Chapter 11 Galena to Albany. On the Great River Bike Trail.

In Savanna, IL I am in for a real treat.  The State of Illinois has completed a separated bike trail called the Great River Trail. It is the best part of the MRT route so far and is a vision of what the MRT could eventually be as a truly national cross country bike trail.  The state builds paved bike paths connecting between low volume paved country lanes that cross through a lot of scenic marshes, prairie grass and public land to create a continuous path for over 60 miles all the way to the Quad cities.  Interestingly, outside this trail Illinois has no MRT signage yet so navigating requires more attention than what I am used to in Minnesota and also Iowa where signage is spotty). One gets lost more often.  I asked some locals why they don't sign it. More than one told me the state is broke. What do you mean broke, don't they collect taxes here?
 "Yes but they send it all to Chicago and  graft and corruption gets the rest".
How that?
"Well we have had 5 governors go to prison".
 I remember Rod Blogojevich (the guy with the jet brown hair) was one. So why do the voters keep electing criminals?
" They usually aren't when they are elected but become crooked in office.  Now I guess its just a tradition here."
 It makes Minnesota politics look squeaky clean and Jesse Ventura look like a Statesman.

I am a sucker for those historical plaques along the roadside.  You know "Such and such happened here".
I pass dozens of them each day and read each one.  I am slowly becoming a historian. In one county, there appeared some unusual ones. I learned that in the 1920's a local country doctor and amateur historian made his own markers of cast concrete with text describing historical events in that locale. They are creepily like gravestones and sprinkled along the roadside in dozens of locations.  Years later, the state historical society decided to add a sign next to each one with a disclaimer apologizing for any offensive statements and provides an more politically correct version of events. Actually the grave stones are pretty matter of fact, something like: "Near here was the great battle of  XXX  where the the Indians were pursued by the soldiers. X Indians were killed and X Soldiers were killed ending the uprising and opening the land to white settlers". At least they didn't remove them altogether.
The next day I crossed back to Iowa and visited the site of an old grist mill called the Nye Mill. Here I learned Benjamin Nye was the first settler of Muscatine County. The plaque here tells me he built the mill and was later murdered.  Further down the road a couple miles is a boulder engraved with the sparse statement that "At this location Ben Nye was murdered in a dispute with his son in law".
That's it? Nothing more? There is room on this rock for at least another paragraph. Was he murdered because he was a cantankerous S.O.B.? Did the son in law get away with murder or was there frontier justice?  We will never know.

The Benijamin Nye Grist Mill Murder Mystery.

Chapter 10 A treatise on trash and roadkill observations

I have now covered roughly 700 miles and am ready to comment on what I have seen along our nation's roadways at 9 mph.  My first conclusion is that beer drinkers and smokers are pigs. No surprise here.  Beer cans and smoking debris is by far the most prevalent items decorating the ditch.  What are the most popular beer brands blithely being tossed out? Number one is Bud Light, followed closely by Coors light and a distant third is Busch light.  With all this light beer they may be pigs but I guess they don't want to look like pigs. I did not see a single craft beer. In the soda category the winner is Mountain Dew.  Dew's target market tilts towards
our feckless youth which tells me the marketeers are hitting their mark. Then we have less common items found along the road.  Things that fly out of open boats: cooler lids, life preservers, nylon straps, bungee cords.  There are lots of car parts, bolts, nuts, trim, shredded tires.  Odd stuff: a pair of crutches and an ironing board.  Finally stuff you should never set on the roof even for a second lest you forget: A Samsung smart phone and an Apple Ipad. Both smashed. That Ipad guy must have had a bad day.

Not so smart phone

Wish I found this before it was run over.

Then we have the carnage of critters that close up on a bike can be pretty grisley.  For some reason racoons must be suicidal.  They outnumber all other critters about 10 to 1.  Number two is surprising: Frogs.  Yes there are alot of desicated amphibians that drivers don't even notice but met their fate on the roadside. Should have stayed in the pond. Also surprising is that deer are that not that common but seem so for drivers since they are hard to miss. As I head further south, we will see if new creatures make the list. In fairness, I can't escape culpabililty in this category.  I am shure a lot of grasshoppers, catapillers and crickets met their fate under my wheels that wanted to live just as much.

Hand cuffs.

Question: How does a fish manage to become roadkill?
Answer: Dropped by an eagle along lake Pepin

Chapter 9 Dubuque to Galena, Love of Libraries, Murphy defends himself, Glorious Galena

We spend a day resting and refitting.  A visit to the laundromat where my fermenting laundry needs to be placed in the machine with a pair of tongs it's so ripe. Then to the East Dubuque Library across the river for most of the day. As a quasi homeless person, libraries become a wonderful place of refuge, akin to living rooms for the public.  Some are really beautiful jewels particularly any of the turn of the century Carnegie Libraries fitted out with ornate architectural details and furnishings. Tonight's tenting spot proves to be pretty crummy. Finding spots in urbanized areas is difficult due to noise, streetlights and unwanted attention. It is still hot and muggy and I feel like a human Post-it note. I end up in a screened porchlike appendage of an abandoned ice area near the river. Poor Murphy has to sleep on concrete.

