August 15, 2005
Would I Rather Be A Cowboy Or A Motorcycle Gangster?
Whitewater State Park
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Sometimes in the middle of the night I feel the need to urinate. Tonight was just such a night. Owls were hooting. I looked up to see a perfectly clear sky completely filled with big, bright stars. A shooting star, probably a remnant of last week's Perseides meteor shower, streaked from the west to the east. Usually it's kind of a pain to get up in the middle of the night to pee, but this was sublime.
My first chore when I got up for good was to retrieve my food bag, which I had meticulously hung in a nearby tree. I didn't have to hang it very high since it was only pesky raccoons, not bears, that I had to foil. But it wasn't the beef sticks or energy bars I was after. Oh no! It was the freshly ground Dunn Brothers Guatemalan[1] coffee. Good coffee in the morning at camp is one of the finest pleasures on this earth, especially when one has taken the trouble to haul a little tin percolator on one's bike.
Three cups of coffee and two beef sticks consumed, I was on the road by 10:05 a.m. On the northeast side of the state park, the road turned to gravel. Nevertheless, it was a nice scenic ride. That is until I had to make a northbound turn away from the river valley. That's when I came upon a hill that overwhelmed me. I take great pride in my perseverance, in never giving up on a hill, but this one was ridiculous. Steepness, rough gravel, and the weight of my backpack dragging me down were my excuses, but it was still embarrassing to have to walk my bike up the last 50 yards. "Is this a sign of things to come," I wondered?
Even a big milk truck struggled up that damn hill, it's gears grinding painfully just to keep up a ten m.p.h. pace. I did manage to get to the top of the hill without anybody seeing me walking my bike though . . . I think.
I expected to see pavement after the junction with State Highway 16, but expectations rarely meet up with reality. I had a big decision to make: I could add five miles to my ride for the guaranteed pavement of Highways 16 and 52, or I could continue on the dusty gravel. After a couple of minutes of viewing the non-stop auto traffic on the paved highway, I opted for the gravel. After all, I AM riding a mountain bike.
On this stretch I saw another tiny country cemetery. I ba-a-a-a-a-ed at a small herd of sheep. I got an exhilarating downhill run. I saw a huge collection of old wagon wheels leaning up against the side of a barn. I said "HI" to an elderly farmer hobbling with a cane as he surveyed his fields. I bonded with a herd of cattle drinking from a stream.
I really enjoyed this stretch of hilly gravel. I only had to deal with four cars the entire time, which is a good thing because each one of them stirred up a cloud of dust in their wake a mile long. In the town of Fountain, MN I stopped at a museum. I didn't go inside though. Not only was I not presentable, but I really didn't have much interest in the history of this town. I just sat on a bench outside the entrance, underneath the canopy, taking a few notes and drinking a whole lot of delicious water.
North of town I took Highway 11. It was gloriously flat for the first couple miles. Then came a fun descent toward the Root River, followed by a scenic flood plain, followed by a nasty climb away from the Root River. It was all quite scenic, but I didn't take any pictures until I came upon a tree. It wasn't just a regular tree though.
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I had been out of water for quite some time before I finally made it to a truck stop at the intersection of Highway 11 and Interstate 90. I bought and consumed 24 oz. of Gatorade in record time there. I also replenished my water supply and drank some of that while also keeping an eye on a group of about twelve motorcyclists.
They weren't a bunch of doctors and lawyers on an afternoon motorcycle rally, though. No, these dudes were rowdy, bearded, tattooed, leather-clad, Harley-riding tough guys. Guys who wear bandanas on their heads when they ride, not helmets. Somehow I felt a little sissified as I put my dorky blue helmet on and rode away on my little pedal bike.
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Whitewater State Park is a very nice place. It's got a designated trout stream that flows through both wooded valleys and sandstone cliffs. It's got beautiful 200' bluffs. It's got abundant wildlife. It's got lots and lots of hiking trails. I was excited to be spending the rest of the day and night in such a setting.
While registering for a campsite at the park headquarters, the ranger on duty asked, "does your vehicle have a state park sticker?"
"I, um, rode in on my bike," I replied sheepishly, then corrected myself so he wouldn't think I was a motorcycle gangster, "I mean, my bicycle."
"I guess you don't need a sticker then," he said as he typed some information into the computer.
A woman in line behind me spoke up. "Where did you ride in from?"
"Well, I've been on the road for a couple days, but today I came from Forestville State Park."
"Forestville? Where's that?" she asked.
"Do you know where Spring . . ." I began.
"It's about 50 miles south of here," the ranger interrupted.
"Wow," exclaimed the woman, "that's a long way on a bike."
"It is pretty impressive," added the ranger.
I was feeling pretty important by that time, and I sure didn't correct the ranger's mileage estimate, which, to be more accurate, was just under 40 miles.
"Will you be needing any ice or firewood," the ranger asked next?
I had to think about that for a few seconds. "Sure, that sounds good. I can take the ice now, but I'll have to come back for the firewood."
"We could deliver it to your site for you," offered the woman behind me, her two kids nodding in agreement.
I thanked her, but told her I had been taking a lot of pride in doing this trip completely unsupported and I'd be fine strapping the bundle to my bike rack. Her eyes widened after I said that and, at least in my own mind, I think she wanted me to be her boyfriend.
After staking claim to my campsite and unloading all my gear, I did go back for the firewood and, despite an unsteady 30-plus lbs. strapped on my bike, I was able to get it to my site. [2]
Here are a couple pictures from my afternoon hike along the Whitewater River.
After the hike I took a walk to the restrooms for a much-needed shower. When I took off my shirt, I could not believe what I saw. There were very prominent white, sweaty salt stains on the back of my dark blue shirt. No doubt they came from biking with a backpack for the last two days. I was shocked and disgusted, but probably not as disgusted as the ranger, the friendly woman in line behind me,[3] her kids, and the half-dozen hikers I saw on the trail. (I might have earned a few bonus points from the motorcycle gang though.)
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[1] This footnote is specifically for my friend, Keith Klein--Minnesota ex-pat, connoisseur of fine food and wine, human spell-checker, and Cycleblazer--who kindly brought attention to my typographical error involving the word "Guatemalan" in the picture on page two of this journal. Thanks, Keith.
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[2] "Why would Greg need ice and firewood?" you might be wondering. The ice was to preserve the pound of hamburger I bought in the last town long enough for me to go for a hike, and the wood was to cook it.
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[3] In retrospect, after finding that gross mix of sweat and salt, I have to believe the woman never actually had an interest in me being her boyfriend. Plus, I can't even imagine what I smelled like.
Today's ride: 37 miles (60 km)
Total: 73 miles (117 km)
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You’re welcome. You mentioned canoeing. Have you ever canoed the Whitewater ? The name suggests that it might not be easy. Other than people the thing I miss most about Minnesota is my canoe. I’ve coined the Zumbro, the Cannon, the St. Croix, the upper Mississippi near the headwaters and countless lakes. (OK, you COULD count them, but I’d probably forget one or two and they might have their feelings hurt for being left out, and there is nothing more pathetic than a lake with hurt feelings, except for some old fart assigning feelings to random bodies of fresh water.)
I miss cheap hardwood lumber, too and your oak tree made me nostalgic. I’ll just have to console myself with a poulet facion Gaston Gerard washed down with a crisp Chablis.
Cheers,
Keith
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Just yesterday I was reading your "Bikepacking the Fool's Loop" and enjoyed it a lot. I'm a big fan of deserts. Also, it made me think that what I was doing in this journal is sort of an early form of bikepacking. Okay, that's stretching things a bit, but that's what I do.
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