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.The valley floor has a mystical quality. The breeze softly singing in the trees seems to swirl and drift in eddies around the trails. The river is never long out of ear or mind, narrowing into rapids and growing into deep pools that I mark in my mind’s eye for future casts with the fly rod.

No matter how long I stay, it’s always hard to leave. That’s why I enjoy camping here so much. There’s nothing like sleeping next to a babbling brook without the sound of mosquitoes to harass me or the sun to wake me until well after dawn on the prairie above. The last time I camped at Whitewater, we parked and hiked our stuff into one of the few remote campsites. It’s not a long hike, but it does have its rewards, especially in spring, when the yellow lady’s slipper is out along the trail. I’ve also camped at the car campsites, but I try to stay on the west side of the river because the central mass of campsites can get boisterous at times, which is common at all the state park campgrounds I’ve visited.

There are no mosquitoes in the Whitewater Valley because there is no standing water where they can breed. At least that’s what the naturalists say. The river is flanked by marshes downstream from Elba, and yet mosquitoes do not breed there either. Perhaps they just never bothered to come. For whatever reason, the lack of mosquitoes makes this valley a great place to visit in June, when Minnesota’s state bird usually keeps campers awake with its incessant buzzing.

In addition to fly fishermen, the park is most visited by hikers of all skill levels. It features ten miles of trails that wend their way up and down the bluffs. Like all of the state parks in the southeast, some trails, including the Chimney Rock Trail and Coyote and Eagle points on the Dakota Loop trail, feature overlooks of the valley. If you want to see with eagle’s eyes, climb the Elba fire tower, which ascends above the level of the prairie grasses above the bluffs.

In winter, the valley seems even more remote and pristine. The springs that bubble through cracks and crevices in the limestone flow warm as they make their way down to the river. When the temperature dips below zero, the brooks steam into mists that give the trees frosty fingers. The hoarfrost provides a striking contrast to the yellows and oranges of the bluffs and the clear blue sky.

When snow is in the valley, the park bustles with activity. A winter catch-and-release trout-fishing season draws anglers to the warm waters of the river.  Eight miles of groomed trails on the level ground of the valley floor offer excellent skiing opportunities. Snowshoers can follow the tracks of mink, otter, and other mammals and birds. Several winter programs sure to capture a visitor’s imagination include moonlight snowshoe hikes, guided eagle-watching adventures, ice-harvesting demonstrations, and maple-syrup-making classes.

Peak experiences aside, I carry the feeling of the woods at the river’s edge in my heart when I’m away from the valley. The big trees and babbling brook speak to that ancient kernel of spirit within me. The valley has the feeling of a forgotten place that never changes. Time slows down here, and it’s easy to get into the rhythm of long-past times. It doesn’t take much imagination to dream of how this place was before civilization. That is the reason why the Whitewater Valley has created a special place in my soul—a place where I can go when I need to get away from civilization and connect with the spirit of the big woods. 

James Mathewson is a frequent contributor to the Mpls.St.Paul Magazine travel section. He writes from Faribault.