Cascade River State Park Loop

I spent the night at the Cross River Wayside, a small pull-off just across Route 61 from Lake Superior. Although Route 61 is the main road running up the coast from Duluth to all the resort towns along the lake, there was very little traffic at night. I arrived late in the evening, and my apps showed no “No Parking / Overnight Parking” signs posted. In fact, some of the other wayside stops had signs allowing up to 10 hours of parking, which seemed to suggest that overnight stays were tolerated.

In the morning, I walked across the street to a small red building with a simple “Bakery” sign out front. It felt like the middle of nowhere, but inside I found a proper espresso machine and a menu that included cappuccinos. The couple who run the place are named Schroeder, and it was a pleasant surprise to discover a spot like this in such a quiet stretch of highway. It made me realize just how deeply coffee culture has reached into even the most remote corners of the country. Their specialty appeared to be maple syrup lattés, which I passed on—despite being a fan of maple syrup. They also sold locally harvested syrup, but I still had plenty left from my stop in Wisconsin. Before leaving for my trip, I stopped again at the bakery and order a chicken sesame wrap and on my way for my afternoon hike.

I was looking forward to my three-mile hike on the Lookout Mountain Loop in Cascade River State Park, a trail rated moderate that promised a mix of beauty, challenge, and subtle surprises. It begins in the pine forest near a campsite, where birch, spruce, and fir crowd in tightly, forming a canopy that filters the light in a way that keeps the whole place cool and hushed. Early on, several trails split off toward the Cascade River, where I could hear the rush of water even before I saw it.

Rather early in the loop—maybe a quarter mile in—the trail comes to a bridge that crosses over the river with a magnificent view of the cascading falls. This, for me, was the highlight of the hike. I stopped here for a while, taking photos and offering to snap a few group shots for other hikers so everyone could be in the frame. Just thirty feet beyond the bridge, another turnoff offered unobstructed views of the river gorge. I met a couple trying to take a selfie and offered to help—Bill and Paula—who I’d end up seeing a few more times over the next couple of days. A fence blocked access to an even better view of the falls, but I stepped over and stood safely back beside a tree to take it all in. It was clear the fence was there to keep kids from wandering too close to the edge.

On the northern stretch of the loop, the trail follows the river more closely—first near the falls, then alongside its calmer upper flow. Several cut-offs from the main path lead to different vantage points: some to the edge of the gorge, others down narrow tracks to rocky ledges, and one descending 96 steps to the side of the slow-moving river. One brought me within feet of the falls; another revealed the volcanic shelves that jut dramatically over the water. These little detours added variety to the hike and gave the early portion a more exploratory feel.

The climb to Lookout Mountain is steady but manageable, and the trail stays well-marked the whole way up (“Hiking Club Trail”). Near the top, I crossed paths with Bill and Paula again, this time on their way down. We chatted for a few minutes—they currently live in Twin Falls, Minnesota, but had previously lived just across the river in St. Croix, Wisconsin, where I had been just a few days earlier. They knew all the places I’d visited—and then some. Clearly, I’d missed a few gems. Both were retired and clearly passionate about the outdoors. Unfortunately, a swarm of small gnats had also taken an interest in us, circling just persistently enough to cut the conversation short.

A short distance later, I passed a weathered wooden sign pointing to a “toilet” tucked off into the woods, and soon after, I reached a small shelter near the summit. On this particular day, the sky was hazy—moisture and smoke blurred the edges of the horizon and gave the air a muted quality. I had hoped to see Lake Superior shimmering below, but the tree cover and murky conditions blocked the view. Still, the panorama west toward the Sawtooth Mountains was worth the effort. The ridgelines faded softly into the haze like layers in a watercolor painting. Later, when I brought the photos into Lightroom, I was able to cut through some of the white haze—only to reveal a subtle brown band of smoke behind it. I hadn’t even noticed it in person.

Coming down the southwestern side of the loop, the trail narrowed significantly and was lined with tall grass, brushing against my legs—and in many places, up to my elbows. In some spots, the trail surface wasn’t visible beneath the overgrowth, though the path itself remained clear. Roots and rocks kept me alert. I stopped often to admire volcanic flows poking through the grass—craggy, dark, and rich in texture. Dotted throughout the ground cover were bright red and blue berries. The blue ones looked like blue-bead lilies, while the red were likely bunchberries, a native dogwood species. They added vivid pops of color to the quiet forest floor.

Scattered across the trail were late-season wildflowers, hanging on despite the calendar. I saw purple asters, goldenrod, white wood anemone, and small pinkish fireweed lining the sunnier clearings. Combined with the lichens on the rocks, the rustling tall grass, and the berry-strewn undergrowth, the trail felt less like a route and more like a living canvas. Though the sweeping lake views never materialized, the hike offered a richness that ran deeper than any single overlook—subtle, quiet, and deeply rewarding.

That evening, I returned to the state park where I made dinner, read up on the region, and prepped for the next day’s side trip. I was parked near a campground filled with tents and trailers, and the area had a relaxed, family-friendly energy. Kids rode by on bikes, shouting things like “Try to catch me!” and “Let’s go to…” as they zipped down the gravel roads. A small community building nearby—part game room, part gathering spot—served as a hub where groups of kids hung out, laughing and playing into the evening. As twilight settled and the campground quieted down, I packed up the van and made my way back to the Cross River Wayside for another peaceful night.