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.
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