Reflections from the Riverfront: Essays on Life in the Mississippi National River and Recreation Area

By Tim A. Spitzack

"Reflections from the Riverfront" is an eclectic mix of writings of the author's adventures, many of which take place on foot or in his kayak. There is travel writing here, but beautiful nature writing, too, and a dash of memoir sprinkled in. Join Tim as he enjoys a swanky meal and concert at a jazz club in Minneapolis, rides a passenger train thro

• Language: English
• Publisher: St. Paul Publishing Company
• Release date: May 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986289729

Book preview

Part I

Essays on the River

Summer Snow

June 2014

In the Upper Mississippi River Valley we generally view summer as that carefree time between Memorial Day and Labor Day. These dozen or so weeks are seen as a gift and cherished as such. We eagerly await the season with thoughts of leisure and slowing our pace but when it arrives we rip into it like a kid tearing into a colorful Christmas package. It’s a time of year people flock to the river to boat, hike, bike, fish, picnic or engage in a number of other outdoor endeavors. The days are gloriously long and we stuff as much activity as possible into them.

Midway through summer we finally exhale. We have already enjoyed many of the recreational pursuits we dreamed of months earlier and enough outdoor chores have been checked off our list that guilt’s claws recede and even a gentle breeze can blow that monster off our back. Eventually, the heat of mid-summer forces us to slow down, and it’s then that we finally find rest. We discover it on the warm sands of a beach, in a hammock in our own backyard, or beneath the shade of a tree in a riverside park.

Nothing says summer better than resting beneath the shade of a large tree, and there is no better tree for shade than the cottonwood. They are stalwarts of the river valley that grow up to 80 feet high with a canopy that spreads out just as wide. Their distinctive trunks have massive girth, growing to four feet in diameter, and their deeply grooved bark resembles the face of an ancient wise man. They are not a popular tree for yards because their strong roots wreak havoc on sewer systems and the cotton they shed in early summer clogs window screens, but in the heat of summer they are our closest friend.

Cottonwoods thrive in floodplains and were a welcomed sight and source of refuge to trail-weary pioneers who traveled across the vast prairie in this region. They are a fast-growing tree but have declined in numbers locally over the past few decades due to riverfront development and other factors. This has prompted the Mississippi River Fund to lead an effort this summer to reforest the area with them. These trees are a critical nesting habitat for bald eagles and are instrumental in controlling riverbank erosion. According to the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources, Minnesota has one of the largest populations of nesting bald eagles in the United States. There are approximately 50 active nests in the Twin Cities area, and more than 700 breeding areas in the state, which is nearly 45 percent more than 25 years ago. Eagles love cottonwood trees because they can support their huge nests, which are commonly six to eight feet wide. An estimated 84 percent of bald eagles in the Mississippi National River and Recreation Area nest in cottonwood trees.

This iconic riverfront tree is prevalent in Harriet Island Regional Park in St. Paul so I drove there in early June to see them. I didn’t make it past the east entrance gate before I started seeing summer snow. I parked my car and walked a short distance to a beautiful textbook cottonwood. It was huge. I wondered just how big so I used a rudimentary method to measure it. Putting one foot directly in front of the other and circling the tree I estimated it to be 26 feet in circumference. I looked up and marveled at how high it stretched toward the heavens. Its sturdy limbs reached out far and wide like ever-protective arms. I stepped off the width of the canopy: 85 feet.

I walked away from the tree to get a full view of it and saw that it was stuffed with cotton, hanging like Spanish moss from its waxy, heart shaped leaves. It was breezy, and each gust brought the tree to life. Its leaves seemed to sing in chorus and laugh as the tree tossed cotton into the air like confetti. I was mesmerized at the sight of it floating on the breeze, having the same dizzying effect of looking into a soft December snow. It swirled around me and tickled my nose before landing on the grass and the parking lot, where it raced along the pavement and accumulated in small drifts along the curb.

Before my visit I had read a Native American legend about the cottonwood tree. It’s the tale of a curious star that traveled to earth and was enchanted by a beautiful sound coming from a village—the sound of laughter and kind words being spoken. The star longed to live by this wonderful sound so it hid itself in a cottonwood tree and made its dwelling there.

