An island of glacier-tumbled rock, covered in trees, sits in the cold waters of Lake Michigan. On the horizon, it looks like the gathering of night. This is Wisconsin’s Rock Island State Park, where my love of nature began.

Thirty years ago I spent part of a summer there with a troop of the Polish Boy Scouts, which is a story in its own right. We slept on rusty cots, played dubious games with pocketknives, tramped around the island and jumped into its hidden coves. Our clothes started to grow fungus and we may have blown up cans of creamed corn in bonfires. It was glorious.

Rock Island is one of 8,565 state parks that are scattered across all 50 states. Some, like Niagara Falls, have international stature, but most are like Rock Island, locally popular but otherwise unknown. Some are no larger than city parks; others are as grand as national parks. Last year I visited 53 of them, from Mackworth Island State Park in Maine to Wailuku River State Park in Hawaii.

As I began my yearlong exploration, a question nagged at me. Are state parks just less impressive versions of national parks? Eventually I realized the question made no sense. The two each have unique traits that make comparisons impossible. The singularity of state parks is their meld of nature, history, local culture and ordinary life. Here you find rites of passage, first campfires, an escape from work, and a quick, cheap break. National parks belong to everyone. State parks belong where they are.