Wildlife Ride!

The first part of the ride was a piece of cake. That's the part where I ride a few blocks, pay less than two dollars, board an LRT train where I hang my bike inside on the conveniently provided hanger, and relax as we are carried south to Bloomington. In fact this part of the ride is even easier than before, seeing as there is a new station in the median at American Boulevard, allowing me to hop out for an even shorter ride to the Wildlife Area. In fact the ride down the hill behind the visitor center is easier than ever (often I have to walk at least part of this because of deep, loose gravel or ruts) and I am able to coast slowly down the whole length of it and casually grab the trail southward.

From here I'm assuming things will get harder. The only question is how much harder. I have two basic motivations for this ride on this day. First is the fact that this is probably my favorite ride and I haven't done it all year. High water, knee issues, and other factors have kept me away, and I've been waiting for months now for the right opportunity. Today seems to be it, what with the unseasonably warm weather. The catch is that we did get a fair amount of rain earlier in the week, and record windstorms to boot (an "inland hurricane" as one person dubbed it) so I'm not sure what the trail conditions will be like. I'm expecting some downed trees and some mud, but hoping it is passable, hoping it is ride-able. My other motivation for the ride was spurred by some of the e-mails I've been reading from the list serve of the Minnesota Ornithologists' Union. Amongst the rarities (common ground dove, pacific loon, Ferruginous Hawk, Long-tailed Jaeger, etc., I noticed a few mentions of Wigeons, and that reminded my of my beloved Wigeon pond near the highway 77 turnaround on this trail. Would I ever relish the chance to spot a wigeon down there, if it's not too late!

I set out down the old gravel road, encouraged ... no problems with the riding surface at those first two stream crossings. I stopped at the second, where the water was truly surging, looking for birdlife and surveying the bald eagle's nest off int he distance for any signs of activity. Nothing. But I was away from home, away from traffic, and finally on my ride. Before long I hit the first obstacle: a completely flooded section of trail. I surprised myself, though, by being able to power through the muddy grasses along the shoulder in my easiest gear by keeping high pedal rotation speeds.

From there the going got worse. It had nothing to do with the recent rains. No, I'm sure it was the intense spring and fall floods this year that had the Minnesota River well out of its banks. The park staff had obviously been down here trying to rehabilitate the trail. There were signs of new dirt and rebuilt road: treads from earth-moving utility equipment marked the road at regular intervals. These were not just like tire treads, but more like a tank, carving deep notches in the trail surface. The trail was plenty dry enough here, but those notches created a strong washboard effect, and with my steel-framed bike I was rattled from so much bumpy vibration.

trail scene, west side

Silly of me to complain about that though, as I would soon find out. At least it was ride-able. I had expected downed trees, mud, and maybe some standing water. I had not expected something worse: sand. Yes, the river had deposited inches of sand, filling in the trailbed in long stretches. In this next stretch it was too deep to pedal through, so I was reduced to walking. It was becoming a struggle already, and I was only perhaps a quarter of the way into the ride. So already I faced that first decision point. I could turn back and deal with the unpleasant but passable trail, or I could forge ahead, hoping for better conditions but facing what might be much worse. No one else was on the trail; the only soul around was a white-tailed deer foraging nearby. I forged ahead, thinking of the wigeons.

The area around the 77 bridge was pretty well flooded still, but I was able to power through on my thoroughly mud-caked tires. I made it up the first leg of the bike bridge ramp, and things got so much better. Within a minute I was riding on rubber again. I rode over the put-in spot for a favored paddling outing, noting how far the water went up onto the boat ramp. I still didn't understand what happened this fall. It seemed that at the same time we were being told that we were int he midst of a record dry streak, with no rain for months in the TC, we were getting record flood warnings on the Minnesota River; they even closed the St. Paul airport at one point. But statistics were of no matter to me now -- I was hunting for Wigeons. I approached The Wigeon Pond from a new vantage point on the south side.

The Wigeon Pond, Two Views

There were plenty of swimmers there, but they all had solid green heads -- Mallards. I biked up the hill a bit and pulled out my binoculars, scanning the pond. Wigeons! Yes, there were at least three males and two females toward the back of the pond. I spent some time watching one preening male whose yellow, green and brown feathers and pale blue bill were gleaming in the strong southern sunshine. In this same vicinity I also came across a couple of Great Blue Herons -- I was surprised there were still some around seeing as how it was almost November.

