Riding Iowa's Heritage Trail

On a late Saturday morning this spring, we pulled into the eastern trailhead two miles north of Dubuque. It was a cool 57 degrees as we unloaded the bikes and outfitted them with our
gear and water bottles. The intermittent rain showers predicted
for this Memorial Day weekend had already begun, but our
waterproof jackets and the mature canopy of lush green provided ample shelter as the kids energetically pedaled along the curvy path of crushed limestone.

The Heritage Trail presents engaging close-up views of the
backcountry not visible from Iowa’s blue highways. We admired blooming wildflowers, especially the white clusters of Virginia waterleaf that lined the deep woodlands section of the trail. We
stopped periodically on bridges to check out the creeks below and mooed back at herds of cows roaming the rolling pastures. We passed marshes and a monstrous steel trestle bridge (which lay abandoned alongside the trail), old lead mines, even a ski resort whose chair lifts sat idle.

The town of Graf marked the halfway point. We opted to enjoy a leisurely picnic at Graf Park. Conveniently located alongside the trail, the city park provides trail users with a pavilion, restrooms and playground.

The sun made a brief appearance and the temperature rose to a pleasurable 70 degrees during the next stage of the tour. When we encountered a “bridge out” warning sign, we stopped to confer with oncoming bikers who reassured us that the halfwashed-out bridge was easily passable, though a thrill nonetheless. The course then climbed gradually, and rugged forest soon gave way to a view of river valleys, followed by acre upon acre of newly planted soybean and corn. . . .

Familiar landmarks beckoned us to the finish and the boys
proudly began counting down the miles. Seven to go. Six. Five.
Soon it became a race. The kids boisterously jockeyed for position, but Alvaro’s longer legs gave him the advantage on the final uphill climb. My husband and I arrived at the car to find the kids panting, their hair matted with sweat.

“Well, would you do it again?” I asked Anton, not sure if he
had yet acceded victory to his older brother.

“Definitely, Mom,” he answered.