Riding Rail Trails

Summer 2000

(the safe - almost - alternative to riding highways)

by Glenn Oster 

Rail-trails are the answer for bicyclists who are intimidated by motorists on highways. By rail-trails, I mean trails that were originally constructed for railroads but have since been abandoned and converted into trails for people to bicycle, hike and, where paved, in-line skate. While my first love for bicycling is riding roads, I do like to ride rail-trails at times. This summer "at times" meant 630 miles of bicycling on ten rail-trails in eight Midwest and western states throughout a four week period in June and July, 2000.

Probably for me, riding alone, a most pleasant aspect was the social side of riding. I met many people on the trail and enjoyed hearing about their bicycling interests. I was amazed at how many of them had bicycled all the trails within hundreds of miles of where they lived. They had great suggestions of trails for me to ride on another trip. Compared to many highway bicyclists, rail-trail riders are not as intense at training or maintaining a high pedal cadence or average speed. They are more relaxed about their trail usage and don’t seem to be quite as serious about bicycling as road riders, or mountain bikers; for example, too many of them do not wear helmets.

The impetus for my making this tour, believe it or not, was a picture on the cover of the Fall/Winter issue of Rail to Trails, the magazine published by the Rails to Trails Conservancy. It showed a family walking across a high trestle on the Route of the Hiawatha. That led me to read the story of this trail that works its way through the Bitterroot Mountains of northern Idaho. I was hooked - just had to do it. Why not, then, ride rail-trails on the way out. Made sense. My thinking extended east as well even though I had already ridden those trails. I thought that starting at Mount Vernon in Virginia might be appealing to others, but that turned out to be wrong. So, I skipped the eastern trails, i.e., the C&O Canal Trail (not a rail-trail), the Allegheny Highlands Trail and the Youghiogheny River Trail. I originally selected more Midwest trails than I actually rode because further research suggested that some of them would not be especially desirable.

I had some reservations about making the tour, i.e., I was concerned that I might become bored with the sameness of rail-trail scenery. Also, when riding rail-trails, you are constantly peddling. There usually are minor climbs and descents, but they are easy gradients, and bicyclists rarely get a chance to rest their legs on down hill coasts. When you’ve done a long rail-trail, your legs, your hands, your wrists and your butt are well aware that you went for a ride. Notwithstanding these reservations, I took the plunge.

As I drove west, the first thing that I became aware of was gasoline prices. They became progressively higher than my last fill up in Wexford, Pa. In Michigan, the highest, motorists were lined up to get into a service station that offered unleaded for the bargain price of $2.02 per gallon. Most stations there charged $2.14. I had expected higher gasoline prices on the trip, but over the 7,300 miles that I drove, I underestimated my fuel cost by $200.

The purportedly 26 mile Wabash Cannonball Trail was the first I planned to do, starting near Maumee and ending near Montpelier in northwestern Ohio. I intended to ride it both directions and elected to start at the trail’s crossing of Ohio Route 295, a few miles west of Maumee. I started to ride east to the Maumee trail head but immediately encountered weeds two feet high across the trail. I changed directions and rode west. The trail there was in need of mowing, but it was passable. In time, I came to a local park through which the trail surface for the next six or so miles was crushed limestone and in great shape. I was most encouraged, but my elation was short lived. The trail reverted to gravel beyond the park limits. After struggling with that for a few miles and discussing my passage with a couple of dogs who were defending their turf, I bailed out and rode highways back to the park area and its better riding surface. While I was on the trail, I saw deer and numerous birds, including yellow finches and electric blue indigo buntings. However, the wildlife was not enough of a plus to alter my opinion that this trail was not an encouraging start to my tour. I had expected something special to live up to the old song "----she’s a regular combination of the Wabash Cannonball."

