Tag: Kinnickinnic River

A River Runs Through It

On Thursday, I was overwhelmed by uncertainty. The Covid epidemic is seething in Wisconsin. This morning, I awoke again to the sound of a helicopter landing at the nearby hospital, taking a patient to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. The uncertainty stems, of course, from the fact that we have no idea when this will all end and when—or if—we can return to our normal lives. On top of that, the presidential election is still undecided three days after the fact. The counting continues in many states to ensure that every vote is tabulated, but more uncertainty is the only result we have at the moment.

So, beset by these uneasy feelings, I decided to go for a walk. It was a gloriously warm, November day, with bright sunshine and temperatures in the high sixties, and I thought I’d wander to the Kinnickinnic River downtown. After all, what could be more constant and assuring than nature. That little river has run through this area since the last ice age. It is something solid and consistent. Just what I need to settle my troubled mind. For those unfamiliar with the area, the river enters the town from the northeast, runs north-to-south through downtown, then turns west where it flows to the St. Croix River about seven miles away. In town, however, two dams interrupt that meandering path. Right at the edge of downtown, the Junction Dam blocks the river and forms Lake George. The runoff from that dam continues south where it is joined by the water from the South Branch of the Kinnickinnic until it is again blocked by the Powell Dam. Behind that dam is another man-made body of water called Lake Louise. Powell Dam was built in 1904 to facilitate a flour mill, and it was later adapted to generate electricity. Thus, for 116 years, the Kinnickinnic River and its two lakes have run through town, looking from the air like a giant boa constrictor that has swallowed two large animals.

I parked downtown and crossed the bridge to the bike path that follows the river. As I walked next to Lake George, hundreds of geese were honking as they rested in the shallow water on their annual pilgrimage to the south. Above me, other geese flew in perfect vee formations in an impressive aerial display. I paused to watch the water rush over the Junction Dam before crossing the swinging bridge into Glen Park. As I left the park, I entered the woods and followed the dirt footpath back down to the river. Deep in thought, I looked down through the trees to my right expecting to see the fifteen-acres of Lake Louise.

It was gone.

Having grown used to seeing a sizable body of water in that spot, it was remarkable to see instead an expanse of mudflats cut by a meandering stream as it ran toward Powell Dam. During the thousands of years in which the river ran down that channel, it had knifed its way through the bedrock and formed a miniature Grand Canyon right here in River Falls. Perhaps a “Petite Canyon” is more accurate, as it appeared, from my distant vantage point, to be only about ten or fifteen feet deep. To get a better view, I cautiously moved closer to the steep cliffs above the water, trying not to tumble over the edge into the muddy plains so recently exposed. Looking down, it was a bit like returning to a childhood home only to find that it had been torn down and replaced by a different house. It jars the system.

I researched this situation and discovered that the dam had been opened on October 1 in order to see if the June 29 flood had caused any damage to the concrete dam. Earlier, in April, 2019, the City Council had voted to take down the dams over time, with Powell Dam scheduled to be dismantled in 2026, and Junction Dam coming down ten or fifteen years later. So this is a preview of what things might look like in six years.

Until then, the current condition of Lake Louise presents a view of the river not seen since 1965, when heavy winter snowfalls led to spring floods that damaged Powell Dam. That was the only other time that the lake had been drained.

I’m not sure how long the river will remain in its present state. Those who long lobbied the city to dismantle the dams used the rallying cry of “Free the Kinni.” This is a rare opportunity to watch the river run free, as it once did in the past and will again in the future.