Crummy but dry place to spend the night

However, rain is forecast and it provides excellent protection when it arrives as a brief deluge early in the morning.

 The next day we start what proves to be the last 400' ascent out of the river valley and into the countryside. After a heartbreaking climb we stop at the top of the hill to recover in the shade of a tree along the road. There is a farm close by where the farmer is calling back his yellow lab who keeps wandering our way and finally does so.  While Murphy is greeting the lab another dog appears from behind the barn boring past the farmer and into Murphy like a torpedo in an unprovoked attack. Murphy gives as good as he gets and fights long enough for me to place a hearty kick into the brute's ribs.  This gets his attention and he breaks off slinking back to his owner. I gave him a curt "Sorry about that". We do not part friends.

I have entered the state of Illinois with our destination of Galena. I am diverting off the MRT route about 15 miles to do so which soon has it's consequences of starting with a initial reasonably bike friendly road mutating into a horrible shoulderless high traffic death trap. I am forced to ditch the pavement and walk in the grass the last couple miles. 

We finally get to stay at a bonafide campground called the "Palace" with showers, ice cream and even a swimming pool. It is heaven. The tenting area is vast and feels like a golf course but I am its only resident that night. Notable because usually tenters get whatever leftovers scraps of space are available.

 A really nice tent site

Another rough day on the road.

 I would highly recommend visiting Galena. It is like Red Wing, Minnesota but about 10 times better. The town sits on some dramatic topography and the 19th century buildings have somehow survived intact and are now restored. The main street runs parallel to the Galena river which curves lending a vaguely italian hill town feel to the main street which curves also, intersecting steep cross streets.  Fine old brick facades, quirky shops, and one time home to Civil war general U.S.Grant.  His house is given to him by the grateful citizens of Galena after the war where he lived for 3 years until he moved into the White House. It is open to tours.

The home of US Grant

Main Street of Galena

Chapter 8 Over hill and dale with no room at the inn.

Despite Iowa's reputation for being flat, it is not in this part. Once again I am climbing hills all day only to descend and climb again.  This day is also miserably hot and muggy.  At one point Murphy and I come across a cool looking stream, we are desparate so we both disappear into the underbrush to take a swim in a little pool that revives us temporarily.  The route finally climbs and stays up on top and we traverse some impressively gorgeous topography with panoramas of verdant rolling countryside dotted with picturesque farms.  It seems like we keep climbing and climbing to the point that we have to be on the highest point in the county. Sure enough, we reach a place called Balltown which advertises the best view in Iowa.  It is not far from the mark. My goal is to reach Dubuque that evening with the lure of full services, cell phone signals, laundromats and a City campground along the river.  I am treating myself to a shower this night instead of sticking to the bedding like the last two nights.
We make it to Dubuque, but the campground is barricaded off with a big closed sign. It is a victim of high water.  That night I talk up a fellow patron at the Wendy's (hoping he has a yard). He is 72 and a retired John Deere machinist. I learned about his divorces. I heard about his son who died 15 years after being paralyzed in a car rollover. He lives alone and collects stuff at auctions and flea markets.  With no wife to act as a governor I imagine his house would be pretty interesting.   He have a nice conversation but it turns out he lives on top of the hill I just came down. Murphy and I end up alone in an abandoned building near the riverfront that night with no shower. Murphy does not complain.

Climbing yet another hill

Chapter 7 Terra Incognita and the town with a friendly cop

In the morning I cross the bridge to Iowa, now beyond my home state and our familiar cheesehead neighbors. It finally feels like I am beyond reach of rescue in a land of Terra Incognita. They call themselves Hawkeyes here. The town on the opposite shore is Marquette.  It is a classic rivertown with steep streets, historic red brick building and charming shops.  For me it is the home of Qwik-Stop, my lunch revue of choice.  Actually these places offer a reasonable selection of healthy foodstuffs including salads, sandwiches and of course beef jerky. I would starve without these life sustaining convenience chains. The guide book tells me that for the first time the MRT has hills starting in northern Iowa.  It is right. I immediately ascend a hill at the edge of town that climbs 600 feet to the farmland above. It's too steep to bike up and Murphy is walking up whether he likes it or not. So we both walk up. The weather has changed to hot and muggy.  We are pretty miserable and my clothes are soon soaked with sweat.  The climb is rewarded with a descent that is so steep I fear my brakes will ignite as I ride them to keep the speed down.  Repeat this 3 more times this day and we  finally drag ourselves into Gutenberg, Iowa, the town with a friendly cop. Gutenberg is right on the river and is maybe about 2,000 population. The only place still open on a Sunday night when I arrive is the "Dam" bar home to folks who apparently have no home life.   The town police officer is at the bar so I ask her any ideas for camping in town.  This approach defuses being discovered later that night.  She says it is not permitted but "as long as you are not visible I am not going to look for you".  She adds "by the way we never had this conversation". Eventually, she suggest down by the sewage plant at the end of town.  She admits that sounds horrible but I should check it out.  I do and it turns out to be perfect- dark, remote and concealed behind a utilitarian building out of view.  There is the hum of electrical equipment that lulls us to sleep until some automatic pump kicks on that sounds like a giant vacuum cleaner.  It only lasts a couple minutes along with a faint sewer smell every hour or so.  I get used to it.

