The Riviera of the Midwest

We waited to take our spot. Once there, we’d look towards each other and over our respective shoulders—anticipating that moment of impact when the machine would come and scoop us up with its momentum. Dad and I would ease our combined weight onto the metal, but it wouldn’t matter. The addition of two more humans probably wouldn’t even bother the veteran motor and cables in the slightest. Still, balance was key, which is why the employee staggered the alighting of passengers. He had to operate in sync with his compatriots on the other end.

“It stopped!” shouted a lone child en route to disembark. 

“I know,” said the employee without even looking back at the unaccompanied kid. “It’s supposed to.”

The touch of a button got things moving again and then he motioned us forward. We walked across the wooden planks and watched our bench round the corner. It was about to carry us upward—just as it had done all day, all summer, and for so many years before. 

The “Skyride” operates on the honor system so-to-speak. That is: it’s on you to not lift the metal bar that’s just casually encouraging you to stay seated. The fall wouldn’t kill you, at least I don’t think it could, you’d probably just land on one of the many rides, food stands, or game booths below—your only prize being a broken leg. I wasn’t worried about me, though. Rather, I gripped my bag in a way that I imagine most parents would their child sitting next to them on this thing (although many seemed ok with lettering their offspring ride alone). I wanted to pull out the camera, to make some photographs of the scene playing out before us, but I didn’t dare try. I don’t mind heights, but this was something else. Unnerving as the gondola ride was, it was carrying us over the boardwalk and presenting an intoxicating view of Indiana Beach for the first time. 

It took me over a decade to make it here, even though the drive had always been an estimated 3 hours away. Since I had heard about this park in 2008, I had been chasing the same thing—the kind of place found on the coasts, a classic American amusement park drenched in summer sun where you’d have to wonder what was more questionable (or wonderful): the food or the rides. I wanted to experience something like a New Jersey boardwalk or the Santa Monica Pier, the kinds of locales that were still appreciated by some, but easily written off by those who’d never spend the night at a Motel 6. I eventually made it to places like New York’s Coney Island and Massachusetts’ Salisbury Beach, but Indiana Beach was always in the back of my mind. Still, it was never much of a priority compared to life’s demands or the allure of other photographic subjects. Then I found myself with plenty of time and a handful 35mm film.

“There’s more than corn in Indiana,” may be the most popular catchphrase ever used by the park, but I prefer “The Riviera of the Midwest,” a slogan emblazoned on the historic posters in the park’s small museum. St. Joseph, Michigan a few hours north also claims the title, but it lost its seaside park in 1971. Indiana Beach almost met a similar fate, announcing in early 2020 that it would close for good even before COVID-19 was spreading, but a wealthy businessman from Chicago stepped in to purchase the park as a pet project. 

He was able to reopen the rides at Lake Schafer and by mid-July, we had passed plenty of corn to get here. I came armed with the warm tones of Kodak film—a fitting medium to document this kind of destination. My Father came armed with a similar curiosity for the park and patience with me, knowing how much I enjoyed diving into places like this and photographing them. He gets it. And I was thankful that he had come along. 

The backstory of the park mimics many of its contemporaries, the few that still exist and the many now gone. Ideal Beach began as a leisure destination, a spot for swimming which eventually birthed a ballroom that drew famous musical acts of the era. The addition of rides and other attractions pushed the park’s growth over the years as it eventually adopted the name of Indiana Beach.

Today, the ten acre resort features five roller coasters, a water park, a camp ground, thrill rides, and still hosts musical acts in its ballroom. However, the advertised upcoming KISS tribute band is probably a far-cry from the historic performances of Louis Armstrong. The boardwalk isn’t supported by wooden piers wrapped in barnacles and the water isn’t as salty as the ocean (cement and a man-made lake fill those roles), but the idea is the same and the location in middle America makes it unique. 