The Call of the Wild

Growing up in a city, nature has always held a certain fascination for me. I realized this fact again on Sunday night and Monday morning when we had some serious rainstorms roll through the area. I didn’t realize how severe they had been until I ventured out for a walk right after the lightning stopped on Monday. There are four parks or fields where I go to hit golf balls on a rotating basis; three of them were under several feet of water, while the other looked like the Brad Pitt film, A River Runs Through It. The deepest one was in a grassy bowl officially known as the “Greenwood Detention Basin,” as if that’s where all recalcitrant waters have to go if they misbehave in school. The water  in there was at least ten feet deep with more gushing in every second. (I guess I’ll never find those golf balls I lost). It turns out that River Falls received 7.25 inches of rain in about 12 hours, while neighboring towns had over 9 inches. After lunch, Kathleen and I went down to check out the Kinnickinnic River where it runs through the center of our town. It was eerie. We walked out on the downtown bridge and the water was only a few feet from the highest point of the arched overpass. The fluid was positively roiling just beneath our feet as it rushed by. It was moving so fast that we became a bit dizzy looking over the edge at the murky brown liquid. At the Swinging Bridge a few blocks away, the scene was equally impressive. The normally calm observation point was thunderous with noise as water cascaded down the South Fork of the river before colliding violently with the main river artery as it poured over the Junction Dam, spraying mist high into the air. I think we need this sort of unexpected weather outburst on occasion to remind us what a powerful force nature can be.

I’ve never been much of a nature lover. In Chicago, the cemetery across the street from my boyhood home offered the only substantial swatches of green in our neighborhood. Between my house and the cemetery was a narrow street and a 30-feet-wide, flat area of grass that gradually rose to an embankment for the Grand Trunk RR tracks. This strip of grass, rocks, and cinders provided fields for all sports. In the spring and summer, we played baseball or softball (Chicago style, with a 16-inch ball, of course) on an elongated diamond custom-tailored to the narrow shape of the field. In the fall, we played football there. The only problem was that most of the punts changed directions in unexpected ways after hitting the power lines above us. In January, it was usually cold enough for hockey, and the fireman on our block accommodated us by rigging a firehose to the hydrant and flooding the slightly recessed field for us. By blocking off the ends of our field with dirt and waiting for it to freeze, we created a reasonable facsimile of an ice rink.

Aside from that, we also played on the rapidly disappearing vacant lots scattered around Mt. Greenwood. Kathleen is always amused by the way my family refers to those postage-stamp lots as “prairies,” a word that, for her, conjured up images of pioneers, wagon trains, and vast expanses of tall grass. Even when developers starting building homes on those lots, we saw an opportunity for childhood games. Being less than two decades removed from WWII, “playing army” was always a favorite pastime. A dirt-hill that resulted from the digging of a foundation and basement could be converted quickly by our imaginations into a Japanese stronghold somewhere in the South Pacific. The newspaper clipping above is from 1964, when an Allied victory over such an entrenchment was memorialized by an intrepid, battlefield photographer. (I want it noted for the record that I was described as “virile,” despite the fact that I later got yelled at by my mom because I was still wearing my pajama top late in the afternoon.)

None of those places, however, offered much of an opportunity to encounter wildlife. My only clear recollection of meeting dangerous animals of any sort occurred when I was about seven years old. My best friend, Johnnie Rock (also depicted above) and I were coming home from school for lunch, and we cut through someone’s backyard. While running through the yard, Johnnie tripped over a chain, that unfortunately was attached to a large German Shepherd. The dog attacked and bit off part of Johnnie’s ear, an incident that traumatized me for life. Since that day, I’ve never been a person who likes to commune with nature in any significant way.

I do, however, enjoy running or hiking on trails in the woods. In Nashville, I learned to enjoy the beauty and solitude that trail-running afforded. Running on dirt or rock trails is great fun as you use the momentum of a downhill section to carry you up the next hill, or careen around downhill curves with reckless abandon.  The Warner Parks in Nashville provided miles of isolated trails in the middle of the city. Fairly often, I would cross paths with a deer, and I once saw a timber rattler sunning itself on a trail, but I found few other animals in my sojourns through the park. River Falls, of course, is much smaller in size, but I have explored every state park trail within a ten-mile radius. Having been running or hiking on these trails through autumn, winter, spring, and now summer, I have been able to witness the dramatic changes of the seasons. Suddenly, I gained a new appreciation for the hundreds of paintings Claude Monet made of haystacks, cathedrals, or lily ponds. He would paint the same scene multiple times, at different times of the day or the year, to study the effect the altered angle of the sun had on the particular image. The paths on which I run every week or so at “The Mound,” a steep ridge near our home, have gone from leaf covered, to icy and slick, to muddy. The last time I was there, the summer foliage had grown so thick that many of the trails have narrowed from several feet across to a few inches. Running in the morning involves breaking through the many gossamer cobwebs that have been erected overnight.