Reinvigorated, it was time to get on with the ride. I had convinced myself that the east side of the river would promise better riding conditions because of the well established, low wetlands nearby and deep streambeds connecting them to the river, plus the high riverbank. That's how I remembered it. And indeed, the first stretch was a little soft, a little wet, a little soupy, yet quite ride-able.

Undated warning sign

Then: the sun went behind the clouds. Lots of downed trees and branches. Deep Mud. Worst of all, deep, deep river sand. I was back to intermittent walking, tripping through branch fragments, trying to keep my ankles dry. Deep tire ruts – someone, maybe park staff, had driven a truck through the mud – didn't help. It was one of those rare occasions when I wished I was riding a mountain bike. Yes, easier gears and increased tire-ground surface contact would have helped here. But as always I was on my cyclocross bike, which under normal circumstances was ideal for this trail. Anyway, I wasn't going to turn back now, not after struggling down the west riverbank. I wasn't going to bike back that way.

Beaver Evidence

I came a cross a middle-aged woman hiking in an area seemingly inaccessible by car. I don't know how she got there, unless she'd actually hiked all the way from the parking area under the 77 bridge, which was pretty far behind me. She lamented the poor trail conditions, pointing out that it was especially bad for biking. I asked if she'd seen the trail downriver, and if so, what the outlook was. She had, and she gave a decidedly discouraging forecast: downed trees, mud, and yes, lots and lots of sand. That confounded grey river sand.

Sandy Trail View

Sand and Debris on Bridge

Not November Snow – October Sand

Generations of Sand Deposits on Riverbank

But I wasn't about to let this estranged hiker take the wind out of my sails. I forged ahead. Ahead into worse and worse conditions, tripping, sliding, and sinking. Nearly falling off of the bike. Hiking with the bike where hiking alone was difficult. Cloudy skies, standing water, puddles, blown-out bridges, and finally that spot I dreaded, where the trail started to merge with the river itself.

Freshly Downed Trees

Stream cutting through Trail

Flood-Damaged Bridge

Uh-Oh

Riverbank Scene

I forged ahead. I was committed. And I could scarcely believe it, but things were getting better, with long stretches of ride-able trail. Sure, there were wet spots, soft spots, and sandy stretches, but nothing I couldn't handle. By the time I reached a raccoon watering hole under the I-494 bridge, things were looking much brighter, figuratively and literally.

Raccoon Watering Hole

Yep, that's my bike

A Proper Trail

The sun was shining, and I finally got a stretch of trail that was easy going, so easy that I notched it up, not one gear, but two or three -- I was actually cruising, and cruised all the way into the village of Mendota. Yes, I was back to civilization and riding on rubber again. Rubber and pavement; things could not have been more effortless.

In fact it was warm and sunny. In fact I cruised by Sea Salt on my way back home. In fact I happened upon an old friend there, sitting alone outside on the sunny terrace. I pulled my bike up, sat down, and in response to his inquiry, began to tell him about my ride: "The first part of the ride was a piece of cake. .."

Bike Adventure

The man on the hill had all the answers. Not that we had even asked the questions, but upon stopping to exchange pleasantries with this middle-aged visitor on his cruiser bike at the back entrance to Crosby Farm Park, his little dog in tow, he proceeded to give us the full rundown. In truth I wasn't tracking all the details as he carefully laid them out, but I got the gist: The first part of the path had been cleared of cattails, grasses, and other debris; at some point there were "lakes" to circumnavigate (he didn't mean the actual lakes in the park, but what I would call large puddles covering the trail); there were downed trees to go over or under; there were extremely muddy patches and one slice of trail, like a gully, that had been completely filled by deep sand deposited by the surging river. He spoke of a "secret trail" that when described soon revealed itself as one quite well known to us (part of our typical cross country skiing route). He didn't know that we'd already done an exhilarating slice of off-road biking, having turned back at one of his lakes when coming upon it from the opposite direction, and biking, as best we could, the dirt path along the bluff on other side of the real lakes. And despite all the details he had disclosed, which might have acted as spoilers, the plot of the movie revealed before seeing it, none of that made a dent in what would continue to be a true bike adventure.







It was like a haunted landscape. The remains of trees, large and small, were strewn across the path (we could bike over or through the small stuff, but when I observed a mountain biker attempt to roll over one of the medium sized branches blocking the path, he nearly capsized. Yes, there were gullies, trenches full of sand much too deep to be bike-able. The main patch was indeed much too muddy in spots, and those lakes were formidable, so we found ourselves on the "secret" trail; it was mostly dry and quite narrow.



