Hiking the Rolling Prairie Rail Trail
Franklin and Butler Counties, Iowa
October 10th - 11th,
2015
Enjoying the outdoors in the Midwest
can sometimes mean being exposed to some great, unknown experiences.
It can also men, and maybe more often does mean, taking advantage of
what comes your way. And because the Midwest is largely private land,
this means accepting whatever public land you can get onto as good,
public land which often comes in the form of vacated railroad Right
of Ways, laid out to bring hordes of people west, stopping every 5 or
10 miles to load up on water for engines and grain for market, but
now surpassed in efficiency by trucks and cars for moving commodities
and people.
Various groups, nationally spearheaded
by the Rails to Trails Conservancy, have been working to take these
right of ways and convert them into bike trails. The logic is great
as these paths are already graded and ready to be paved (a casual
biker, like a train, doesn't do well going up a slope greater than
5%) and they connect existing places. In the rural Midwest
especially, these trails can serve as valuable drivers of tourism and
economic growth as bikers want amenities like cafe's and bars to make
a trip complete. The Rolling Prairie Trail, between Coulter in
Franklin County and Shellrock in Bulter County, Iowa, is one of the
these trails, spearheaded not by the Rails to Trails Conservancy by
the County Conservation Boards, with a goal of making this nearly 40
mile trail an attraction for Iowa's very active bicycle community.
However, in the time between being a
path for trains and a path for bikes, this trail, like most, sits as
just a very long, narrow, conservation easement; open in most places
to hunting and all places to hiking, though without a designated
“trail”. And because it was once a railway, there are few houses
near the trail. All of which combined to make it a perfect east
overnight for me and my friend Steve. As the date grew closer, the
unseasonably warm weather also meant it would be a great chance to
try hammock camping.
My wife and I picked Steve up from
work on Saturday afternoon and made the trip south to Hampton
quickly. Despite not being the end of the trail, Hampton is the
largest town on the route, and getting on the trail as late as we did
(4:38 pm) we didn't want to risk walking through here later when we
might violate the city's park curfew. Plus, this got us to the
secluded areas much faster. With our backpacks and hiking book, I'm
sure we looked odd to the joggers and bikers we passed, but by a mile
or so out of town, we were alone.
Like most Rail Trails in the Midwest,
Rolling Prairie is generally arrow straight, however decades of lack
of use have at least allowed nature to reclaim some of the sides and
trees and bushes now give us a little change of scenery. Also
changing was the path under our feet, from paved to hard pack gravel
to dirt with smatterings of railroad ballast. At some points, the
ballast grew large, even melon sized; this feature is probably the
most difficult and off-putting aspect of the whole trail.
I had anticipated this first section
of trail would be more well trodden and have more signs of use, but
in all reality, it was not that different from the more remote
sections we would cross later on. Except in one regard. Roughly three
miles out of Hampton the trail crossed a road and there was a “road
closed” sign across the walking section. Beyond, the trail looked
more well maintained than behind, so we assumed it had no impact on
us and was to keep people from accidentally turning here, being as
there was an intersection just a few yards away. Of course, we went
around the sign and enjoyed the well packed trail. A half mile ahead,
the reason for the road closed sign became evident, and it did impact
us.
As I would later learn, in 2013 the
Franklin County Conservation Board received a gift from the North
Iowa Community Endowment Fund to install functional bridges over
creeks in this section of trail. And this, a 100 ft long wooden
beauty, made our walk much easier in the starting to fade sun. Wide
enough for an emergency vehicle or trail groomer pulled by a
snowmobile, but filled in enough to allow crossing by bikes and
people. No skipping from tie to tie for us this night. Instead we
could stop and take some pictures of the setting sun, a tractor in
the distance combining corn, racing the same dark we were. We would
cross another shorter, though just as attractive bridge just a short
distance away where we stopped to relax and watch cows watch us.
Shortly thereafter, we passed through
Hansell, a town of under 100 people 5 trail miles from Hampton, and
exactly the sort of place that will benefit most from the trail when
completed. But for now, it's just a grain elevator and a place we
breeze through, aware of the sinking sun and a barking dog we are not
quite sure is fenced in.
Out goal for the night is a
conservation area adjacent the trail where we can hang our hammocks
out of sight, because even though we are within the law, we don't
feel like dealing with inquisitive locals. Once it came safely into
view, though, we felt it was okay to pause and view the blazing
sunset behind us. The uninterrupted Iowa horizon giving us a nearly
180°
view of orange and red and purple.
We
regretted, a little, waiting so long, as it was pitch black by the
time we did make it to the trees. But after a short amount of
fumbling, first through what I was afraid might be a marsh but was
just grass, then over a berm into the trees, we found a suitable
place to hang out hammocks, without cover tarps in the 50°
warmth, and set about making supper. The dehydrated chili was, as
should be on any long hike, much more delicious than it could
possibly be on a normal day. We crawled into bed by 9, having hung
our food a hundred yards away and were treated to quite the show of
stars through the trees.
