affair. The winds were relentless. We shuffled from one table to the next like Goldilocks in search of “just right,” but never quite found it. Turns out, it takes a lot of wind to make dunes this big—and that wind doesn’t exactly take a day off.

We made it up the Dune Climb—step, slide, repeat—and from the top, we caught a clear view of the distant Manitou Islands. These twin islands are rooted in an Ojibwe legend: a mother bear, fleeing a forest fire, swam across the lake with her two cubs. The cubs didn’t make it. The islands mark where they were lost, and the great dune on shore represents the mother, still watching. It’s a powerful, somber story of love and grief, and one our kids had read before arriving. Adeline, ever the empath, nearly refused to go, heartsick over the cubs’ fate.

The descent was another story altogether—less myth, more mayhem. I held hands with Carolina and James as we launched ourselves down the hill. Running full-tilt down a 400-foot dune is equal parts thrill and chaos. It was all fun and games until James face-planted—with his mouth open and tongue out. Turns out sand sticks remarkably well to the tongue of a three-year-old. He was a trooper though, and found our emergency water-bottle spritzing to be an adventure of its own. 

Poky, for his part, was crestfallen to sit this one out in the car. But with temps solidly in the 40s, we didn’t feel too guilty. He got his time later—back at the Airbnb on Crystal Lake, romping through the calm, clear shallows and chasing sticks with the kind of joy only dogs (and three-year-olds with clean tongues) can muster.

That evening, we listened to Nana’s stories about coming here as a girl—her family returning generation after generation to the land between Lake Michigan and the sparkling waters of Crystal Lake. We didn’t swim, but we felt the legacy.

Sleeping Bear is that kind of place—part legend, part land, part living memory. Where glaciers carved, wind sculpted, and families keep coming back, braving the cold for a few wild months of sun, sand, and stories.