Mississippi Rollers

We had planned on breakfast in Elkader, only to remember it was Sunday and nothing would open before nine, which rather undid the point of our unusually early start. Gas station it was. A shame, really, because Elkader turned out to be a lovely little place, and we spent a good ten minutes simply riding up and down its streets looking around, the closest thing to Yarm I’d found anywhere in America.

We picked up some rolling hills before dropping down towards the Mississippi, which we would follow north for the next few days. The riding was unexpectedly beautiful. People tend to picture this river in its southern stretches, but up here it was every bit as alive, threading past little river towns and busy train lines that gave the whole area its own particular character.

We fell in with a cyclist named Wilson for part of the day, riding since January with his dog for company. He was pleasant enough, though clearly on a tight budget, and waved off most of our suggestions for places to stop as too expensive. There was something almost genuinely homeless about the whole set-up, hard to read exactly. I wasn’t sure what to make of the dog either, sweet-looking but oddly lifeless, perched on the rear rack for what must have been eight hours a day.

We covered a good eighty miles along the river before making a nice campground in Brownsville, just over the Minnesota line. Another state down.

Sleepy Elkader this morning.

Minnesoooota!

The mist over the Mississippi the following morning was magical, if a little eerie, and would have made the narrow shoulder we’d be riding a genuinely awkward place to be, so we ducked into a cafe for breakfast and let the sun burn it off first. I noticed the accent had shifted again, everyone finishing their sentences with an “oh yah, oh yah, oof da” I hadn’t heard further south. That day’s destination was a Warmshowers host in Wabasha, a man named Terry who, much like Kyler a few weeks back, wasn’t going to be home, but told us over the phone about a poolhouse with a fridge stocked with beer, wine and soda, and mentioned, almost in passing, a hot tub and a swimming pool, and to make ourselves entirely at home.

The road kept pulling us up and away from the river onto the bluffs, and neither of us minded the climbing, since every rise came with a fine view back down over the water. We found Terry’s house on the loose directions he’d given us, walked round the back to the poolhouse, and there it all was, the stocked fridge, the pool, the tub, and a back deck that hung out directly over the Mississippi itself.

After we’d cooked dinner I started eyeing the hot tub, which sat there fully covered and mysterious. One beer gave me the confidence to uncover it, press a few buttons, turn on the lights, crank up the heat, and soon enough it was bubbling away. Eal and I grabbed a beer each and climbed in, grinning at our own luck, trying to work out exactly how we’d ended up here. A few minutes later a handful more people showed up, two women who’d been kayaking the river and a man named Paul, from England, making his way down it on a raft he’d built himself. The neighbours all knew Terry, and having watched Paul pull his raft into harbour earlier that evening, had agreed to let him and the two women stay over once Terry confirmed it was fine by phone, sounding more than a little put out at missing the party himself. We must have sat in that tub trading stories until nearly one in the morning.

Impromptu hot tub party.

I woke the moment the sun came up, as did Paul and Eal, since none of us had thought to close the blinds and the poolhouse doubled rather effectively as an oven. It was hot, it was bright, and I was dry-mouthed with a hangover somewhere between mild and formidable. Eal and I rolled into town for breakfast, then stopped at the gas station for a crate of beer to make good the serious dent we’d put in Terry’s fridge overnight. We swung by to see Paul’s raft, though sadly he wasn’t around to say a proper goodbye, a genuinely great guy on an even greater adventure.

We took the day slowly, nursing our hangovers and still trying to make sense of exactly how the previous evening had unfolded. We crossed briefly into Wisconsin before slipping back into Minnesota, making good progress towards Minneapolis so we could arrive early the following day, spend some time seeing the city, and stay the night with Elsie Hanning, sister of Cooper Hanning, who I’d met in Virginia back in 2010 and ridden alongside for several weeks. She’d agreed to put us up. Hero.

Terry’s place the next morning, quite a back yard he has.

Paul’s raft!

The last stretch into Minneapolis the following day was made easy by the excellent bike network running through and around the Twin Cities. We stopped first at the Town Wall Brewery, on Elsie’s recommendation, before taking in a few of the sights, the Stone Arch Bridge and Target Field among them, and made our way to Elsie’s apartment once she’d finished work.

She played the perfect host, cooked us a proper meal, and drove us around to see uptown and visit the Yoghurt Lab, a wonderful idea, essentially a pick-and-mix version of ice cream and toppings that I fully intend to steal for Australia, on the understanding Elsie gets a cut of the spoils. We ended the night watching more Olympic coverage and looking through photos of Cooper while Elsie told us stories from their childhood, including a few amusing camping trips through North Dakota, which was exactly where we were headed next. Thanks for a great night, Elsie, a true trail angel.

Crossing into St Paul, first of the Twin Cities.

Downtown Minneapolis.

Notice the skywalks between all the buildings, gets cold up here in winter!

Target Field.

Ice cream with Elsie at Yoghurt Lab.