In
the dark, in the openness of a hammock, the small Iowa woodlot did
take on a more unearthly wilderness than I expected. Of course, this
being October in Iowa, a combine ran most of the night, and a grain
dryer all of it. Buy beyond that, the natural world made itself much
more known. Paws crushed leaves and scratched bark. At one point,
something suddenly, I don't know, screeched (?) an cawed in a nearby
tree, loud as if startled, but made no other noise then or the rest
of the night. We spent some time wondering aloud what it could be,
but eventually drifted to sleep.
A
brisk but not brutally cold, sunny morning woke us. No sign of our
mystery beast, though we did realize walking another 50 feet would
have given us much better options for hanging hammocks, We ate a
quick breakfast of cold oatmeal and were on the trail by 7:30 or so.
We
quickly cross the next road, the county line, and the difference on
the trail is stark. Franklin County, where we are coming from, has
maintained most of the trail to a level of passibility throughout.
Butler County, where we are entering, has opted to focus on certain
sections more in-depth, this western edge is not one of them. The
trail is thickly covered with tall prairie grass, brambles and
bushes. The ground looks intentionally broken up to dissuade passage.
We push on. Eventually trails made by deer, or hunters, become
passable, and human activity is obvious. A washing machine in the
ditch hints why the county might have made the trail impassible. ATV
trails and a bridge hand-made from a pallet hint that plenty of
people don't care.
Here,
we again feel more isolated though, with the thick trees and a slight
ridge to the north blocking our views. We saw some wildlife, a deer,
a pheasant, an maybe most interesting, a black skink, a sort of
lizard native to Iowa, which was warming itself in the sun at the
mouth of its burrow. We also saw indications of an older type of
agriculture, with hog huts hidden deep in the woods, from a time when
pigs were free range instead of manufactured. And, at a home just
outside Dumont, horses, now pets instead of instruments of farming or
transport.
And
at Dumont (population 633) we stepped off the trail to poke around,
refresh our water, and make comfort adjustments to boots and packs. I
am quite sure anyone who say us thought we were homeless hitchhikers,
but to their credit, said nothing. We walked through downtown and up
to the city park, then wound through residential streets past the
vacant school.
Dumont,
at about 13 trail miles from Hampton, is another town that will
benefit from a functional trail. They already have that small
downtown with a cafe (to be fair, I'm not sure it is in business or
not) and a bar, as well as space adjacent to the trail where a
pavilion could be built. And there is at least a convenience store
where we stopped to get water (the park water was off and we didn't
want to try our filter against the heart of Iowa farm country water
if we didn't have to) and snacks. Again, I'm sure we were discussed
after we left.
Just
outside Dumont we came to what I think will be the biggest roadblock
to completing this trail, as well as the defining feature (again,
this will be a good thing for this town!). 400 ft long, 20 ft over
the confluence of two streams is a massive, but damaged rail bridge,
this time with no fancy covering. The base seems sturdy, but some
ties across are missing and other have been burnt or rotten beyond
passage.
After
some time surveying from solid ground, we took a few steps out. The
bridge seemed solid, so I proceeded as far as the where the burnt
gaps started, but Steve held back. It seemed he has having some
vertigo issues, and felt crossing the span wouldn't be the est for
him. He opted to follow the river to the road and meet on the other
side, while I inched across.
The
worst area was about 100 ft out, where 3 and 4 ties were missing at a
time, and even the supports showed signs of having been burnt.
Someone, it seemed like they were out here regularly, had laid ties
over the supports perpendicular to their normal direction, so at
least there were 6 inch balance beams to cross on (with ample hand
holds). I slipped off my pack so as to improve my balance, and
scooted it in front of me while I crawled almost on all fours. The
opening gave me a good view of the impressive structure holding the
whole thing up, a little comfort to know the whole thing probably
won't collapse under me. I just need to stay on top. Massive pillars
of wood two feet wide where they sink into the river at 10 foot
intervals, with a trellis of equally impressive beams building up to
the deck I should have been able to walk over much more easily than I
was. Once I was past the gap though, walking became much easier, and
at the middle of the bridge where the truss system transitioned from
wood to metal, I was able to stop and take in the scenery.
I
was standing above the confluence of a relatively large but unnamed
stream with the West Fork of the Cedar River, which occurred in the
middle of a woody cow pasture. Aside from some fencing and the bridge
itself, I could see no sign of man, not even the cows. Even in
October, most of the trees still had leaves here down along the
river, and many prairie flowers still bloomed. The water here moved
quickly, and there were an assortment of well worn logs washed up on
the banks of braced across the pylons of the bridge. The water was
clear, and I could see fish. I would later learn the West Branch is
an official water trail, and now I can't wait to pass under the
bridge I was walking over.
I
continued to the other side, know I have some time to kill before
Steve catches up but not wanting to make him wait. At the east end, I
make a quick descent to the water to fill a sample bottle for a
citizen-science project on micro-plastics in water, run by an
organization called Adventurers and Scientists for Conservation. This
sample, along with hundreds of others will be analyzed at a lab in
Maine to build a model of how and where these pollutants are entering
the world's waters.
Strapping
the sample into my pack, I proceeded on what may haven been the most
idyllic portion of the trail, a place someone clearly cared about and
for. A think, brushy tunnel 10 feet wide and arched 10 feet tall as
far as the eye could see. This was something out of a story book.