Pandemic protection this summer is merely a formality. There was a temperature check on the way in and regular audio announcements, but bare skin and questionable tattoos are far more common than facial coverings. Still, I somewhat get it, I’m sweating under my mask as I walk past “The Sea Dragon” and the skeleton animatronics of “Frankenstein’s Castle”—a haunted house where families clamor for group photos in and around fake coffins.

We take a turn on each of the large roller coasters—rumbling circuits that leave us both thrilled and rattled. Although it has steel supports, the “Hoosier Hurricane” is very much a wooden roller coaster—one lap will leave you with no doubt about that. Painted bright white, it runs the length of the park’s boardwalk section. As you careen over the hills and get thrown around, you’ll take a dip beneath the park’s suspension bridge before flying back over the lake. The base of the ride, allegedly anchored over 90 ft. into the watery depths below, is lined with tires to protect it from docking leisure boats. 

We then go and queue for a turn on the “Cornball Express,” another twisted mass of wood and steel that’s beautifully designed above and around the surrounding midways. After the chain lift lets us go, the gravity propelled ride doesn’t let up until smashing into the brakes at the end. 

If you can chalk up the forces as endearing and lovable attributes of wooden roller coasters, these two rides are excellent examples of the tradition established by Charles Dinn. He had been a roller coaster designer who got his start working on the legendary “Beast” at Cincinnati’s Kings Island. His influence was carried through family and former associates who went on to form wood coaster companies of their own, one of which still headquarters itself in the Queen City’s suburbs. 

I try to explain this history to Dad over a dinner of foot long corn dogs and deep-fried pickles. Despite the local history connection roaring over our heads, our attention is on the food. The meal isn’t just perfect for the county fair-esque setting, it’s something I’d gladly eat under any circumstances. 

With Central Standard Time light fading fast, I run off to use up my film. I stand on the park’s suspension bridge as boats pulling rubber tubes with cans of Busch in their cup holders pass beneath, country music blaring. 

I listen as a man argues with his wife, the two of them hiding from the park’s no-smoking policy on a quiet path emblazoned by a hand painted advertisement for the “Tig’rr Coaster.” 

At some point, we ride the Ferris wheel, but it pales in excitement compared to watching guests on the swings spinning out over the lake—jet-skis roaring by as they’re piloted by men in Oakley sunglasses trying to show off to the boardwalk crowd.

The restrooms emit a strong stench fitting for their physical age, struggling under window a/c units, but thankfully the smells of fried food and barking of employees trying to lure customers to their games is a distraction from the supposedly sanitary confines. 

We make it into the air conditioned allure of an arcade parlor hosting a classic amusement park game. Similar to skee ball, customers pay a quarter to roll balls towards targets in hopes of gaining the high score and taking home a prize. The sun cuts across the game room and a friendly employee tells me about the challenge when he’s not enthusiastically narrating the bouts over a microphone. We don’t play, but I appreciate the activity and its maintained price. Much of this park is connected to its history, but maybe no section of it echoes its roots better than the sounds of “Fascination.”

Dad takes one last precarious trip on the “Skyride” as I stick to the midway, finishing off the final frames on a roll of Portra 800. As guests gather for the evening’s fireworks, I hope that someone will step up to a booth selling drinks. They’d be perfectly framed in yellow with the lights of the park and silhouette of the Skyride above them. I assume someone will go up to the alcohol-peddling window at any moment. Maybe that’s an assumption I have due to my own experiences of working in a different Midwestern amusement park. For eight seasons, I met many people who’d clamor to get one last drink before a park closed, but here, no one bites at the chance for a Bud, Miller, or margarita. The stand closes and even I can’t get a beer before I go. 

I meet up with Dad and we head to the car, pulling out of the grass parking lot and onto the road home. The place wasn’t what I was expecting and didn’t embody my ideas or experiences of a “traditional boardwalk.” For what it is, though—Indiana Beach itself—it’s absolutely wonderful. I was happy to have been there, even as I poured hand sanitizer over my limbs and dreamt of a shower on the way home.