At intersections with roads, the gates have attractive maps with "You are here"arrows. The trail is paved with smooth asphalt and starts from the "Tridge"(bridges over the Pine and Chippewa Rivers just ahead of their confluence and a third bridge connecting the other two ) in a beautiful park area in the town of Midland. Currently, it is rideable for 20 miles to the town of Coleman. Another 8 ½ miles of trail is scheduled to be paved this summer to the town of Clare. Literature had led me to believe that I could bicycle the trail to the town of Evart, somewhat farther, and I was disappointed to have to turn back. Two disappointments in two days - was this to be the story for the remainder of my tour?

Happily, that was not to be the story. I next drove to Elroy, Wisconsin, to ride the Elroy-Sparta Trail. It had been the route of the Chicago - Northwestern Railroad in its day. You may remember having read that this is the first railroad corridor in the nation to be converted into a trail. Accordingly, it was a must on my trip. Its crushed limestone riding surface is smooth and well maintained.

As an example, one such placard explains why there were huge doors at the ends of the tunnels. Recognizing that the internal temperature of the tunnels remains higher in winter than outside, freezing is prevented by having the doors closed when trains are not in the tunnels. Another placard discusses devices called "tell tales." These are knotted ropes hanging down from cross members supported by upright poles. If a brakeman had been walking on the roof of a car that was approaching a tunnel, he would encounter the tell tale ropes which would warn him to get down or be swept off when the train entered the tunnel. Another placard deals with the "W" that shows on posts along the way. I always thought that meant that a water source for the train had been imminent. Not so. That notified the engineer that a crossing was near and he had to begin his series of warning whistle blasts. So, the W stood for whistle, not water.

In Wisconsin, one must buy a pass to ride the state rail trails. I expected to do another trail in Wisconsin and bought a full season pass for $10 - money well spent. Rangers patrol the trail and check on passes. The money is used to maintain Wisconsin trails.

. All was going well - and then it happened. On the return ride, the sky opened up and showered me with the cold water faucet turned fully on. The only shelter to be had was in the tunnels. Riders were in no hurry to leave them; however, the rain was also in no hurry to abate. Fortunately, I carried my rain suit in a pannier and lost no time in donning it. Condensation inside the jacket made me feel damp despite its protection from the downpour. Fortune also smiled on me in that I have fenders on both my touring and mountain bicycles that I took on the tour. I was damp, as I mentioned, when I reached my mini van, but others, without fenders, were returning to their vehicles looking like drowned you know whats. They had splatter lines up the front and back of their jerseys, on their faces and in their hair. They weren’t in especially good moods. I returned to my campsite by early afternoon, made a poor attempt at cleaning the limestone residue off my bicycle, made trip notes, listened to music on my van’s stereo system and simply rested as I waited out the rain.

I had been aware of another trail in the area but paid little attention to it until I realized that it is, in effect, an extension of the Elroy-Sparta Trail. It’s called the "Old 400 Trail", named for the 400 Railroad that boasted doing its 400 mile run in 400 minutes. The sector that has been converted to a rail trail is 22 miles long and also has a hard packed crushed limestone surface,. It follows the Baraboo River and, unlike the Elroy-Sparta Trail, is totally flat. It passes many lilly ponds - giving rise to many mosquitos. One doesn’t spend much time in relieving himself or taking pictures. Apparently, the lure of the tunnels attracts more riders to the Elroy-Sparta Trail. It was heavily used, whereas the Old 400 Trail had few riders. Could the mosquitos have influenced those decisions?

Made it to the Saint Croix Falls, Wisconsin area by the following morning and set out on the Gandy Dancer Trail, another with a crushed limestone surface. You don’t realize how much more effort it takes to move a bicycle on crushed limestone than on asphalt until you cross a paved road and discover how much easier that surface is to ride. My backside and legs were sore and a bit weary; so, I cut the day’s ride to 23 miles each way to take pity on them. After all, they had served me faithfully for six days in a row and didn’t deserve the 62 mile day that I had planned. I’ve done a lot of bicycling this year and the time is overdue for my butt to toughen up. My legs are doing as well as I could expect, but there’s no buts ‘abut’ it, my butt needs to get the message. I have a lot more serious riding to do this year, and it has to do its part.

