The Flattest Missouri Passage

Way back in Kansas, a fellow cyclist enlightened us with information about a famed 230 mile long rail trail across Missouri, The Katy Trail. So we left Lawrence headed for the the long awaited Kansas/Missouri border, in pursuit of the trail and a respite from trucker traffic. 

From experience, we were bent on hitting as little of the metropolitan area as possible to avoid heavy traffic and excessive turns.  On the way out of town we could not avoid the gravitational pull of the local coffee shop, La Primera, and their delicious cold brewed iced coffee.  We both filled and emptied ourselves before continuing on down the country roads.  The first of which we found to be unpaved, despite our hosts assurance that it would be blacktop the entire way to Eudora, KS.  In that stretch, we encountered something that I had always heard of but never seen, ditch weed.  This is hemp that grows wildly in the drainage ditches of the rural midwest as a reminder of the lifted ban on growing it during WWII--such an interesting piece of history.  Due to the presence of a munitions factory on the border, and a lack of paved county roads, we were then forced south, then east, then north again, before heading in the preferred direction of east through Olathe, a suburb of Kansas City (which is split between Kansas and Missouri).  This took us on a roller coaster ride of quick ups and downs that weren't well spaced enough to enjoy any significant amount of coasting.   In Olathe, lanes were added to the road, the shoulder narrowed and the trafficked worsened.  At one point, it got so bad that one eager motorist accelerated to a red light almost hitting multiple children in the cross walk.  He laughed.  Lauren immediately retorted "That's not funny," meanwhile the father was busy memorizing his license plate.  Shortly thereafter we hit the border.

The Missouri border felt  like a giant wall of humidity.  Even though the heat wave had broken, we started dripping from every pore again.  Hungry, we found ourselves eating a lunch of peanut butter and jelly just off of highway 150.  Fearing the infamous chigger, a microscopic bitting bug that lives in the grass, we sat on the gravel shoulder of a small side road.  The push continued down the soon shoulder-less  highway towards the small town of Greenwood.  Unfortunately there was no public pool.  We inquired with the local police as to whether we might be able to camp in the city park, the short answer was no.  The search continued, leading us to an antique store that touted a good cup of tea.  In search of air conditioning we ventured in.  One of the curators welcomed us with, "Y'all aren't here to buy furniture," to which we responded " We are here for the tea".  We had missed the tea hour by a day.  The other curator, an older woman, began to inquire about our trip.  When we informed her of our discontent with the local police's hospitality, she offered us her yard… and her doughboy pool.   She suggested that we kill some time until she got off work.

We arrived full of food and drink, set up our tents, blew up our sleeping mats and pulled the cover off of the inflatable doughboy and enjoyed the unsuspected continuation of the Great American Pool Tour.  

The next day we headed north towards Highway 50 in route to Sedalia, our gateway to the long awaited Katy Trail.  Rail trails are a relatively new phenomenon, where obsolete railroads are converted into bike, pedestrian and sometimes equestrian trails.  Other than the obvious benefit of being on a dedicated multi-use pathway away from the traffic of highways, railroads can only be graded to a maximum of 1-3%, a much more gradual and consistent grade than would be expected in Missouri's relatively hilly, Ozark, landscape.

Our arrival to Sedalia was late as we found a wonderful local cafe in Warrensburg, called the Blackadder.  Slowly we sipped our lemonade and ate our delicious locally sourced sandwiches in its eclectic ambiance.  Our waitress, a homesteader from Kansas City, took interest in our story, offering cookies with our bill.  Eager to push onward Reid and Hannah decided to move on while Lauren and I took a nap.  The remaining 28 or so miles seemed to take forever as we trudged along on poorly shouldered highway 50 with a continuous headwind.  With our convenience store ice breaks, this stretch ended up taking about 4 hours.  This put us in Sedalia with only about 20 minutes before the local pool closed.  We scouted a quick route then made a final push through town towards the watery oasis on the other side.  The main road, still highway 50, proved to be worse within the city limits, with many guttered obstacles and aggressive drivers.  Forced onto side streets I began moving faster loosing time and Lauren in the distance.  I arrived 1 minute before closing and was greeted with a shrug and a "sorry" from one of the teen lifeguards.  However, within about 30 seconds one of the other wildly tan male lifeguards, Jacob, took an interest me, describing my look as being "outta state".  He and I talked a bit before he coerced the manager to let us take a shower.  Elated I went to the street to find Lauren pull up in tears, pushed by exhaustion and the knowledge that the pool would be closed despite her efforts.

