Raised Between Rivers - part 1

Reflections on World Rivers Day 2022

On the Mississippi at Burlington, Iowa - the city of steeples, as seen from a small plane facing west toward Illinois.

About a week ago, I began a cross-state trek from my home in Burlington, Iowa to the place where I spent my childhood in Lakeside, Iowa, then on to the Iowa Great Lakes, specifically West Okoboji. Watching sunsets was a part of my consciousness for as long as I can remember, set in place during my formative years in a home facing west on the shores of Storm Lake. I now view incredible sunrises, facing east from a bluff 200 feet above the Mississippi River, or the “east coast” of Iowa, as it is often referred to.

As I drove Iowa’s highways and byways crossing various bridges and overpasses, I pondered the deep interest I’ve always had in the rivers, lakes and streams of this state - why a map of Iowa’s rivers hangs yellowed from years behind a refrigerator magnet so I can refer to it whenever I need to, more frequently than you might suspect.

Share this journey of recollection with me as my mind’s exploration takes place. I grew up in Lakeside, an Iowa village incorporated in 1933, on the southeast shore of Storm Lake. The outlet dam and its exiting stream once provided a natural boundary as the road was a dead end until real estate development required its extension. This lake and its shores provided an endless playground for my siblings, friends and me. Rafts made from empty oil barrels launched us on adventures toward the dam in numerous seasons. We learned quickly that our parents considered rafting on ice chunks to be far too dangerous and no, Huck Finn had not done that. Digging clams, fishing for bullheads, catching shad, building sand castles and pulling fish bones from our calloused yet wounded bare feet were summer rituals we took for granted. The outlet ran toward the sewage lagoons, which resulted in us nicknaming it the “Stinky-poo River.”

Sultry and still summer days meant green algae took over the water’s surface and brought swimming to a halt. Never bored, we found alternative entertainment in smearing the green slimy tendrils on rocks to dry, creating imaginative murals as we complained about the mysterious odor I can still bring to mind. We were grateful when gusty winds washed the algae away and we could swim again.

All of our area family travels involved crossing a river or stream, often several. My paternal grandmother lived in Cherokee, and we kids loved to climb the banks of the Little Sioux River around the neighborhood concrete bridges on our walks from her home to the Sanford Museum. Relatives in Woodbury County were reached by crossing several rivers, depending on the route my dad decided to take on a given Sunday. On Memorial Day we visited cemeteries throughout the area, learning that Mapleton was named for the Maple River. This sparked my word-crazy brain to discover all the towns named after rivers in Iowa, which resulted in more exploration of parts of the state and their rivers with mystical indigenous names, like the Wapsipinicon.

Visiting cousins in South Dakota required crossing what I remember as a treacherous bridge across the Missouri River, where the riverbanks were lined with junked cars, farm machinery wreckage and other debris. The rough and rattling bridge caused my wild imagination to wonder if those cars had gone in the river from that bridge, with prompting from my brother, who insisted they had.

In what are now called the “tween years,” I explored area waterways with summer conservation day camps provided by the Izaak Walton League in Buena Vista County. From these adventures, I learned how critical the spider web of tributaries, streams and creeks was to our mighty border rivers, the Missouri and the Mississippi. I was fascinated by the “divide” that sent some heading west to the Missouri and others east to the Mississippi. I learned about landmarks of Native Iowans and early settlers and how critical these waterways were to our state being populated.

Having believed for years that our own Storm Lake had served as inspiration for the popular song, “Running Bear,” (even though the lyrics are about a river, not a lake) I was elated that our Girl Scout canoeing badge required a rigorous swimming test and canoe training to make the trip across a windy lake to camp overnight on the other side.

Floods were something I feared, yet found fascinating. My young friends and I fretted for days that a second-grade trip to Sioux City for the much anticipated Shrine Circus would be cancelled because of flooding at Correctionville. We lucked out when our fearless family friend navigated her way through numerous detours, around closed streets to reach the Municipal Auditorium, with a station wagon full of excited children, a feat our mother would never have attempted. We worried about Grandma when we saw the flooded streets of Cherokee on the Sioux City television news channels. Images of farm fields ravaged by flood waters and the resulting damage of receding waters are not soon forgotten.

Years later, after moving to central Iowa, our family experienced the fury of the 1993 flood, as the Raccoon River converged with the Des Moines River to overtake downtown and surrounding area towns and neighborhoods. The flood coincided with the 1993 death of my first husband, and the relentless days of rainfall taught me lessons of endurance and perseverance, as we all waited for the waters to subside and sunshine to return. I’ve yet to decide whether the unrelenting clouds allowed me to grieve more freely or inhibited my moving forward.

Continuing in a direction to southeast Iowa, my sister and her husband had purchased a home in the villages of Van Buren County. While visiting them, I experienced the Des Moines River in a peaceful and serene setting with Bentonsport at its bank. We walked across the old truss bridge, now a pedestrian bridge, to Vernon. A step back in time, these storied villages along the banks provide visitors an incredible history lesson and blessed respite from larger industrial river cities.

Another Des Moines River relationship began in 2004, when I coerced other 45+ year old friends to join the Des Moines Rowing Club. Following a few hilarious and very necessary weeks of training on Gray’s Lake (as we realized this wasn’t a canoeing club), we spent three years intimately exploring the changing river north of the dam near the Des Moines Arboretum to Interstate 80 from our seats, as we tackled the orchestration of the rowing apparatus.

Hours were spent on Gray’s Lake before we graduated to the Des Moines River. This picture shows how out of sync we were!

We eventually found our rhythm and accomplished a symphony of sorts when our crew bravely entered the Iowa City Regatta, taking last place on the Iowa River! I think we had the largest number of cumulative years in our ages and the lowest number of total years of experience, but we thoroughly enjoyed and celebrated our shared adventure.

On the bucket list for this Midwest river lover was a trip to Lake Itasca, the headwaters of the Mississippi. That story will be told in another column of, “Raised Between Rivers.”