Exactly Where the Rain Fell – Katy Trail Flood

Part of the Marker Stones series (2 of 4)

That morning, my cousins drove me from Kirkwood out to St. Charles, near the eastern start of the Katy Trail. They waved as I pedaled away, probably wondering what on earth I thought I was doing. I already knew the answer, even if I couldn’t have explained it: I was chasing something.

What I didn’t yet understand was the difference between a sign and an invitation.

The Katy Trail runs nearly 240 miles across Missouri, tracing the route of a long-abandoned railroad. From St. Charles to Independence—the stretch I rode—was about 190 miles. Much of it was flooded, washed out, or officially closed. Later, walking from Independence to Kansas City and back—twice, barefoot—added another forty to fifty miles.

That trail has carried people for generations. It has seen floods, fires, and quiet endurance. In 2019, it was underwater.

That year, the Missouri River flooded historic stretches of land. The Katy Trail was closed for nearly a hundred miles in places. Mud. Washouts. Fences. Warning signs everywhere. No one was riding.

Except me.

I wasn’t a cyclist. A week earlier, I’d bought the bike—a hybrid mountain-road thing—because I felt compelled to. Before that, I’d only ridden a fixed gear around Gainesville. But this was different. I didn’t know why I was going. I just knew I was supposed to.

The first night, early on the trail, I strung my hammock beneath a bridge. I swam naked in the river to cool off, horseflies biting hard enough to draw blood. When I ducked back under the bridge for shelter, it exploded with bats. I packed up fast and kept moving.

That became the rhythm: move, get blocked, find another way. I pushed through mud up to my shins. Lifted the bike over fences. Once, swimming a flooded ravine, I dropped it and nearly lost it to the current. Another time, I carried it across a massive rock fall, foothold by foothold.

I didn’t fall. I didn’t get hurt.

Through it all, one instruction kept returning, steady and unmistakable: trust the bike.

Even exhausted, even in the flood, I kept stopping to pick up trash—something I’d been compelled to do for years. Over time, thousands of pounds.

Crossing a small flooded dam, I lost my water bottle. Dehydration hit hard—the closest I’ve ever come to death. I pushed until I reached a town and knocked on the first door I saw. They gave me food and water.

Mercy.

I rode day and night. Slept on the trail with my helmet as a pillow. Once, I woke up pedaling in the wrong direction, disoriented in the dark. Flooded farmland shimmered with tiny fish. At one point, compelled by something I didn’t understand, I ate one raw. It was disgusting.

Flooded towns passed in silence. One had a single restaurant open, serving fish and chips to the only people I’d seen in days.

Then came the moment that still stops me.

The trail forced me onto a highway. The heat was crushing. I spotted a modern, warehouse-style Protestant church set back from the road—closed, quiet. I leaned the bike against the wall and sat down, filthy and spent, questioning everything.

Out of nowhere, a massive raincloud formed directly overhead. Not down the road. Not off in the distance. Right there.

The rain came fast and heavy, pouring off the roof in a perfect funnel, like a waterfall. I knew—without reasoning it—that this was for me. I stripped and bathed in it. It was wonderful. I didn’t yet know how to thank God. I just knew He had seen me.

I reached Boonville in under two days—about 190 miles in those conditions. At Champion Cycles, inside the old Katy Depot, the owner tuned my bike and stared at me in disbelief. I told him the truth: the whole way, God had just kept saying, trust the bike.

Leaving Boonville, I thought Independence couldn’t be far.

I was wrong.

The river dropped away. The route turned into long, brutal highways—no bike path, constant uphill grind. Somewhere along the way, a recreation center let me shower. I visited a retirement home and imagined staying, getting a job, serving the residents.

But again, I felt compelled to keep going.

I finished in three days. Miraculous.

Independence, Missouri.

And then it all fell apart.

My bike was stolen. My backpack—everything—gone. I met a man named Jeff in a Scandinavian gift shop. He bought me a motel room for the night.

Mercy again.

After that, I unraveled. I walked barefoot toward Kansas City through the night. I tried swimming the flooded Missouri River to an island. Halfway across, a man in a boat with his two kids pulled me out. Massive logs churned past us in the dark. I would have died. He dropped me calmly at the bank.

Later, swimming beneath a brutal overpass, two teenage boys on the other side looked at me and said, “Damn, bro—you savage.”

I arrived in Kansas City barefoot, moving through nightlife unseen. In Independence and Kansas City, I stopped for every homeless person I met. I had no money, no resources—just words. I wanted to help somehow.

One night stands out. A Vietnam veteran in a wheelchair, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his lap. He was painfully lonely. I sat with him the entire night, talking, doing my best to keep him warm with conversation and presence.

By then, I was deeply sleep-deprived and fasting—my body empty, my mind fraying. I mistook exhaustion for clarity. I wandered into places I shouldn’t have stayed. I saw what happens when people lose their anchor.

I left barefoot again.

The walk back to Independence was agony. I climbed down a massive concrete wall, then crossed train tracks barefoot—sharp stones cutting into my feet, pain shooting up my legs. I kept going anyway.

At one point, I reached a half-finished bridge dropping eighty feet to the river. An old Bible lay at the edge. I felt the pull toward the drop—and then, suddenly, reason broke through.

Grace.

In Independence, surrounded by churches and faiths, I wandered—confused, emptied, searching for something solid. Eventually, I reached St. Mary’s Parish Catholic Church. They gave me shoes—too small, but enough.

When I could, I rode the bus back toward Kansas City. The drivers kept letting me ride for free. I ended up in the music district—a place meant to be alive, meant to offer something. I was exhausted, miserable, with nowhere to belong.

An older Black gentleman walked up to me, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “You’re in hell. I don’t know what else to tell you.” Then he walked away.

I never forgot it.

I called my parents. They bought me a train ticket back to St. Louis. Back to my cousins in Kirkwood.

I had thought I was biking to earn something. I didn’t understand that God wasn’t asking me to suffer more—He was carrying me through it. Every mercy—the rain shower, the safe footholds, the boat on the river, Jeff’s motel room, the church shoes—was Him saying, I’ve got you, son.

The losses? The pain? Looking back, I believe He allowed them to strip away what I was still clinging to, so I could finally be free.

The darkness didn’t win.
He did.

Now, with distance, I see the pattern. No matter how far I ran—California, Oregon, twice each—God always brought me back near the beginning. Near my heart’s anchor. Near the place where the story first took root.

If you’re on your own flooded trail—pushing forward when everyone else turned back—know this:

He’s riding with you
He’ll send the rain exactly when you need it.
Trust the bike.
Trust Him.
He’s bringing you home.

Praise Jesus,
Jason

 

Read the full series: [1. The Divine Anhinga] [2. Exactly Where the Rain Fell] [3. Frozen Mercy] [4. Savage Nights]