Thunderheads like black anvils filled the valley of the Root River, and lightning flashed like fire from a forge. It began to rain in the way that gave rise to the saying "the heavens opened." We could barely hear one another for the sound of rain crashing on the car. Sheets of water rolling off the windshield reduced my visibility to zero.
My wife and I and several friends planned to bicycle the Bluffland Trail through southeastern Minnesota, one of the region's many rail-to-trail projects. We would start in the town of Harmony, perched on the uplands above the Root, then drop into the valley and follow an old rail grade to the town of Lanesboro -- in all, a trip of barely more than 22 miles. And the next day? Who knew? Perhaps another 18 miles to Rushford or 31 miles to Houston. Either option seemed manageable, giving us plenty of time to explore and simply to hang out in Lanesboro, a gem of small-town Minnesota.
A deluge of biblical proportions is never a good thing on a bike trip. But by the time we pulled into Harmony, the rain had all but stopped. (The tornado and flash flood warnings would come later.) So, it was a go. We had our window of opportunity. We saddled up our bikes and rode out.
From Harmony, the trail roller-coastered over the surrounding farmland, bending and twisting on a course that generally led downhill toward the town of Preston. It rained enough to get wet -- and a couple of us took nasty slides on the wet wooden bridges over small creeks. But it was warm enough to be comfortable. It was fun, in fact, to cruise through farm country at bicycle speed -- past the newly planted fields of corn, the brightly painted barns and houses. As the trail reached lower and lower into the valley, we followed the course of Camp Creek. Finally, we arrived in the tidy downtown of Preston, beneath flags waving brightly against the backdrop of a freshly painted grain elevator. The subs at the Sweet Stop and Sandwich Shoppe in town hit the spot. The trail exited Preston along the course of the South Branch of the Root. Dame's rocket and Canada mayflower bloomed purple and white along the trail. Limestone outcrops erupted from the hillside next to us.
"This is just so charming!" Lee-Hoon Benson exclaimed. Indeed it was -- the profusion of flowers, the gray weather, the bucolic landscape, the flight down the cool green tunnel of the trail, the gliding stream and burbling tributaries. It exuded not only nature, but a kind of all-American wholesomeness. As we flew down the trail, we passed a man and his two kids along the stream. They had parked their bikes, and the man held a fishing rod, a silver spoon dangling from the line. "Yeah!" shouted one kid, about 3, in anticipation, "I want to go fishing, papa!"
Yes, it was charming. In fact, it was nearly perfect.
Then came the tornadoes. Later that afternoon, the owner of our campground on the outskirts of Lanesboro motored up on his ATV and suggested we take shelter at the community center. Perhaps a hundred people gathered in the rain. As we waited for the authorities to unlock the doors, we eyed the black clouds massing to the west. Then came the news of flash floods. Since our tents stood only a few feet from the Root River, we opted to brave the tornadoes to avoid the flood. We drove back out to the campground to strike our tents and pack gear in what had by then become a hailstorm.
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