There is nothing quite like the snap-cold solitude of a winter hike in the canyons of Matthiessen State Park. The footprints of the last snowfall are a hiker’s only companion — and trail guide. At times, even those disappear, and the lonely hiker is left to imagine the well-trod trail that lies under a pristine layer of snow, and where it might lead.
Matthiessen, with its mature hardwood forest surrounding sandstone dells, sits 90 miles west of Chicago between Ottawa and LaSalle-Peru. Winter is a great time to hike here and at its more popular neighbor, Starved Rock. The parking lots at the pair — especially in single-digit temps — are ghostly, a welcome change from summer crowds.
In January and February, the trees are stripped of leaves, except for the clattering rustle of the giant white oaks, and some feathery-stemmed hop hornbeams in the understory. A few tall pines whisper as the wind passes, stinging cheeks.
But a solitary hiker here is not alone, not really, which makes it a fitting winter outing for those with an adventurous spirit, some planning, and proper winter wear. There is the knock-knock-knocking of a red-bellied woodpecker looking for grubs on a rotting tree, and the squeaking calls of a close relative flying high up in the dying tops of hickory and maple. Groups of nuthatches creep headfirst down the oak trunks searching for overwintering larvae in the folded knuckles of bark.
An enormous adult bald eagle beats his wings over the treetops, his white head almost disappearing into the clear sky, flying no doubt to a fishing expedition on the nearby Vermilion River.
Hikers can walk as far as their courage and careful steps will take them, north to the Upper Dells, back; and then up and over the bridge again to the Lower Dells. There are a total of five miles of trails in the Dells section, including some through the woods that aren’t as easy to follow in snow.
The easiest hikes are along the bluff tops where there is less chance of getting lost or injured. The canyon interior is much more difficult, especially with uncertain footing on ice, and hidden surfaces covered with snow and leaves. A partner is recommended because falls are certainly possible, and shallow pools lurk under the ice. Extraction with a broken ankle would be difficult.
But for hikers who do venture to traverse the floor in winter, it is a magical experience to move through a mile of canyon as deep as any in this part of the state, and as narrow as 40 feet.
Matthiessen, the lesser known of the two neighboring parks in this area, is named after the industrialist who operated it as a private, 176-acre “Deer Park” in the late 19th century. His crew constructed trails, bridges, stairways and dams that still stand. After his death, the land was bequeathed to the state, which added parcels to make up 2,000 acres today. It doesn’t boast its neighbor’s soaring views of the Illinois River, but the park does have a less trampled feel.
My journey this week began just steps from the Dells parking lot with 145 wooden stairs and handrail down to the first bridge over Cascade Falls. From there, a more narrow set of concrete stairs descended to the canyon floor. The chilling breeze was absent, and sounds of the forest were muffled.
It felt like entering an entirely different world, surrounded by vertical sandstone walls of “Smith Island” thin-layer cake, stained with minerals, highlighted with patches of bright ochre, and covered here and there with plugs of ice that oozed from cracks in the wall.
In winter, the physical features at Matthiessen and Starved Rock come into stark relief. Each was built up and carved out by the same geologic processes, including the layering of the 450-million year old St. Peter sandstone, followed by the melting glacial tidal wave of water and ice that geologists call the “Kankakee Torrent.” The catastrophic deluge was unleashed about 15,000 years ago, scouring out the Illinois River valley, exposing the cliffs of Starved Rock, and hollowing out soft sandstone canyons like the Matthiessen Dells, through which Deer Creek flows.
Emerging from almost 90 minutes of still reverie in the canyon, I hungered for a bit of icy spectacle. A short drive north on Highway 178 from Matthiessen, I found it. I parked in a little-known and unimproved parking lot for the St. Louis Canyon of Starved Rock (located on the east side before reaching the main park entrance) and hiked 15 or 20 minutes on a trail that led to the canyon. Water dripped from a 50-foot high wedge onto a growing stump of ice below, slowly working toward a merger. Two tiny dark birds flitted among the frozen mosses tacked to the sandstone walls. I had this exquisite chamber all to myself.