Rainy Lake Trail
Yesterday, I finally accepted that Voyageurs National Park is really a water park. Without a boat, and with all the guided kayak trips and boat tours sold out for the next few days, my only option was land-based. A ranger mentioned the Rainy Lake Trail, running from International Falls to the park headquarters.
On TrailLink, the trail had just two reviews—both complaining about poor signage. I downloaded the map, found the trailhead two blocks from the Canadian border crossing, and set off. At 12.8 miles to the park office, I was the only vehicle in the lot.
The ride begins on an aging stretch of pavement, clearly from another era. Built in the late 1980s or early ’90s through a beautification project led by a local women’s group—likely the General Federation of Women’s Clubs or the International Falls Garden Club—it was once a community point of pride. Benches, plantings, and interpretive signs were added along the route, creating a scenic link from town to Ranier. Now, decades later, the asphalt is cracked, edges crumble, and weeds push through. You have to watch for spots where tree roots and frost have buckled the surface.
A few miles in, the path simply ends, and the lack of signage lives up to the reviews. I kept stopping to check the map, sometimes discovering I’d gone off-course. In Ranier, after passing a tempting distillery, the route merges onto State Route 11—a wide, six-foot shoulder but far from the forested, lakeside ride I’d imagined. This is the longest stretch of the trip.
Eventually, a bike route sign appears, oddly placed, and a newer path—shown on the map—goes nowhere. I spotted an alternate road that would reconnect to the route, but I turned too early and ended up several miles off-course on a steep, rollercoaster-like road that dead-ended on a hill. At least it was a good workout.
Backtracking, I found the correct turn—a dusty gravel road busy with boat-hauling trucks. To their credit, every driver gave me plenty of space, but I still got a face full of dust. The gravel turned to a steep paved climb, where two women pushing a stroller cheerfully greeted me as I crawled past. At the top, I rejoined the bike path inside the park. This section, built around 2017, felt brand new and even had a sign pointing to the visitor center straight ahead.
For the return trip, I stayed on the actual bike route—though much of it isn’t really a “path” at all—and made time to stop for photos and read plaques about the towns, people, and industries that shaped the area. I even detoured for a quick loop through International Falls. It was very educational.
The new section of trail head near the visitors center had plaques about the early people who shaped this area—lumberjacks, miners, and voyageurs. Together, they tell a humbling story: the lumberjacks who hauled towering white pines to the sawmills and built rough logging camps before dams forever changed the rivers; the miners chasing the gold rush fever of the 1890s, staking claims on remote islands and hauling ore under brutal conditions until the rush fizzled; and the voyageurs, the legendary French-Canadian canoe pilots who first navigated these waterbound corridors in birchbark canoes, carrying furs and traders through an unforgiving wilderness long before roads or trails existed.
Ranier, MN
I stopped in Ranier to read the plaques and get a sense of how this little town has evolved over the centuries. Today, it’s a quiet lakeside community, but its history is anything but sleepy. Founded in 1908 as a shipping and railroad hub on the Rainy River, Ranier quickly became a gateway for goods and travelers moving between the United States and Canada. In its early days, the town bustled with train crews, steamboat traffic, and fishermen hauling in catches from Rainy Lake. Warehouses and docks lined the waterfront, feeding a steady flow of lumber, fish, and other goods out to the larger world.
Over time, Ranier weathered booms and busts—logging camps gave way to tourism, freight slowed as rail declined, and the old industrial waterfront slowly transformed into a mix of marinas, small businesses, and local gathering spots. Today, the train still passes through, evidenced by the engines sitting in town, the docks are home to pleasure boats instead of cargo, and the town’s main street feels like a blend of history and small-town charm. The plaques capture that arc—stories of industry, resilience, and the people who built lives here in the far north.
International Falls
A few miles from International Falls, it’s crystal clear that wood is everything to this town. Towering stacks of logs sit ready in the wood yard, feeding into a gigantic chipping operation—where clouds of chips heave 20 to 30 feet high, like miniature sawdust mountains. A massive conveyor then carries those chips or logs across town to a sprawling paper mill on the Rainy River’s edge. That mill, owned by Packaging Corporation of America under the Boise Paper brand, transforms raw wood into over 475,000 tons of commodity and specialty paper every year—using everything from digesters and bleach plants to its own dam and turbines to power production. Trains arrive carrying fresh logs, and roll out boxcars loaded with paper products, while trucks haul the finished goods on their way—it's a whole industry built on what once stood in the forest.
I pedaled a loop through most of International Falls, starting with the statue of Bronko Nagurski—a hometown legend who made his mark as a college football star at the University of Minnesota before becoming a powerhouse with the Chicago Bears in the NFL’s early days. Not far away stands another local landmark, the towering Smokey Bear statue, one of the largest of its kind and a favorite photo stop for visitors. My route took me past the massive Boise Paper mill, a key part of the local economy, and I was surprised that for a facility of its size, there wasn’t even a hint of odor in the air—a pleasant change from some other paper mill towns. I had planned to wrap up my ride with a stop at the Koochiching County Historical Museum to get a deeper sense of the area’s past, but by the time I rolled up, it was already closed for the day.
Back at the trailhead, mine was still the only vehicle—a sure sign that biking isn’t the main draw here, with most folks opting for the water instead. I checked my Garmin 830, and realized I had done 30 miles. I packed up the bike, stowed my gear, and headed to Ronning’s for coffee and ice cream. A fixture in the “Icebox of the Nation” since 1964, Ronning’s has grown from a small supply store into a regional landmark. These days, it’s a little bit of everything—outdoor gear, souvenirs, clothing, home goods—and now even a café corner serving Caribou Coffee, hand-scooped ice cream, and fresh popcorn. I sampled a flavor called licorice, but despite loving all kinds of licorice, this one didn’t win me over. Still, it’s the kind of place where you can pick up a warm hoodie, a fishing lure, and a double scoop, all under one roof.
They closed at 4 on Sunday, so I took my coffee outside to their tables, opened my computer, and settled in to write. About ten teenage boys cruised by on bikes, one shouting “Hey old man” followed by something I didn’t catch. On both sides of the street, trucks roared past with mufflers tuned to maximize decibels, circling back again and again to show off. Eventually, I’d had enough noise, so I moved to the grocery store lot, where it was quiet and Starlink reception was perfect. I made dinner, then headed to my in-town campsite for a shower and a relaxed evening.