The next day was one on which to regroup at Baxter/Brainerd, Minnesota - travel, car service, laundry, E-mail time at the library and checking up on access to the Paul Bunyan Trail. All my parts got a rest that day. One such part got more than a rest. I sat on a picnic bench at the trail head and learned when I went to leave that pine sap had oozed out under the paint on the bench seat. My new trousers were plastered over an eight by three inch area with thick goo that also made them stick tightly to my buttocks, which was gooey in turn, a most unpleasant situation. Moreover, I couldn’t sit on the seat of my van in that condition. Thus enters another aspect of regrouping - how to get my trousers and my briefs off and something else on. Obviously, I needed to change clothes so that I could drive to the cleaners in the hope that their magic could rescue my trousers. Fortunately, there was an outhouse there. I discarded my briefs and used Coleman stove fuel to unstick my derriere. Matters improved from that juncture.

When I reached the Eagle Wing Campground (three quarters of a mile from the trail on a dirt road), I was in doubt that it actually was my destination, even though there was a sign alongside the access road. I could see no picnic tables, no other tents or RVs and there was no sign indicating the office. Furthermore, no one answered the house door when I knocked. Harboring considerable doubt, I hailed a passing motorist who assured me that I was at the right place. Well, might as well make myself at home. I set up my tent in a nice meadow with a view of a small lake, made dinner with the ceaseless help of an overly friendly large black dog and two cats that were most inquisitive about what I was cooking. I performed my culinary tasks on the concrete porch floor of an outbuilding, which turned out to be a very nice shower house under construction. After dinner, I washed and removed the insect repellant in which I first bathed when I arrived. In the northern Midwest, mosquitos are a fact of life. I hadn’t yet come to accept that fact. To escape them, I crawled into my tent and quickly fell asleep. In an hour or so, I heard a call from a man approaching my tent - the owner - a super nice guy. He hunkered down outside my tent amid dozens of mosquitos that were swarming around and all over him. We had a great conversation despite the mosquitos. He was not going to charge me anything, but we negotiated the matter and settled on a budget busting fee of $5.

The next day offered an easy 35 mile ride back to the trailhead and into the city of Brainerd, where I was having my van serviced. Everything went well (even the cleaning of my trousers), and I was on my way to South Dakota by mid afternoon with a comfortable feeling that life there had been pretty good - if you can overlook a seat full of pine sap.

By the following evening, I was well established at the Fish & Fry Campground outside of Deadwood, South Dakota. The campground has a pond full of trout, for which guests are supposed to fish. In turn, the chef would clean, filet and saute their trophy catches. I was short on time and in no mood to go fishing. The owner was able to deal with the situation. Conveniently, he had some preteen children who got the job of fishing for my trout. They did, and one of the girls caught a beauty. Needless to say, I made her glad she caught the fish. It was well prepared and inexpensive, even considering my payoff to the fisher person.

. Considering that parking in Deadwood is at a premium, he was afraid I’d be ticketed for staying three days even though it is removed from the center of town and a sign there says it’s free. He’s seen tickets being issued and offered to let me park in the limited parking space of his antique shop. That was too good to pass up. My panniers were already loaded, and shortly after parking I was on the trail. Its surface is crushed limestone, only more coarse than most. It is more difficult to ride than other limestone trails, especially on a bicycle loaded with food, clothing, tools and camping gear.

After lunch at the Dumont Trailhead I had a downhill run and stopped at the Rochford Trailhead where I visited the local saloon --- for Gatorade, that is. This is a miniscule 1800s era village with only a few houses and a sense of humor. On an old one room building, someone had nailed a sign saying "Rochford University." The Moonshine Gulch Saloon seemed to be the business center of the town, perhaps its only business. A seven year old girl outside the saloon was bent on showing me how she could get the owner’s Labrador retriever to do all manner of unusual things, like riding a child’s swing - only the dog was too hot to be interested, and the little blondie was upset that it wouldn’t perform for me.