Another thing I have discovered in recent months is that, in Northern Wisconsin, if you are in the woods, you stand a good chance of running into wild animals. As an addendum to that statement, I would add that, regardless of where you are, you are never far from the woods. Therefore wildlife often has the run of the place. While running, I have been startled by huge wild turkeys, I nearly stepped on a sizable snake of indeterminate species, and a few weeks ago, a deer nearly took me out as it bounded across my trail. I am currently reading a novel set in the UP (Upper Peninsula of Michigan, across the northern border of Wisconsin), and a cougar figures prominently in that story. I have discovered that, while bobcats are frequently seen in the area, their larger and more dangerous cousins, the cougar, are pretty rare. Still, there have been sightings of these predatory creatures along the Willow River near here, and some authorities believe there may be a breeding population in the state for the first time in over a century. I have become fascinated with these wildcats, and I am ever-vigilant on my hikes, hoping to catch a glimpse of one—albeit from a great distance.

A more realistic expectation of a dramatic encounter would involve black bears. The only bears I’ve ever known have been Chicago’s professional football team and the cute “Honeybear” mascot of Harpeth Hall School, where I taught for many years. According to the Department of Natural Resources, however, “Wisconsin is home to a thriving black bear population estimated at more than 24,000 bears.” I believe this is true, because one of the critters has apparently decided to call our neighborhood home. In recent days, there have been half-a-dozen sightings of a black bear on our street and elongated cul-de-sac, one just two doors down from us. There are woods and steep hills just behind our home and all around the horse-shoe-shaped cul-de-sac. This big guy has appeared from those woods in search of food and found the many bird-feeders in the area to his liking. On my last trip to “The Mound,” just a few blocks from here, I made as much noise as I could as I hiked through the thick foliage, hoping to scare away any lions, tigers, or bears that might be around. Every time a squirrel scurried through the underbrush, I pictured a bear the size of a Buick or a tawny cat that outweighed me by 20 pounds launching itself at my throat.

So if you happen to be walking through any woodsy paths around River Falls, and you hear a lot of coughing and throat-clearing, or perhaps someone rattling their car keys like Jacob Marley’s chains, don’t be alarmed. It’s just me trying to avoid a close encounter of the natural kind.

Divisions

Recently, much has been said and written about the divisions that we have in our country today. This led me to ponder the various dividing points that separate the 15,000 people who live here in our new home of River Falls.

Ironically, a street named Division is a major axis in River Falls. Main Street parallels the Kinnickinnic River and forms the primary artery on a north-to-south line. The east-west running street of Division, however, doesn’t bisect the town evenly into rectangular-grid quadrants, as the name might indicate. Instead, it is on the north edge of town, separating one of the newer sections from the older  section. It gets its name, I would guess from the fact that it forms the border between Pierce County and St. Croix County. That’s right: people on one side of Division Street in River Falls live in one county, while those on the other side reside in a different one. St. Croix County hugs the river that gives it its name and straddles I-94 before it crosses over into the Twin Cities. We live in Pierce County, which is predominantly rural and contains about half as many people as its northern neighbor. It also borders the St. Croix River, but, with no major bridge crossing into Minnesota, it has less traffic and a slower pace of life. Aside from the fact that certain government services are centered in one county or the other, this county division is insignificant and appears only on maps. In fact, I have never even seen a sign saying that you are leaving one county or entering the next.

