When a high school friend suggested I sign up for a four-day, 135-mile bike in northern Minnesota with her tour company, I thought, "Why?"
There are no big hills to climb, or mountains to traverse or oceans to roll beside — the kind of cycling I've grown used to in Northern California, where I live.
Yet her idea held me. I grew up on a small dairy farm in northern Minnesota. My brothers and I shared one bike. Riding was nothing more than a fast way to bring Dad his lunch in the fields. As a grown-up, though, I grew to love cycling and cycling tours. Was there something I'd overlooked in my native state?
The ride was named Lumberjacks and Loons. Loons release those soulful calls that reach right into your gut. Lumberjacks, not so much. Still, the loons got me. So I bought a solo spot on the trip and headed to Minnesota.
It wasn't long before I was in Itasca State Park, pedaling past two loons on a lake. That night, I heard their call right before I fell asleep. It was as soothing as I remembered; it seemed to say, "Get quiet" and "Listen."
By the third day, I'd dropped all skepticism about Minnesota bike touring. The League of American Bicyclists has twice named Minnesota the second most friendly biking state in the nation. The rankings, based on surveys completed by transportation officials and bicycling advocates, assess such things as legislation, policies and infrastructure.
As a 54-year-old on a bike, I loved other things, beyond Minnesota's birds, about the trip: rolling hills, gentle rises and long, flat stretches past lakes, wetlands, pine forests and wheat fields. I loved the ditches buzzing with insect noises, riding past streets with names such as Snapping Turtle Lane and roads with few cars. I also liked the van that followed our group, should we need help.
Above all, though, the trip reminded me that adventuresome travel works at any age.
My tour was led by Kerri Kolstad, 56, a high school classmate with whom I kept in touch over the years via e-mail and school reunions. She founded Wahoo Adventures, a White Bear Lake adventure guide company, eight years ago after she gave up a job in sales. During the Wahoo trip, I would make new friends, too.
From strangers to friends
The tour began with a two-hour ride around downtown Minneapolis with a guide from urban tour company Fit Tourist. After a quick pizza lunch, we loaded up the van and headed north.
My four touring companions, ranging in age from 51 to 62, included a couple from Chicago, a woman from St. Paul and another from Rochester. Crammed in that van, we did what strangers do. We talked about the weather, kids, books, favorite movies, best mosquito sprays and other trips we'd taken. By the time we reached mid-state, the couple from Chicago were giving me tips on Minnesota summer camps for my boys. At that point, I knew I'd have a great week not just because of where I was or what I was doing, but because of the people sharing the experience.
That night we stayed in charming log cabins at Itasca State Park, Minnesota's oldest state park and home to the headwaters of the Mississippi River. There was not a clock, telephone or TV in sight.
During a free day at the park, we could hike, rent canoes or kayaks, take a boat tour, swim or just relax. We all jumped on the bikes. Wahoo provides hybrid bikes with straight handlebars. Participants can bring their own bikes, too.
I headed out with another cyclist on a 16-mile paved trail through the park on roads that were mostly flat and free of cars. Leaves fluttered on both sides of the bikeway. Wildflowers ringed lakes. We passed over occasional bridges. Halfway through, we rented kayaks and hit the water. Soon, I was seated amid tall reeds and water lilies as I imagined giant fish below me.
The next day we headed out of Itasca on a flat, 34-mile ride past pine forests to the shores of Lake Bemidji in Bemidji. As we rode, several deer bounded off before us, a red-tailed hawk soared above us and crows as big as geese appeared now and again. Tidy farmhouses dotted the sides of the road. Several residents waved at us as they mowed laws. Only two barking dogs rushed at us.
"Hi, there, sweetheart," my co-cyclist cooed to the dogs.
"Go home," I growled.
They left us alone.
In Bemidji, we snapped photos by the statues of the legendary lumberjack Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Both looked much smaller than when I was a kid.
We spent almost all of our tour on the Mississippi River Trail, a bikeway that starts in Itasca and runs nearly 3,000 miles to the Gulf of Mexico. It was well marked; Kerri provided maps, too. As we rode, we crossed the Mississippi River again and again as it meandered along, muddy-bottomed in places, sandy in others. We met locals who describe distances by "river miles" and who open their homes — and showers — to strangers who come from around the world to paddle the river.
Our tour included river time, too. In Bemidji, we swapped out our bikes for canoes and, for four hours, paddled down the gently flowing river. Local guide Terry Larson regaled us with tales as we spotted river redhorse fish, cranberry bushes laden with ripening berries, empty clam shells discarded by river otters and fields of wild rice.
A ride for anyone
I am fit — my regular workouts include yoga, jogs and weekend hikes — but I hadn't biked much in years. Still, I was never sore or overly tired. We biked 18 to 44 miles a day. As we rode, Kerri leapfrogged us in the van. If somebody needed a break, they'd ride with her. Every 10 miles or so, she met us with snacks, drinks, sandwiches, pasta salads and a tire pump.
For this mid-August trip, the weather was sunny with daytime temperatures in the low 80s. Rain and wind hit us one afternoon, so my full gloves and rain gear came in handy, but the sunshine quickly returned.
In addition to the cabin and hotel, our nightly lodging included a shared rental home in a fishing resort and a tent in Schoolcraft State Park.
The night we camped, we pedaled up to tents set up with inflated air mattresses, pillows and turned-down sleeping bags. The evening's entertainment was watching the moon rise over the river and listening to coyotes and owls. That night's shower was a dip in the muddy-bottomed river (most of us went without).
That night, Kerri's husband, Dave, prepared a feast — including fresh walleye, garlic flatbread and grilled romaine lettuce with feta cheese — at a makeshift campsite kitchen with gas grills. For breakfast, he made Dutch baby pancakes with fresh blueberry sauce.
Eating was a trip highlight. But one afternoon, when we stopped at the Big Fish Supper Club in Bena, we weren't there to dine. We wanted to take photos in the gaping mouth of the restaurant's iconic 65-foot wooden muskie.
As we took turns, a car pulled up and a woman jumped out. "Do you want a picture of all of you?" she asked. "I always see people here taking pictures and I always want to stop, and so today I did."
We loaded down Holly, who was delivering the mail, with our cameras and got our group photos. Then, she wished us a good trip and jumped back in her car.
Freelance writer and Minnesota native Julie Schmit lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.