What he hadn't revealed was that erosion had caused the riverbank to cave in along stretches of this trail. An adventurous biker might have hugged the inner edge of the trail to avoid the six-foot drop to the actual riverbank, but I dismounted and walked through a couple of tight stretches. It's hard to describe the other-worldly atmosphere in those dark woods. The bottomland was soaked, with sporadic lakes and puddles, downed trees and debris both natural and un-.




On the bluff side, marsh marigolds, skunk cabbage, bloodroot, and Dutchman's breeches were emerging. Chickadees and Eastern Phoebes appeared here and there, looking magical, and even the first Great Blue Heron of the year was incredibly striking. Maybe it's because these woods are so familiar to me from years of walking, skiing, and biking through them. For the first time they felt unfamiliar; even the sounds and smells were foreign.



Then there's the fact that the barriers – the sand, mud, and lakes – were still keeping most of the riffraff out. Sure, we ran across the odd mountain biker or too-happy family, but for long stretches we felt alone in these woods, which, considering that they sit in the heart of a major metropolitan area, was a more than pleasant surprise.



It was more than just fun getting back into these bottomlands (finally) after the spring floods – it was a true adventure. We were even able to complete the circuit, biking back long the riverbank through Hidden Falls Park. Yes, though not perfectly navigable, all of the old pathways in the river flood-plain are open again. Well, open to bikes, anyway.

Zeal

An unseasonably warm and sunny Saturday afternoon – what better time to get out for a spin on the bike? Actually, as I was about to find out, there are plenty of better times. I zipped right out into a headwind, with a fairly definitive route in mind, thinking I'd make it a workout ride. What I hadn't accounted for was the weakness of my winterrubberwhite legs and the crowded trail conditions. Yes, everybody and his/her mother was out walking on the trails. Some walked on the bike trail, not knowing or not caring about the parallel designated walking trail but a few yards away. Lots and lots of walkers. Some had sticks, some didn't. Some were oblivious, others less so. Some seemed terrified upon discovering that a man riding a bike was calling out to them, attempting to pass them on the left. It was as if they'd never seen a man on a bike before, as if a chimpanzee mounted on a camel were galloping up on their rear– such was the registration of shock and misapprehension on their faces. Others couldn't care less, and made little attempt at accommodation. Surprisingly, the ones with sticks were relatively sensitive regarding these matters, even apologetic.

I changed routes almost immediately, deciding on a whim to check out one of my old favorites, the bottomland area just south of the Franklin bridge on the east bank of the Mississippi. The flood waters had well receded, leaving some patches of brackish backwater that only a single brave mallard dared to ply.



The trail was dusty, it was windy, and I was weak. I kept going though, up past the U of M ...



... down the dirt pathway along the rail corridor, and up to the Stone Arch Bridge (predictably crowded) and stopped to see if my old friends, the annual cormorants, were in their tree below St. Anthony Falls yet. They were not.




By this time I was already acknowledging my own lack of zeal. I'd planned to go up around the Boom Island loop, maybe even reconstitute another old favorite (Nicollet Mall - Loring Greenway - Loring Park - Cedar Lake - Midtown Greenway). But somewhere downtown along the west bank of the river I lost interest and motivation in any structured route and found myself just poking around, looking at tourists and people with dogs and funny haircuts.



Truth to tell, I was more interested in taking pictures. The zeal for photography was still there, and I mean in a back-to-the-basics way, like when I very first started back in college. I didn't care about representation or information; my interests were pure: form, line, texture, color, and the like.



It was only after having given up on the ride and heading back home that the magic of biking surprisingly took hold. I suppose that's because I chose to head back south on the Light Rail Trail. Because is isn't "scenic" (unless, like me, you find semi-industrial urban rail corridors seductive) it was pleasantly free of other folks. There were a few bikers, and almost no walkers. I hit my stride, found the magic and joy of biking after all, and even put some shape into those rubberwhite legs ... I got a workout in and had a great time after all.

Spring Floods

Last year I had so much fun riding through puddles and rivers that this spring I made sure to get out on the bike when the water was still high. The difference was that this year the water was much higher. The first time I tried to cruise through a puddle down in Crosby Farm Park, I quickly found that I'd made a serious misjudgment; before I knew it I was up to my knees in muddy water. I had to abandon the pedals, get off the bike, and exit, stage right. I slogged through some soupy bottomland woods until I reached the interior path and could ride again.