As in most places, sports rivalries play a big role up here. Growing up in Chicago, I know that the Cubs-White Sox rift is the most pronounced division in terms of sports in that town. While loyalty to the Bears, Blackhawks, or Bulls tends to unify Chicagoans, most would agree that, if you have any integrity at all, you can only support one of the two major-league baseball teams. River Falls is only about 25-30 miles from Minneapolis-St. Paul, but, in terms of sports loyalties, it seems to be more a part of Wisconsin than Minnesota. Packers’ fans appear to outnumber Vikings fans by a significant measure, and Wisconsin Badger supporters are more numerous than those of the Minnesota Gophers. However, in baseball, my purely unscientific and impressionistic estimate gives the nod to the Twins over Milwaukee’s Brewers.

There are other divisions that are unique to this town. For instance, living in a cold climate such as this, people take their windows seriously. Fights can break out between those who favor Pella windows over those who swear by windows made by Anderson. A local political controversy revolved around the two dams on the Kinnickinnic River. Some thought they should be should be destroyed and the falls should be restored to their natural state, while others argued that the dams, built in 1904, should remain in place. Just last year, it was decided that the dams will come down in stages over the next few years, but “Free the Kinni” signs can still be seen in windows around town.

More familiar political divisions are, of course, present in River Falls as well. Wisconsin, with its ten electoral votes is definitely one of the battleground states this year, having voted Republican in 2016 by only .77 of one percent. River Falls seems to be in a “purple” region of the state, being evenly divided between Republicans and Democrats.  The presence of a university in town means that many people are college-educated and lean toward moderate and progressive candidates. The area around the town, though, is rural and more conservative. As a result, a large number of people support Donald Trump, while a similar number of people tend to support democracy, equality, and the Constitution instead. For our part, Kathleen and I are delighted to finally live in a state in which our vote will mean something. For years, it was depressing watching Tennessee elections called on TV about twenty seconds after the polls closed.

The rigid political divisions that plague our nation today can be traced to three developments a few decades ago. In 1988, Rush Limbaugh began his syndicated talk-radio program that is still on the air. From the beginning, his programs were marked by vitriol, racism, and fear- mongering. He also created the myth that he alone told the truth about politics, and that no other news sources could be trusted. He gained a huge audience among conservatives who wanted to believe that anyone who differed from their viewpoint was part of a left-wing conspiracy or bias. Then, in 1994, as part of his “Contract with America,” newly elected Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich issued a memo to all Republican senators and representatives. The memo indicated that any person who crossed the aisle and voted for Democratic-sponsored bills would essentially be ostracized from the Republican Party and cut off from all party support. Within the next decade, Democratic congressmen responded with similar partisan tactics, and gridlock has resulted. Recent studies on the political logjam in Congress have all pointed to Gingrich’s time as Speaker as a key factor in creating the obstructionist politics and polarization that are such a problem today. Finally, in 1996, Fox News Channel began their one-sided broadcasts. The powerful network routinely ignores facts in order to put a right-wing spin on all events and has evolved into much more a source of opinions than an actual news channel. Today, there are half-a-dozen legitimate news sources available on television, and yet millions of people get a twisted, disingenuous, and misleading form of the news from Fox. In terms of division, these three events have had an impact on this country that have altered Fox’s slogan of “We report, you decide,” to a more accurate “We distort, you divide.”

Then, this week, former Secretary of Defense, retired Marine General James Mattis, a man who has spent his entire professional career staying apolitical and above the fray, issued a statement that urged Americans to unite without expecting leadership to come from the Oval Office. He wrote, “Donald Trump is the first president in my lifetime who does not try to unite the American people—does not even pretend to try. Instead he tries to divide us. We are witnessing the consequences of three years of this deliberate effort. We are witnessing the consequences of three years without mature leadership.” These powerful words from a highly respected figure have been echoed in ensuing days by other military leaders, disillusioned Republicans, and former presidents from both parties. Even the intellectual voice of Conservatism for the past several decades, George Will, expressed his hope that the GOP will lose the coming election in order to awaken the party from the Trump-induced stupor into which it has fallen. His harshest words were reserved for the Republicans in the Senate who abandoned all sense of responsibility to the Constitution in their “Vichyite collaboration” with “this low-rent Lear raging on his Twitter-heath.” I usually disagree with much of what Will has to say, but the man can certainly write, and he always makes me think and question my assumptions.