On I pressed to make the next climb of 700 feet over eight miles followed by a downhill run past dude ranches and another couple miles of climbing through Hill City to the Crooked Creek Campground. The day’s ride covered a total of 49 miles, 24 of which were climbs. The day had been a scorcher, and I was glad to get a tent site. I would have paid any price my VISA credit card could handle to have a place to lay my head that night.

There had been a clear sky during the night, and on the succeeding morning my tent fly was soaked with dew. After breakfast, I shook the water off as well as I could, packed my wet tent and all the rest of my gear into my panniers and continued the previous evening’s climb. This one was about a 1,000 foot elevation gain over a distance of 10 ½ miles. After a modest descent, I was in the city of Custer, where I filled my water bottles and headed south once again. The only other community that I passed was a whistle stop called Pringle. You see places like this in movies but can’t believe that any place in the USA could really be so dusty and outdated. But the store I visited had what I needed, AllSport. I consumed it in short order as I ate my lunch on its porch (dirt floor). I watched its numerous customers come and go; the store does a surprisingly good business.

Rather than to take the planned three days, I decided to complete the final 63 miles of the Mickelson Trail this day, relying on the trail’s profile that showed it essentially descending the remainder of its distance. It may have had a general descent, but there surely were a number of places where I had trouble convincing my legs that this was the downhill sector. I’d have a few hundred yards of descent or level riding, only to climb again. It wasn’t until late in the day that I really felt that the trail was descending. Annoyingly, over the final twenty miles, the trail went through private property, and there were gates to open and close seemingly every half mile. These gates would be about twenty feet apart to permit a farm road to intersect without letting the livestock out. Other than for two trail patrolmen whom I met earlier, I only saw two other bicyclists in the final fifty miles and they were going north. Presumably, it was they who didn’t put the chains back on the gates properly. Throughout the final sixteen miles I spent nearly five minutes each on most of the gates. I could have been removed the chains so easily if they had been replaced properly. I had no choice but to fight these chains over and over again, because I was by then committed to the trail with no obvious way to abort and ride roads. Close to the end of the trail, it passes along the edge of a very deep, vertical sided canyon that really looked like a frame from an old wild west movie. Wonderful!

The final run to Edgemont was indeed a downhill stretch that my weary legs appreciated greatly. The trail patrolmen (who ride the trail and check to see if you’ve paid your $2 for the day) told me of a campground at the west end of town, to which I went in record time. On the way through town I could feel that shower washing away all my sweat, dust and weariness. Oh groan! When I got there, the only facilities available were porta potties and water faucets at campsites. The best I could do was to find a semi-secluded place to do a sponge bath - not very satisfactory. I should have taken a room in one of the little old hotels the town had to offer, but just as I arrived at the campground, a storm arose. I wanted to be inside the tent and not on the streets looking for a hotel. Fortunately, the storm didn’t last long, and I rode across town to its only restaurant for dinner. The campground didn’t even have picnic tables on which to make my dinner; besides that, the wind was blowing hard. I could have thought of a few more rationalizations for going to the restaurant if I really tried, but I figured that those reasons were adequate..

I wasn’t in the mood to fight those gates again on the way back unless I could have been sure that no one had gone through them after I did. No guarantee of that. My closures would have been easy to undo in opening the gates. With my aversion to those gates in mind, I hunted for a person to shuttle me back to Deadwood in the morning. Luckily, the first person I contacted was willing to do it for $50 plus gasoline. It worked out to be the best $80 I spent on the trip.

Scotty, my young shuttle man, was right on time to pick me up and drive me back to Deadwood. Thank you, Scotty. From there I continued west and north into Wyoming, Montana and Idaho. By late afternoon the ensuing day, I reached the Roland Trailhead for the Route of the Hiawatha, the rail-trail that inspired me to make this trip. Realizing that to reach the trail requires driving up and over a mountain for seven miles on a dirt road (which I didn’t want to repeat), I decided to ride the trail at that time, even though it was late in the day. This trail also requires a user fee - $6 per day, but that was a small matter in light of the expense I had incurred in driving over 700 miles each way to and from South Dakota.just to ride it.