In the midst of my shower, Jacob said that I might swim for 5 minutes before a pool party began, and I was obliged to continue our pool tour.

The camping was at the Missouri state fairgrounds that boasted 2500 campsites, 99% of them empty.  The fee was $10 per tent per night, but only $18 per night for the monstorous RV's adjacent to us which stung a little bit. We clearly were not in rural Kansas anymore.

In the morning we made our way towards the long awaited rail trail.  When we linked up we were immediately taken by the quality of the path, its associated signage and the seemingly endless canopy of trees.  The earie quiet of our highway seclusion lead to more fluid conversation and carefree riding.  Reid also took note that "the wildlife on the Katy trail isn't dead."

The trail is dotted with historic rail stops and depots paying homage to its industrial past.  By a town called Booneville, which would be considered a metropolis in this part of the country, was where we finally met the great and muddy Missouri River.  Our days originally planned destination was the sleepy community of Rocheport, an easy 50 miles from our start.  Unfortunately everything other than the Rail Side Cafe and Bike Shop is closed Monday and Tuesday.  After struggling the get the cafe attendants attention and order some much needed refreshment it was decided to move onward another 6 miles to a Katfish Katy's campground.

The ensuing stretch of trail was bordered on one side by the river bank and on the other by great limestone bluffs.  These were filled with various caves and outcroppings including one homestead built right into the cliffside.

Camping was by the river and was sparsely populated.  After rinsing off the Katy Trail's white gravel dust, leaving us looking like we had been to Burning Man, I inquired with a family as to whether I could barrow a fishing pole so that I might try to catch one of the many feeding carp in the adjacent man made jetty.  They oblidged, but did not offer me any bait.  Searching for something to temp the hungry fish my brother offered me a bit of corn husk and I found a chestnut shell.  As it turns out the chestnut shell did not float, despite my best efforts.  To assist me Reid tossed down a small piece of wood, this did float, but did not catch me any fish.  I continued to cast out for about 5 minutes before I looked down at the flat piece of drift wood that I was standing to keep myself from sinking into the silty bank when I saw the belly of a snake distending from beneath my footing.  Eyes now bulging with fear I quickly jumped back to watch the snake quickly slither and swim into the depths of the eddy.  This left me sufficiently scared of what lied below and Reid laughing hysterically.

Ultimately I decided that this was not the ideal place to fish from, and convinced Reid to accompany me out to the jetty to enjoy the sunset.  With Hannah in tow we scampered down to the jetty where Hannah found a small frog that seemed like it might be just the bait we needed.  Hooking him below the jaw I was only able to make several casts before a prehistoric Shortnose Gar struck and was hooked.  His long sharp toothed snout and aggressive nature had me once again reeling in fear.  With the picture snapped and the now high and dry unhooked Gar writhing in anguish, Hannah simply reached down, let out a small squeal and threw it back in.  We headed in after a few more unsuccessful casts with a new frog, I returned the pole with some bait and I went to bed significantly demasculated.

The next morning we headed out towards the small town of Portland, MO, knowing that we had to stop in the capital of Jefferson City to replenish food supplies.  We made good time and Lauren and I jaunted across the river on the newer pedestrian bridge when we realized that Lauren's singular broken spoke from several days earlier had become two.  It had become apparent that in our hast to leave San Luis Obispo that we had overlooked the final tensioning of Lauren's rear wheel causing them to start dropping off like flies.  A detour had to be planned to a near by bike shop to make the repair, and finish the job that had been left undone about 1000 miles too long.  We found the town's original bike shop with its original owner and got permission to use a truing stand and a tensionometer.  Fortunately I had over ordered the required spokes by 8.  The swap was relatively easy and the job was finished in the amount of time it took Lauren to find some coffee.  With restored confidence we headed towards the grocery store for refueling.

Reid and Hannah had continued down the trail towards Portland during our ten mile detour to monopolize on cooler temperatures and a cloudy sky.  By the time that we returned to the trail we found a lone female bike tourist sitting eating her lunch.  Chatting ensued and we found out that she was an Australian named Julia who had been drifting around the country for the last six months and was headed in the same direction.  Happy to pick up another companion we continued our journey east.

