I woke to clear sunny morning and enjoyed my cereal and coffee outside – the air was crisp, a wonderful light filtered through the trees, and I had a calico companion. Rocheport is a quaint town, with antique stores and an art gallery. It is somewhat reminiscent of small New England villages. Although Central Street was empty, there was a lot of activity at the trailhead café and bikeshop. I back-tracked a mile to the Rocheport tunnel, a stone lined tunnel cut into Manitou Bluff, and then headed east toward McBaine.
The section of Katy Trail running between the river and town is lined with sandbags that protected Rocheport during massive 2019 flooding fn the Missouri River
East of Rocheport, the trail wends between bluffs and the Missouri River along a route used by Native Americans and members of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Historical markers and points of interest necessitated frequent stops – including a fairly long but productive search for fading pictographs on the bluff face above Torbett Springs. Unlike yesterday, the trail was full of walkers, joggers and day cyclists, each enjoying a beautiful section of the trail. I had an extended conversation at the McBaine Trailhead with Tom, a biochemist from Columbia. He did veterinary diagnostic work at the University and it turns out we have several common acquaintances.
The trail moves inland just before McBaine but meets back up Cooper’s Landing Campground and Marina, which occupies a spectacular spot on the river’s bend. I wasn’t expecting it to be opened but pulled in to check things out. However, Randy the proprietor was there and he went in and got me a Duncan Mocha iced coffee – a real treat as the morning coffee left me a little caffeine deprived.
Shortly after Cooper’s Landing I went thru a orange barricade with a hand-written trail closure sign. Tom had warned me of this, but said he had gone through and everything seemed fine. The surface was mostly hard-packed dirt that had been build up about a foot from the original trail. Deep tread marks and reinforced bridges indicated that heavy trucks or equipment might be using the trail and, in fact, several large trucks traveling eastward forced me off the trail as I let them pass. The drivers all smiled and waved, so I always kept going. Eventually I came upon a long stretch newly laid dirt – certainly not rideable. Two workers told me they were repairing a large section of trail between Easley and Hartsburg that had suffered from the floods last year – the trucks I’d encountered were carrying replacement rock. I headed off, pushing Vivien George along the side of the trail when the sound of heavy machinery approached from the rear. It was the grader, moving along at a snail’s pace. I found a suitable spot to wait him out, and then followed behind for about a quarter mile until he was able pull off the trail. The remaining section of trail to Hartsburg was not too bad, though I did follow a BobCat for a short stretch. Everything considered, the Missouri State Park Service does an good job maintaining the trail, especially considering how often the Missouri River floods in this area.
I stopped at the Hartsburg trailhead for my picnic lunch, enjoying a Missouri peach that I bought yesterday in Boonville. As the river wound its way east, the trail stayed on a mostly direct line through bottom lands. At North Jefferson, I took a spur across the river into Jefferson City, the state capital. The greenway to the river a mix of unpaved trail and quiet roadway and there was a dedicated bike path/pedestrian walkway across the river. However, I was a bit daunted by the elaborate cube of ramps leading up to the bridge. It turned out to be no big deal, and I even overcame my fear of heights to stop and take a picture of the state capital.
My lodging in Jefferson City is a non-descript chain hotel located on a busy, pedestrian-unfriendly road. After cleaning up, I took a short nap and made my way to the downtown area for dinner – choosing a local barbecue place with outdoor seating. Walking back to the hotel, I realized I had lost my little travel wallet – it somehow had fallen out of my purse, one of those almost useless small cross-chest bags that snap closed. I retraced my steps, scanning the sidewalks to no avail and found myself back at the barbecue place where I received more bad news. As I was giving them my name and number, my phone rang. A nice man who grew up in Waterloo Iowa had found my wallet, across the street, by Subway. I had made some plastic cards for my France tour last year with contact info and threw it into my wallet just before leaving Ames. Once again, I was rescued by the kindness of strangers. It makes me feel that somehow we will all be okay.