It is said that to this day you can see that star’s shadow in some cottonwood twigs, but only ones that aren’t too green or too brittle. I scanned the ground and saw several twigs so I picked one up and snapped it open at one of its gnarly knuckles. Nothing. After a few more attempts, starlight danced in my eyes as I found the distinct shadow of that curious star burned into the dark pith. I smiled and slipped the twig into my pocket, saving it as a summer treasure and a reminder that even though the sun warms our skin during the summer, it is laughter and kind words that warm our hearts year round.

Unlikely Dance Partners

June 2014

It’s a Saturday morning in mid-June and I am quietly floating in my kayak in a Minnesota bayou. The river is running high and fast this year so I’ve chosen to paddle in the backwaters of the Mississippi in an area that is normally inaccessible, even in a kayak that can float in just inches of water. I’ve traveled past a dense forest where the trees are stretching over the water and appear to be bowing in humble reverence. Others seem to be reaching for the sky, as if wishing they could break free from the deep roots that hold them. I imagine they envy the eagles that fly past them daily, soaring freely and going where they please. I think of the eagles and how they likely look down and envy the trees, for they can grow and flourish without having to roam constantly in search of daily sustenance.

I paddle toward an area where tall trees emerge from black water and shoot toward the muddy sky, which is threatening rain. I pick my way through the boreal obstacle course by paddling when I can and by grabbing trees and pulling myself along when the swamp is too thick for me to dip my paddle. It is slow yet adventurous work.

Once through the grove I find myself in a marsh. The water is shallow and chocked with weeds that swirl lazily below me. I’ve been paddling for a half-hour so I allow myself a moment to rest, and as I do I bob gently on the water. Small waves come from behind me, force me to rise and fall slightly, and then continue on and lap at the earthen dike that separates me from the main channel of the river. The dike extends more than a hundred yards to my right and left and is lush with native grasses swaying in the summer breeze. I see shades of green and yellow and brown. The heads of the tallest grasses are fluffy with sprigs of grain, resembling tiny firework bursts. These grasses are under constant duress from the wind. It blows them down. They rise again, and the pattern is repeated, producing ripples and waves across the riverfront. The waves look remarkably similar to those around me and I watch them as they hit the shore. I’ve observed shoreline waves many times before and have always thought they look as if they are trying to escape confinement but are pulled back just before reaching freedom, but today I notice something different. It appears the waves before me do indeed escape and that they jump ashore and dance with the prairie, and the two become one in a graceful waltz across the landscape.

Suddenly, another partner appears. Small drops of rain bounce on the water and fan out until they become one with it. It’s as if they are tapping the waves on the shoulder and asking, politely, May I cut in? And the rain joins the dance.

A fish rises and breaks the water with a splash just a few feet away. It’s possible that it, too, wants to join the dance, or maybe it is saying, Come see the dance happening down here. A red-winged blackbird is perched on a tall reed nearby. He is sharply dressed in tux and tails, seemingly conducting the orchestra producing the melodious bird song that fills the air.

The rain begins to heighten in intensity so I turn my bow and paddle for home. As I’m gliding along I remember that my wife has suggested we take ballroom dancing lessons this summer. As a youth, I enjoyed dancing, if what we did back then can be called dancing. We mostly jumped, gyrated and swayed to classic rock and ’80s metal. I’ve long since lost my rhythm and no longer enjoy being on the dance floor. However, I admit that watching skilled dancers glide gracefully together, entwined as one, in a fluid, flowing waltz is like watching poetry in motion, much like the dance of the prairie. I think I’ll agree to the lessons so I, too, can join the dance.

Sound the Retreat

October 2014

After Labor Day fades away, a quiet somberness gently settles upon the land and we begin to notice that everything around us appears to be in retreat. The exodus is set in motion as the earth slowly turns its back to the sun. On the summer solstice we bask in over 15 hours of warm, nourishing light. By the first day of autumn we have lost three hours of daylight and we will lose that many more by the time we greet the darkest day of the year in late December.

The first to leave