With local knowledge in hand, Julia led us to the town of Tebbets which has an unattended bunk building to house cyclists.  The key can be found hanging on an adjacent telephone pole.  INside there must have been a hundred or so bunks, a fridge, microwave, bookshelf, bathroom and bike repair area. Signs indicated that it was appropriate to leave a donation if you intended to stay for the night, which only seemed fair.  While returning the key after our perusal of the bunk house, a gentle man came out of a building labeled as a bank trying to lure us in with "ice cold beer."  It actually sounded pretty good, so we wandered in through a strange memorabilia into a back room full of older men and a lot of cigarette smoke.  After confirming that the only beers available were light beers, we promptly left.  This established our days thirst for beer.

Reid and Hannah called us stating that Portland not only had no camping, but had no food either forcing them to move onward to the next town after their nap.  Lauren, I and our new friend Julia pushed onward.  The heat and desire for beer had us stop in the town of Mokane.  I visited their 2 bars and general store and found the same selection of domestic beers that did not entice us anywhere we went.  Discouraged, we made the final push straight through our original destination of Portland to the metropolis of Bluffton.  He we found Reid waiting for us in just his bib at the trail road crossing, he told us that he had found a place to camp and that the curator, who purportedly had a dark beer in hand, had offered us corn on the cob.  Excitedly we ventured to the single building that stands as downtown Bluffton, the Rendleman Home B&B.  Doug, the owner, immediately provided us a hearty greeting and informed us of the $7 per person fee.  When we inquired as to whether or not he had beer available, which had us all sigh, but our spirits were lifted when he followed up by telling us that he had a dark homebrew that he would share with us.  We all settled on his porch and he returned yielding 5 chilled glasses containing crude oil black beer, we were so glad that it wasn't Busch.

In anticipation of the inevitable release of beer, Doug informed us that we needed to bring a bucket of water to the outdoor toilet to flush it.  We then picked vegetables from Doug's garden, made burritos and the camping packet of chocolate moose that Julia had picked up at the Tebbets bunkhouse which required being beaten by two forks simultaneously.  The outdoor kitchen/ shower was shared with the frogs as we jovially winded down.  The rest of the evening was filled with stories of bike rides, beer and food.

The next morning was filled with the same oatmeal and coffee making that we have become used to, but this morning was different because Reid located 3 Justin Beiber fan shirts sized for small girls at Doug's yard incarnation of the Bluffton flee  market.  We departed later in the morning knowing that fewer miles had to be covered and that Julia would depart of crew about halfway through the remaining 20 miles before we left the Katy Trail for good.  All was well until we briefly left the trail for a local supermarket that Doug had recommended for restocking.  When we re-entered the trail Reid discovered his 9th flat.  He and I shoed the girls on while we repaired the tire.  Much to his chagrin the culprit was a piece of truck tire wire, a well known foe, mostly commonly encountered while highway riding.  Once repaired we caught the girls at a converted caboose eating ice-cream and snow cones, Julia's mouth blue with raspberry.  A short five miles later she was gone, a not so distant memory of the lone female cyclotourist.

At the end of the day we found a small brewery in the town of Augusta.  We spent a good number of hours here eating, drinking, laughing and carrying until the establishment closed at 7 pm.  Fortunately for us Klondike State Park, which was recommended by Doug, was just a short 2 mile swerve down the trail.  The last 200 yards seemed to be straight up the hill, but it was worth it as the facilities were fully equipped with nice showers and a full kitchen, though shared with the local fauna.  Once the $10 camp fee was deposited we turned on some Bob Dylan on Lauren's iPhone.  Some cyclists approached the adjacent campsite, which was a welcomed rare sight.  The only greeting that one of them could muster was to "turn down that music, and keep it on your side of the wall."  Apparently they didn't want to hang out when the told us that we could party while they went in search of food.  We were fast asleep before they ever returned.

We woke early for the last day on the trail.  Much earlier than our neighbors who had told us that they were preparing for a grueling 50 mile ride.  As we finished packing up we were approached by a ranger patrolling by bike, he took down our names as a point of protocol and took interest in our story.  He moved onto the adjacent campsite to do the same and received a complaint about our noise.  The ranger returned and agreed to show us the alternate exit from the campground and along the trail until he parted with us at the next park.  His company was welcome and he provided some good insights into the local culture.

As the Saint Louis spur and the end of the trail got closer and closer we encountered scads more trail users and more shade than we could wish for.  At the overpass of highway 364, our route across the river, we stopped for a moment to remember the some 200 miles of automobile less riding.  To draw out our time off the asphalt we helped repair a passersby tire then made the ascent to the road way.  We would miss the Katy Trail, dust and all.