Twigs were trimmed back cleanly and there was no debris or trash
anywhere. But while it was pretty, it had a more urban park feel than
wilderness, and so I was glad to leave it behind in a sense as well.
It would be the last time on this trip I would have to worry about
that.
I
met Steve where the trail crossed the next gravel road. He looked hot
and uncomfortable, and said he had to walk along the highway rather
than the river because it was too marshy. We ducked off the road onto
a much more overgrown and shadier section of trail, alternately
following deer or ATV tracks, We passed a Christian Service Camp, but
the most interesting thing we noticed was the rock we walked on.
It
varies radically, sometimes every few hundred feet. Different sizes,
colors, textures. Clearly it was fill from the construction of the
rail bed, and the variety indicated they were bringing in whatever
they could to fill fast enough to keep construction on schedule, not
just relying on small local quarries.
When
we wandered into Bristow, a down that despite being farthest from a
completed trail was obviously excited and expectant. The new town
welcome sign even had a metal bicycle on it, and was positioned where
the main through road crossed the trail, visible to both driver and
biker. On the far side of town though we found the trail was
essentially non-existent. There was an obvious right of way, but no
mowed path or deer trail or even shorter grass growing out of rocks.
Nature had seemingly totally reclaimed this section. But it was
barely lunch, and we wanted to take advantage of our time out, so we
pressed on. Luckily the hidden ground was stable and level, and only
after a few hundred yards we opted to stop for lunch in a small
clearing rather than eat on the go where we couldn't walk without
looking at our feet.
Not
long after that then, the path did open up, and we were treated to
something I had expected much more of, wide open views. This section
of the trail was largely pasture, prairie and farmland, where the
western end of the trip ad been more woodland and farms. The constant
wind rustling through the blue stem and high, midday sun gave us much
more in adventure feelings than the mostly distant farm houses took
away. There were several short bridges to cross, again no problem
despite being untouched since the last trains went over them, and we
spent a fair amount of time deciding when we should tell our ride,
Steve's wife, to pick us up.
About
four miles from our chosen destination, after passing through a grove
of trees near a home that had started to be cleared, apparently for
the trail, we could see we'd have one more tree covered hill to
surmount. It's rise on the horizon, with the cut of the trail right
up the middle, was quite the landmark, though the ability to see we'd
be making such a straight line all the way to the horizon did detract
from the experience somewhat.
The
rise was, as this was an old rail bed, gradual. I would suggest to
anyone building a trail here in the future to use any adjacent public
lands to create short, winding, more difficult trail to garner some
more interest. But at least as we did go up, trees again became more
present. There were signs of old culverts and stonework as well.
Sumac was present here but nowhere else along the trail, and perhaps
most oddly, there was an obvious spring that made our walk much
wetter than expected, so much so that eventually a small stream
formed adjacent our walkway.
This
is the section of trail I would most like to return to and explore.
The tipping point came near the peak, just half a mile from Allison,
our destination. A short trestle bridge, maybe 20 feet across, was
positioned over a seemingly man-made cut in the hill, below which was
an exposed concrete culvert, complete with an ornate arch, that
allowed a small creek to flow from one side of the hill to the other,
as if the hill had been built over the creek, or the creek diverted
from a different route.
Only
now, too, as I remember and record this trip, does this odd location
stand out as an especially important spot. Wilderness, the outdoors
in general, in the Midwest is an awkward balance of actual unique
features and nature holding strong against the crush of humanity, and
the pure reality of human desolation. While Iowa is actually an urban
state (more than half the population lives in cities) it also has
townships with fewer than 20 people, or .5 people per square mile. We
are not the endless loneliness of the Sonora, or the Great Basin, but
nor are we the megalopolis New England, and we never were. But we
were a much more crowded pace a century ago, like Appalachia or the
Adirondacks, places that now have wilderness within them. And I think
we need to look at Wilderness here in the sense of Eastern
Wilderness, to an extent, not Western Wilderness as our position
relative to the Mississippi River would dictate.
We
should leverage our loneliness, and our remnant patches of tall grass
and bottom lands and meandering rivers, and not be discouraged or
dissuaded by an old shack or pilot mound station. There is great
beauty and much to be learned from uninterrupted horizon of grass,
but also from the first peoples to try and live here, among the
“wild” and establish our modern culture. And besides, if we want
our wilderness to be totally virgin of the human existence, I think
there are some tribal groups we ought to speak to.
Past
the oh-so-strange bridge, the trail descended quickly towards a
highway. There had been a bridge here the last time I passed through,
but it was narrow to go under for cars, so I assume they cleared it
to widen the road for “safety”. Beyond the gap we could see the
paved trail start and head into town, then on beyond our view another
15 miles.
When
this trail is complete, it will be a slight loss from the limited
isolated natural areas we have here, but such a gain for all the
small towns it will touch. And it's a needed gain. Our ride meets us
on the edge of the road, and on our ride home on this Sunday
afternoon, we drive through town and town looking to have a beer and
a burger, and in four towns, each of well over 1,000 people, we find
none. Wilderness indeed...