For several weeks I continued to attempt loop rides around the basic Ft. Snelling-Mendota-Lillydale-Crosby-Hidden Falls configuration. Fort Snelling State Park was soon underwater, with access to Pike Island only available to the brave or foolhardy. Lilydale Road was subsumed with water starting at the railroad viaduct. Hidden Falls was out of the question, with water over the trail and park, all the way back to the bluff in spots. As the waters rose (on the Mississippi, but even more so on the Minnesota River) biking in any of my usual bottomland spots was ruled out more definitively than ever. The whole of Crosby Farm park was underwater, as was the entire riverbank stretch of Lilydale Road. Even the crossing from the trail, coming down off of the bluff and trying to access the trail on the other side of the road that spins you up to the I-35E bridge trail was inundated; USGS folks were using this area as a boat put-in.

It made for fun adventures, even though so many areas were off limits. It forced me onto the high paths where there were great vantage points to survey the impact of the river surges: up at the Fort Snelling overlook;, from the bike lane of the Mendota Bridge; at one point from atop the railroad viaduct and elevated rail tracks at Lilydale; from the I-35E bridge; from Shepard Road above Crosby Farm, and from a designated overlook above Pike Island in Saint Paul, where Shepard Road meets highway 5.

From these high vantage points I accumulated a nearly 360º view of the river valley. I witnessed, over time, the trails, roads, and parking areas of Fort Snelling State Park overtaken by the Minnesota River. I saw Picnic Island, where we had indeed stopped to picnic during our paddling adventure last fall, disappear. Pike Island, longer and larger, was like a sinking ship; I watched the front tip down and go under. Hidden Falls park was beyond hidden -- it seemed to be non-existent. The river access road flanking the I-35E bridge had become a river in its own right. I never thought I'd see the river take the whole of Crosby Farm, but it did; the two lakes there became part of the river as the waters pushed all the way back to the bluff.

Eventually the waters receded and I was able to resume some of my regular rounds. I was lucky enough to ride the full Lilydale route on the first day that it was opened to traffic; there were a couple of muddy spots and some puddles but nothing to trouble a reasonably intrepid biker. It was exhilarating to bike the section along the riverbank, as the water was still right up to the edge of the road; it was almost like biking along the surface of the river itself. Also captivating was the discovery of new wetlands and wet micro-environments along the way. I found it quite satisfying to at last complete that longer Lilydale loop, although Crosby was still out of the equation on the return. The big surprise there was the loud chorus of Hyla Crucifer (Spring Peepers) ringing out from the Mississippi bottomlands.

Catching Up

04/12/2010

in the neighborhood

along the mighty miss.

Well, it's been about a year now since Bikelogue sank ... for predictable reasons: travel, work, wanting to just ride as opposed to document the ride, and most of all, the time-consuming ritual of writing up an entry, working up a set of photos, and finally posting to a blog that no one reads. Well, almost no one. With encouragement from a single reader, this bikester/blogster is ready to make another go of it.


Thinking back on last year's rides, without thinking too hard, the best memories are of really breaking in the "Wildlife Area" ride: that loop on the gravel through the Minnesota Valley National Wildlife Refuge, over the Cedar bridge, and then back on the dirt/mud "mountain bike" trail along the banks of the Minnesota River back into Mendota.


Sometimes I would take the full ride from my house, through Minnehaha Park; down below Fort Snelling and through the State Park; then up and across highway on Post Road between the airport terminals; past the Fort Snelling national military cemetery and alongside the light rail tracks down into Bloomington and finally over to the wildlife area. If I wanted a shorter ride or simply wanted to spare myself the sections of the ride that necessitated sharing the road with crazed suburban commuter cars, I would hop on the light rail with my bike and ride to Bloomington Central station, hop out there and ride the short jaunt over to the wildlife area. Either way, it was always a fun ride (this forty-something man saw his first wigeon and first baby snapping turtles on this route), and sometimes I was able to take a fun side trip down Old Cedar Road, complete with side-streams and downed tree obstacles and adjacent wetlands, up to the old (closed) bridge and back.

Old Cedar Road

Old Cedar Bridge

Early in the year both sides of the loop could be soft and soggy, and there was lots of fresh gravel on the wildlife road, so it was a tougher ride. Later in the summer the dirt was dry and hard, and the gravel was well packed, so it became a super workout ride if one wanted; I could really fly along on my cross bike, just scream along on the sparsely populated trail.

Cedar Ave Bridge -- Bikers' Accommodation

Heading back downriver on the Mendota side

Another thing that came out of these rides was the strange idea I got of paddling a stretch of the river. And it came to fruition: come October, a group of six of us put in under the Cedar bridge, fresh snow still on the boat ramp and dusting the logs along the river bank, and paddled down to Harriet Island in Saint Paul, guided for at least part of the way by a wounded Pelican.