Home sweet sewage pump station

Yard art in Gutenburg, IA

Chapter 6 On to Wisconsin and a leaky tent's last night

Next stop is La Cresent the Apple Capitol of Minnesota.  I bought 4 at a stand (one of each variety they had) to sample them.  By far, the Sweet Tango was the best;  crisp, sweet and juicy.  Murphy expects and always gets the core but this time it was chewed pretty clean. I crossed the river to Wisconsin entering Lacrosse the home of Heileman's brewery.  As town of 50,000 it has a system of really nice bike trails I follow out of town and am now on State Highway 35. The shoulder is narrower and Wisconsin I learn has not put up any MRT signs to follow but the roads winds through a continuous vista of limestone bluffs on one side and a spectacular view of the river below.  Right now the river is filled to the brim from recent rains. The current is swift and seems to be a scary prospect if I were doing this by canoe. The bluff side of the highway is protected from falling rocks by a concrete wall that does it's job.  Every few hundred yards a section is blasted apart by a sizable boulder resting behind the exposed steel rebar. I would not want to be driving by in a Prius when one of those bad boys came tumbling onto the highway. You would be nothing more than a smear of battery juice. That night I treated myself to a real campground and stayed at the Black hawk Campground run by the Corps of Engineers.  Only about 1/3 of the sites are available as the rest are under water due to flooding.  I slip between two huge RV rigs already there each with a circle of chairs and people looking for something interesting to show up.  A guy on a bike pulling a golden retriever qualifies. I am soon invited to join a group from Viroqua, WI for a meal of grilled brats, beans, salad and fruit and great company.  Better than the can of spagettios I had in store for me that night. One guy is a retired Iron worker who shared his stories of dealing with moronic structural engineers when he learns I am an Architect.  I am glad he wasn't a Contractor. That night it rains, not hard but enough to test out my newly re-waterproofed tent for the first time.  It failed miserably.  It seemed to only slow down the rain and doomed it's existence.  I had sentimental attachment as it was the tent Sue and I used when we traveled around the world 28 years ago.  It has been on many backpack trips since.  But it was it time.  It ended its days in the Cabela's dumpster down the road in Prairie du Chien.  A new shiny high tech model has replaced it.  In Prairie Du Chien, I make my first attempt at securing a safe place to camp by simply knocking on someone's door and asking. I rode along in the gathering darkness, picked out a house with it's lights on and knocked on the door.  I pulled the poor guy away from his game on TV. After listening to my spiel, he simply says "I don't care go ahead"and closed the door.  I had my spot for the night in the front yard. The next morning as I packed up he did come out and talked with me. He told me his neighbors were calling him about the strange tent in the front yard and wanted to know the story.  He told them I don't know but he seemed "like a nice guy" So he had to get some answers.

If you pass through Prairie Du Chein be sure to visit the Villa Louise.  It's history is an american version of Downton Abbey.  Restored by the State of Wisconsin in all historical detail. Real interesting.

Farewell to the faithful but leaky tent

Beware of falling rocks

Chapter 5 Frontenac to Minneiska and one tough dude

The MRT uses highway 61 as the main route but occasionally veers off into the countryside on quiet roads through rolling sand dunes.  At one point I see on the road ahead of me a strange box on wheels with a pair of "hooves" moving below.  It looks like an Amish wagon except instead of black it is pink.  I eventually overtake to learn it is a guy pulling a contraption like a cart and the box is pink foam board presumably his sleeping compartment.  It is festooned with flags and plastic flowers, faded stuffed animals and slogans.  The guy is about my age but built like Hercules and brown as a chestnut. He is shirtless despite the hordes of mosquitoes that beset me when I slow down to talk to him. He is a Vietnam vet and activist on his way to Washington D.C. and has been on the road for 16 months!  He tells me he has been stopped by the police more than 200 times but mostly out of curiosity.  He also tells me he is constantly asked to be interviewed by local news media as he passes through and seems annoyed although it would seem that is the point of the whole thing. I asked if he will meet with any politicians in D.C.. He said no but will meet with other activist groups that are based there. I bid him good luck leave him behind to escape the mosquitos.  In Wabasha I stopped to get a broken spoke replaced at the Two rivers bike shop. It had already developed a annoying wobble.  The owner was very accommodating dropping every thing to get me on the road. He even trued the wheel and tightened other loose spokes "those will break too" to make me better than whole.
I arrive in Minneiska, a little river town that happens to be where my mom lived until she was 18.  It is also near deer hunting land my brother Scott and I own down the road a couple miles,  I make camp at the DNR boat landing as darkness falls.

The Thorpe Wildlife Management Area is across the highway from our hunting land along highway 61. It is named after my Grandfather Clarence Thorpe who provided the land to the State of Minnesota.