Ye Mighty St. Croix River By Tandem

On this last weekend, we piled the tandem high with gear and a positive attitude and rode east to the St. Croix river valley. Wet clothed, 1 busted bottom bracket, and 100 miles later we returned to our humble abodes, dreaming of going back out again...


We left the house, after frantically packing all our gear, for northeast Minneapolis to meet Trevor for a harp choir that was to be performing that day at 11:00am. A small island at the bottom of a huge railroad bridge in the St. Croix river valley was our ultimate destination. Right now we were just trying to meet Trevor.

Upon meeting at 10:59 it was told to us that the harp choir was not performing that day, not that week, not that time, and not that month. Oh well, outwards and onwards.
The ride out, at usual, was amazing. I have never ridden in tandem before so this was a great opportunity to get a feel for what an extended tour might feel like. We both agreed that a short 3 day trip is possible, but we like the idea of being able to go our separate ways if we need to. Needless to say with a tandem you can really cruise. We made it to Stillwater, 30 miles approx., in under two hours.


We reached the point at which we planned to leave the road and hike the 100 yards of railroad track to a trail leading down into the river valley. We hiked those railroad tracks indeed. Trevor stayed and smokes a cig, Neeen and I walked out onto the bridge a little ways.


We soon found out that it's now considered a gross misdemeanor to be caught anywhere on railroad tracks in the state of Minnesota. We had no idea they were watching us. Kinda fucked up, huh? Oh well, we snagged a few photos before that info was passed along to us...

Getting the tandem down the treacherous trail involved the work of all three of us, one scout, one at the front of the tandem on brakes and handlebars, and one at the rear of the tandem with a rope attached to it. Our bag of Earls Cheesed Puffs that was dangling off the side of our rear pannier was soon ripped open and strewn about the forest floor. A little grit never hurt anybody, but it sure sounds like it from inside your skull.

Here is the High Bridge. It's very tall. We ferried our gear over to the small island in the middle of the river, near one of the pilings for the bridge. Camping is free and allowed only on the small islands of the St.Croix river. These camp sites are marked on the maps you get when you obtain the free permit.

The Alpacka raft worked like a charm. We did three trips, one with gear, one with a bike and Neeena, and one with Trevor.

It was the last trip across, with Trevor, when we almost tipped the raft: " We swayed and slowly tilted to one side. Trevor pulling back the paddle against water, and myself readjusting my position at the same time, lead us into a slow dip into the Ye mighty St. Croix. Water poured into the raft. I thought that was it. In a minute we would both be bobbing down the river, kicking our legs and holding onto the raft as we navigated our way to a passing log, or the shore. But no. After about a gallon of water rushed in over the side, the rafts buoyancy prevailed and we were pushed up through the surface and remained upright, a little wet, and afloat. Trevors cigarette continued to burn...

The night passed quickly. At one point I awoke to a huge rumbling sound. I pulled my survival knife from it's sheath and jumped out of my sleeping bag hot for action and ready to slice an opening in the side of the tent, awake my comrades, and dodge the impending wall of water that was thundering towards us. We would clamber up into trees and bust out the rope and PFD's. Flash flood. But wait.
I'm half asleep, and the sound of the flood is coming from downstream. What? I crawled back into my bag, put my knife away, and listened to
the eerie sounding, and rather short, train finish passing over the bridge 600 feet above our sleepy heads.

In the morning, it was gorgeous. A blanket of fog
thickly covered the river valley. We got up and ate.
We boiled river water and made oatmeal and spam goodness. Oh yeh, tea too. Oh what a day. An hour later we had everything packed and ferried everything back across the river, sin tipping, and loaded the bikes back up. We pushed and pulled our double sized steed up and out of the river valley, avoiding the railroad tracks, and eventually reached the road.

There was a click, clack, pop, clink, and all of a sudden Trevors pedals were suspended in air. Held up mearly by the super steady pedalling of his legs and feet. He stopped, kicked it. The bottom bracket, cranks, and pedals flopped and came to rest in a sideways, crooked position.

Trevors bottom bracket was totalled. He dropped his bike, walked over to a tree, dropped his pants, and crouched down. He sat there, apparently deep in thought, smoking a cig, still in spandex underwear, for a few minutes. We towed his ass into Stillwater only to find that the one shop was closed on Mondays...