Mysteries of the Katy Trail, Part 1 of 3

CHAPTER I: A Path of Exploration

I suppose it was probably the Ouemessourita Indians who were the first group to explore along the Missouri River in what is today Missouri. But they sure weren't the last. It wasn’t long before Bourgmont, in 1713, became the first European to explore the lower Missouri River, up to the junction of the Kansas and Missouri River.

Then, of course there was Lewis, Clark and their Corp of Discovery, paddling their way up the river from St. Louis. Not long after that, it was the sons of Daniel Boone - Nathan Boone and Daniel Morgan Boone who were scampering their way up the river, settling just long enough to establish a successful salt business, before traveling on to settle in what is now Kansas City.

A few years later, in 1870, The Missouri-Kansas-Texas (MKT) Railroad was established. Because of the sound of the acronym, the railroad quickly gained the nickname of “The Katy.” This railroad snaked its way across Missouri, Kansas, into Oklahoma and was the first railroad to enter Texas from the north – all the way to San Antonio.

The railroad created a new wave of explorers up the river - hobos. The hobos represented a lingering thread of American explorer and those who were truly, free.

Well, decades passed, monopolies came and went. Railroad barons were born, lived and died. In 1988, fate and the Union Pacific were too much for the Katy.

But along the Missouri River, the Katy lives on. Today, the rail line that was once part of the Katy mainline is a pea gravel ribbon of nature that runs from just southeast of Kansas City all the way to just north of St. Louis. It’s a bike trail that is traveled by thousands of naïve riders who have no idea what it really is - a path of continuous exploration that continues to this day.


CHAPTER II: Riding Out the Storm
In 2000, another small group of intrepid explorers traveled down to Missouri to do a little camping and ride a section of the Katy Trail. Innocent enough. We started late and drove much of the way in the dark. However, the closer we got, the angrier the gods of the Katy Trail became.

With every passing mile, the thunderstorms grew more intense. Thunder and lightning pounded, seemingly right outside the car. When we pulled up to the campsite, just outside of New Franklin, Missouri, it wasn’t raining, but the thunder and lightning lit up the night sky like day.

In need of supplies, Heather Cramer and I drove to find a grocery to buy some food. We drove around in the dark until we came across a small country general store, seemingly, in the middle of nowhere. We went inside for supplies. As she turned off the Pontiac LeMans, the radio blasted something about an imminent tornado warning in Howard County, Missouri.

“I wonder where Howard County is at?” I asked, walking into the store.

Heather shrugged…

We grabbed a shopping cart and hurriedly threw the bare and vital essentials – brats, chips, PBR and a couple bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill - into the cart and walked to the register. We were met by a creepy old pasty white cashier with a lazy eye. He began to ring us up.

“Can you tell us what county this is?” Heather asked politely.

“Hawwd. Ya’ll in Hawwd county, Missourah,” the man replied in perfect Southernese.

Heather and I looked at each other – confused.

“I’m sorry, what county?”

“Hawwd.”

Not wanting to look like idiots we didn’t ask again…neither of us had a clue what he said.

We took our bags and walked out of the store and into the purple light of continuous lighting. We pulled out the cooler and started loading things up. An enormous crack of thunder pierced the night air. We looked up and across the sprawling Missouri River bottom to an enormous wall cloud hovering over us and the entire area. It swirled in the purple glow that surrounded us.

It began to dawn us that “Hawwd” county was in fact, Howard County. We were in the eye of the storm.

“MUST pack faster!” Heather exclaimed, hurling our food into the cooler. We jumped into the LeMans and fled towards the campground. The three cylinders groaned under the demands of 61 mph and 1,200 RPMs.

The gods of the Katy Trail were growing angry. Looking back, they were trying to tell us something…to leave. Immediately. Unfortunately, we didn’t heed the warning.

The rain was starting and the wind was picking up as we pulled into the campground where the rest of the group had been setting up camp. We all dove into “the Lodge” and hunkered down for what would be a long night.

The wind and the rain was continuous, powerful and swirled all around us. You could hear the faint sound of sirens howling in the distance. Huddled in the Lodge, we sipped our Boone’s Farm, played cards and carefully grilled our brats outside from inside the tent - making the best of a bad situation.

The morning brought the humbling realization that we had survived. Like sailors tossed upon a relentless sea, we had ridden out the storm – and survived. I unzipped the tent to warm sunshine and to find myself standing on what had essentially become and island – a peninsula to be more precise. We were almost completely surrounded by water that had flooded all around us during the night. The tent sagged under the immense wait of all the water.

But we had survived...