When I arrived at the trailhead, there were bicyclists everywhere. This really is one popular trail. Before I started to ride, a shuttle bus arrived and disgorged another 30 people, bicyclists who didn’t want to ride back from the Pearson Trailhead, 13 miles away. I wondered why they were such wimps as to only ride 13 miles and pay to be shuttled back. I learned why. From the Roland Trailhead, the trail is all downhill. They didn’t cherish the idea of climbing those 13 miles back to their vehicles. The first mile and a half from the Roland Trailhead is open to vehicle use, and the trail has a rough gravel surface. When I registered a complaint about the gravel, the trail monitor told me that the US Forest Service was to have improved this section with crushed limestone during the previous week but hadn’t accomplished it yet.

I soon came to the first of eight tunnels and tried to ride through it. I made out okay for a short distance, but my flashlight was inadequate, and when I couldn’t see the walls I became disoriented and crashed - the left shin scraped. I walked the remainder of its 790 feet. Then came another tunnel - same result - the right shin was scraped and bleeding. And again I walked the remainder of its 1516 feet. Considering that I was fresh out of shins to scrape, I decided to walk all the rest of the tunnels except those I could see through. The tunnels ranged in length from 178 feet to 1516 feet.

I didn’t tarry long at Pearson, knowing that it was already 7:30 p.m., I had the 13 mile climb ahead of me, and I wanted to finish in daylight. Going back was much faster in spite of the climb - no picture stops. I wasn’t even tempted to take more pictures - not enough light. This climb was much easier for me than the comparable climb on the Mickelson Trail, because this trail has a smoother riding surface and I wasn’t carrying the heavy camping gear. I noticed the temperature dropping and put on a long sleeve bicycling jersey and my rain jacket. I was concerned that I’d become overheated wearing the extra clothing, but that never happened, irrespective of the energy outlay on the climb. When I reached my van and turned on its thermometer, I could hardly believe my eyes. The temperature had slipped to 37 F. No wonder the tips of my fingers were so cold. I drove the seven miles back to I - 90 in the dark and was the last guest at the first restaurant I found on my way east.

Arrangements had been made with a friend from Gillette, Wyoming to do some backpacking in the Big Horn Mountains, but a work emergency prevented it, and I made a short solo overnight hike into that great wilderness. The snow covered mountain scenery tempted me, but I resisted. If my spring doesn’t run down first, I’ll return to do a serious backpack trip one day. What really captured my attention while driving to the trailhead were the bicyclists that I saw. There were dozens of men and women pumping up seven steep, unbelievably long hills, just in the thirty mile distance that I drove. How many more hills had these super athletes climbed before I saw them. Coincidentally, I came across them at a rest stop a couple days later and learned that they are a BikeAmerica group doing a van supported trip across northern USA. I congratulated them on a super human effort. They deserved it.

More rail trails were calling me eastward, but I got an urge to see where the North Country National Scenic Trail (NCNST) terminates in North Dakota and set my compass north in the direction of Lake Sakakawea. This represented a several hundred mile detour to satisfy a whim, but --- what the heck, go for it. When I got to Lake Sakakawea State Park, I located Dave Lyle, the man whose baby the NCNST is in that park. He is proud that the trail terminates there and was eager to tell me how to find the trailhead. Have to admit, I was a bit emotional seeing this point that will be the western end of the 4200 mile trail when it is finished. It was raining hard at the time, and I was afraid I’d melt; so, I didn’t hike the portion of the trail that is finished there - sissy. I’ve been a member of the North Country Trail Association for twenty years and was on its board for eight years. Over those two decades, I saw this trail grow from not much more than concept to the marvelous trail that it is becoming. Hence, my interest.

