Enchanted Valley

My Beloved is the mountains
And lonely wooded valleys,
Strange islands,
And resounding rivers,

 —St. John of the Cross

Driving through southeastern Minnesota’s bluff country offers many unexpected delights. I’ve driven every back road in the area, and I never tire of suddenly plunging from the prairie into the big woods surrounded by 400-foot cliffs and undulating bluffs.

The gorges were formed 10,000 years ago when the glaciers melted and flooded the land, carving deep grooves in the limestone bedrock beneath the prairie. The receding water left behind lush river valleys surrounded by cliffs and rounded mounds of wooded limestone.

The valleys are home to few humans. Year-round living can be tough. Frequent spring floods make farming difficult, and, in the winter months, there’s less light than on the prairies above. At times, they become wind tunnels, intensifying the chill. Their remoteness has left them sparsely inhabited, but in the absence of humans, the wildlife, especially raptors, songbirds, and trout, have thrived. Every one of the gorges features unique wildflowers that grow in the cool shade of the big woods.

Of all the many gorges I’ve explored, none is more precious to me than Whitewater Valley. The middle fork of the Whitewater River flows northeast through it, running cold, clear, and full of trout. The narrow valley is home to one town—Elba, with a population just shy of 250, three bars, and a bait shop. It also includes Whitewater State Park, which flanks the main highway (74) in the valley and offers various recreational and camping opportunities for visitors. Otherwise, it is largely uninhabited wilderness with the river snaking through it.

On a recent visit to the park, I hiked Chimney Rock Trail, which climbs up the bluff close to the river and ends at the region’s most peculiar geological feature—Chimney Rock. It was formed when the raging flood waters that carved the valley flowed around and through a small island. The result is a tall column of limestone with four small legs that support it despite a large cavity at its base. The cavity is like a fireplace and the column a chimney—hence the name. Oddly enough, the rock wears a rug of prairie grasses on its top, as it probably did 10,000 years ago when it was formed.

When I crest the bluff’s summit, I peer with hawk’s eyes at the river below. The river flows around an island: One branch retains its usual course; the other is dammed downstream to form a small swimming beach. The babbling water over the dam creates the baseline of a serene symphony of sounds of the woods around it. A pileated woodpecker rhythmically hammers away at a dead poplar branch on the river’s edge. A songbird repeats his unfamiliar call as if on cue. As I descend the trail’s second half, the call grows louder as I creep to within a few feet of its source. In an oak tree at the edge of a cliff clings what looks like a deep blue sparrow with a black head. It’s a tiny indigo bunting, with a voice that fills the valley. After what seems like an hour, I pull myself away from the song in the fading light and descend the trail to finish the loop, pausing only to gawk at the chips of rotted poplar flying off the tree from the force of the woodpecker’s powerful beak.