Ice Age Trail: The Western Terminus & St. Croix Falls (Wisconsin)

Trail Day: 2
IAT Segments Completed: St. Croix Falls  (westbound)
IAT Miles: 9
Drive from Moline: 6.5 hours
Firsts & Notables:  first trail angel, first water crossing, first esker, first terminus

Monday, July 27, 2020
​I hurry to keep up with my trail angel, Flicker, as she leads me in from the parking lot to the Western Terminus. I don't want her to think I'm a slow poke, but I'm nearly in shock trying to take in the landscape. White pines tower on exposed cliffs over a swirling chocolate river. There are strange holes in the ground around me, filled with water and greened over with algae.  Just 20 minutes ago, I was driving down your usual, boring Midwest interstate,  but now I have descended into a basalt gorge, and an old timey paddlewheel boat is passing by.  

She points out the Western Terminus and offers to take my photo. I think I would have forgotten to do this had she not mentioned it. As I touch the terminus, I thought of all the people before me who started their journeys here. The ones I've been reading about non-stop for the last two months. Some section hiking like me, and some heading off on a proper thru-hike.

​My Ice Age Trail journey started with a day hike at Devil's Lake 16 days ago, but there is an undeniable feeling of beginnings on this day at the Western Terminus. I decide that I don't want to touch the Eastern Terminus until I am taking my last step on the Ice Age Trail. Though I hike the segments mostly in a random order and in varying direction, from here on out I will consider my hike, ultimately, an Eastbound one. 

Flicker (real name Wanda) offers to give me a walking tour of Interstate Park. I hesitate, knowing I need to get off on my 9+ mile hike and this will add a couple of miles. I'm secretly squeezing this hike in to a travel day for work. When I saw that I could take a 1 hour detour to hit this part of the Ice Age Trail, and still get to St. Cloud in time to get a good nights sleep, I went for it. 

But not wanting to miss a thing in this beautiful place, I accept her offer and once again I am scurrying to keep up as she leads us across the bridge to the Taylor Falls, Minnesota side of Interstate Park. She shows me the best potholes, but is disappointed so many are under water due to the recent rain and not being cleaned out. The pandemic has limited park staff and closed the interpretive center. Still, she takes me to peer through the glass into a dark room, so I can see the perfectly round grinder on display. 

The signs tell me that potholes are the strange cylindrical holes I was seeing in the ground. Grinders are the rocks that created them. This place I'm standing was once entirely underwater and when whirlpools would form, with rocks and sand trapped in them, those abrasive materials would swirl at the bottom of the tornado-like water and drive holes into the underlying bedrock. Once the hole was made, the rock would tumble around getting round and smooth. 

The detour was well worth it, and I'm pretty sure I want to be Wanda when I grow up. She is energetic, passionate about the trail, and a bit feisty. Not afraid to tell me I'll be wearing a mask in her car.

I start my hike and my awe quickly subsides. It is very muddy and narrow, and my only other option would be to walk in the brush that likely contains poison ivy. My hiking shoes suction in, so I try to find ways to creatively tiptoe around. My poles should help, but they don't because I won't figure out until after this trip how to finger tighten them properly. So, every time I put any weight on them, the collapsible poles just slide and nest back into their smaller state. For now, I give up and bungee them back onto my pack, which is a chore and limits my access into the pack for the rest of the day. 

After about 25 minutes, I come to a water crossing, Big Rock Creek, where the stepping stones are fully submerged. Looking up and downstream, I can see there is no better place to cross. I am irritated that, after such a slow slog through the mud, I now must slow down even more to take my shoes off and cross. And then I am a little charmed by my irritation, because it makes me feel like a real hiker.   

I am relieved when the trail gives way to a wide, easy path with bridges and benches. It took me 36 minutes to walk the first mile and I am happy to pick up the pace now. I follow the trail across a road and enter a new segment, Wert Family Nature Preserve, and then Zillmer Park. The exposed rock outcroppings here make me feel like I'm in Colorado and I find myself looking diligently for snakes before I step, thinking this must be the perfect sunning spot for them. 

I must admit my fear of encountering bears, snakes, and other creatures still has a hold of me. I feel compelled every few minutes to clap and call out a warning signal like "Hey, there!" "Yeeeoppp!" Coming over a ridge, a turkey had nearly scared me to death. The rocky crest now gives way to woodland again and I don't recognize any of the tracks on the ground. Feeling especially isolated and especially tired of constantly calling out, I break my usual rule of no music or audio distractions. I put on some music. Something, anything, to calm me down and make a little noise on my behalf. Immediately, my heart slows its rapid pace. My shoulders relax and I take what feels like my first real breathe of the day. And I realize there are coping mechanisms that live somewhere inside of me, apparently only accessible in my most frightened moments. At  Devil's Lake, it was a mantra...be afraid and do it anyway. Be afraid and do it anyway. Now, it is playing music. I think about how much this hiking is my yoga right now. Though I move my body through a strange external world, I am also encountering hidden parts of my inner world. Soon I enter a beautiful meadow, in the sunshine, and marvel at the beautiful horses I pass, taking in my newfound sense of peace. 

I cross another road and see at my next trailhead, a gathering of people. It's a meeting of some sort, and I hear them discussing where the big rigs will park. There is a fairground nearby and I wonder what kind of event could be going on in this pandemic that requires such planning. They think at first I'm there for the meeting, but realizing I am a hiker, give me a little fanfare and wave me through. 

This day is full of variety. The blazes take me through a schoolyard where a baseball practice is going on. Then some residential streets, where the blazes are painted on to utility poles. 

And then I am on to my first esker. I would have known this by the steep and sudden climb, if not for the Hospital Esker sign. There is a wonderful view of, yes, the hospital, but also the city of St. Croix. I think of the history Wanda shared. The hospital seems to have built this town. And she retired from there as a nurse. Both of my grandma's were nurses, and I have a special place in my heart for them. Grandmas and nurses. 

From here, it's back on to a town road. Across the street, I see the sign for the Gandy Dancer trail. Several miles from here, the IAT actually runs on the Gandy Dancer. Wanda gave me an idea I think I am pretty keen on. She said to qualify as a thousand miler, you can make connections between official trail segments however you want as long as it is on foot. She recommended leaving my car here at this Gandy Dancer trailhead and just walking it as my CR, straight through to where the Gandy Dancer becomes the Ice Age trail. Probably a little bit longer than the road version would be, but a real trail, and a parking lot to use. I plan to take her up on that. 

Next, I am entering back into Interstate Park. This makes me feel like I'm almost done, so the next couple miles really drag on. Or maybe it's dragging because I, quite literally, am dragging my right leg. I have been battling tendinitis since I started hiking in April and am still trying to figure out solutions. By this point in a hike with any significant distance and elevation, my right knee tends to lock up and not want to bend and straighten anymore. I thought to bring my brace this time and it helps quite a bit. 

Ahead of me, in a stand of pines, I see the only other hiker of the day. I catch up to him at a historic structure, saying hello, but let him depart first so as to keep our solitude.

Though it's feeling long, it's also immensely beautiful as sunset sinks down at the west facing park. I am relieved when I finally arrive back at my car after 11 miles. I strip off all of my hiking things into the trunk of the rental car and begin my drive to St. Cloud, hungry, tired, and happy.