I will wrap up this entry by pointing out that, in River Falls, the east-west road next to and parallel to Division is called Union Street. I sincerely hope that we as a nation can manage to traverse that half-block and find our way from Division to Union in the near future.

Take a Hike

On Wednesday of this week, I filled my gas tank. That may not sound like a big deal to you, but I last put gas in my car in November, over four months ago. That was good gas, though. It must have been, because it was that high-priced, $2.54 a gallon stuff. This time, I filled up with that cheap, $1.79 gas, so I’m sure it won’t last as long. This morning I read that gas is under a dollar a gallon in some places in Minnesota. I don’t want any part of that crappy petroleum, though. It might ruin my car. While I was at the gas station, I took my car through the car wash. When you are as proud of your vehicle as I am of my 15-year-old Ford Focus, you try to keep it looking good. So I wash it every other year, whether it needs it or not.

Like many other people, I have been trying to find ways to stay busy during this period of enforced captivity. More than anything else, I have used the time to write every day. My friend Bruce recently read a draft of my first novel, Forest Primeval, and made some excellent suggestions. So I have been working on incorporating those ideas. (I think this is about the 14th or 15th draft.)

I’ve also been working on another novel, tentatively called A Million to One, that centers around golf. One sporting event that we watch religiously each year is the Masters, which usually takes place in mid-April. Kathleen and I often put down a small bet on a golfer with relatively long odds. It gives us someone to cheer for, and, with a little luck, we could win four or five hundred dollars for our $20 bet. We have never actually won these bets, mind you, but it gave me the premise for this new book. In this story, a guy bets on a journeyman golfer to win all four major tournaments in the same year. As the golfer catches fire and wins the first few majors, the man with the bet stands to win an enormous amount of money and becomes a national celebrity. The title indicates the odds he received in Vegas for his $100 bet.

As the weather has warmed up, I have also enjoyed going out for a 4-6-mile run or walk each day. The need to go outside is especially powerful up here, where people have been cooped up all winter due to the cold temperatures. When it finally warmed up, the stay-at-home orders kicked in. Because of that, I thought that the Kinnickinnic State Park would be crowded with hikers when I went there earlier this week.

The park is less than 10 miles from my home, and it covers the last mile of the Kinnickinnic River before it empties into the St. Croix River. This was my first trip to the park, and I thoroughly enjoyed it on a warm and sunny day. To my surprise, I did not encounter anyone else, except for a group of the fattest wild turkeys I’ve ever seen. I politely gave them the right-of-way. The trails are mostly grass covered, although some them still had sections of ice or snow or were muddy from the recent melt-off. I covered six miles on meandering trails, and it was a great opportunity to allow my mind to wander and ponder the possibilities presented by the little river that runs through River Falls. If I were so inclined, I could build a crude raft, Huck Finn style. I could put it in the water of the Kinnickinnic downtown, just past the dam and falls that give the town its name. Then I could let the current carry me, theoretically at least, down to the St. Croix, which feeds into the Mississippi a short distance from here. From that confluence, I could float past St. Louis, Memphis, and New Orleans, into the Gulf of Mexico. At that point, a person would become part of the great waters that make up the oceans and seas of the world. You could sail to Japan, Africa, Europe, or India. The very thought makes the imagination soar.

With no actual Masters tournament to watch this year, I have found it to be somewhat cathartic—and a whole lot of fun—to at least be able to write about a fictional golfer. Similarly, while being locked up at home most of the day, my mind is kept alive by thoughts of travelling to distant parts of the world where I have never been. An American cyclist named Jamie Paolinetti once said that “Limitations live only in our minds. But if we use our imaginations, our possibilities become limitless.”

We may all have to remember that over the next few months.