Back I drove south and east to southern Minnesota and the town of Preston. The Root River Trail can be accessed easily there. Presumably, it can now be done, but when I arrived, I found the Root River well over the trail. Southern Minnesota had an 8 - 9 inch rainfall in a matter of a few hours two days before, and that fact was most evident. I had read about the heavy rainfall and was apprehensive that the trail might be a bit wet or muddy. It surely was! Nothing to do but abandon that trail. When I was bicycling the Paul Bunyan Trail in northern Minnesota, I met a number of bicyclists who recommended it. Their praise was so great that I skipped the Cowboy Line Trail in Nebraska that I had originally planned to ride. Going back from Preston to do it was impractical.

Next on the list was the Cedar Valley Nature Trail that starts near Waterloo, Iowa, more specifically, Evansdale, Iowa. It’s a nice trail that is paved for 15 miles and covered with crushed limestone for the remainder of its 52 mile course to Hiawatha, Iowa. I planned to ride it both ways in one day but found time on my hands the evening before and rode 12 miles to LaPorte City and back. The following morning I started at La Porte City and headed southeast on the trail. The trail crosses, and at times is close to, the Cedar River, which also was in flood stage, but below the trail’s elevation. It was raging, as were all the tributaries that the trail bridges. Lowlands were all under water. This provided ideal conditions for certain wildlife to propagate, mosquitos, that is. There was no stopping without liberal applications of repellant. I rode about 14 miles and began to encounter tree limbs on the trail. I dodged them for a while and then came the coup de grace - a 75 foot tree with four trunks, each at least a foot in diameter. It stretched totally across and beyond both sides of the trail. No way around. I gave thought to skirting this section by resorting to highways, but a local biker told me that I’d have trouble riding the trail for the remaining 24 miles. Scratch another trail thanks to Mother Nature.

The last trail on my list was the new section of the Katy Trail in Missouri. I had ridden the Katy 185 miles from Sedalia to Saint Charles last year and wanted to ride this sector, just completed earlier this year. It is a good, hard packed crushed limestone trail that starts in Clinton and extends 35 miles to Sedalia. You are supposed to take street routes for about six miles through Sedalia to reach the Griessen Road Trailhead from which we started last year. On the way up, I stayed on the trail (not yet officially open beyond the Missouri State Fair Grounds) through Sedalia to the depot and moved onto roads for the remaining distance to the Griessen Road Trailhead. On my return, I followed roads to the State Fair Grounds. I did this Clinton to Griessen Road section in two bites, both of which were on hot days - 92 F in the shade. No telling what the temperature reached on the trail in the bright sunlight. I drank lots of Gatorade and made out well. It felt good to once again have the Katy mastered.

In the title of this article, I bracketed the words " the safe - almost- alternative to riding highways." Here’s where the "almost" enters the narrative. The repetition of similar scenery and gates can result in complacency that lulls rail-trail riders into thinking that they have no concerns about traffic. However, trails cross roads. Additionally, on the trail your view of the road being crossed is often obscured. This is especially true when gates are used and you have to negotiate your way between two sets of arms separated just wide enough for a bicycle . Technically, bicyclists are supposed to stop, dismount and walk across intersecting roads, but few riders have that much self discipline. I was very careful to watch both ways as I crossed intersecting roads every time, every time, that is, except once. I started across a road in a very remote section and fortunately heard an engine just in time to swerve right and follow the road. A motorcycle went zooming by. Had I not heard it in time, you wouldn’t be reading these words.

As to my apprehension about boredom while riding rail trails, that never occurred. Although my body often was fatigued, I found the trails sufficiently different (each with a unique destination and a new challenge) that I never became tired of them..

All that was left of my tour now was to drive home. With the exception of the Cowboy Line Trail in Nebraska, I had ridden at least some of all the trails I had planned to do, plus the Old 400 Trail as a bonus. I had to feel good about the trip.

Getting back to my lead sentence, I talked with a sizeable number of bicyclists on the trails during this tour. Our conversations over and again pointed up their sense of safety on rail-trails in contrast to road riding. This applies especially to children, families and the aged. As I mentioned before, my first love is road riding, but it is clear that there is an important role that rail-trails play in American recreation and health. Let’s continue to promote them.

Copyright ©  2000 Glenn Oster