For the river: Jacob's river story

At the end of the first email I ever received from Friends of the Mississippi River Executive Director Whitney Clark when I got hired, he signed off with the closing "For the river." It made me smile alongside all the nervousness of starting a new job.

It's no small honor for me to be able to do something for the river. Like many of our supporters, I love rivers — the way they move and shape the land and their significance as life source. For me, so often, rivers have been the pathway I have followed into wilderness or in search of rising trout. I have spent countless hours on the bank of one river or another, feeling the restfulness of a good tree at my back and the meditation of moving water. If I think back to how I found myself in this role as Stewardship & Education Director, it's thanks to a life full of river memories that make me want to steward the waters I love.

Spring ice breakup on Minnehaha Creek

My relationship with rivers began as a kid, appropriately with a creek. I grew up in a little corner of South Minneapolis. Minnehaha Creek was the first I followed to see what was around the bend. We lived about half a mile away, regularly biked down and spent the afternoon there. We had adventures at the creek in all seasons and weather. One late wintry day the ice was breaking up, and large chunks were flowing. My dad, who was generally very responsible, started attempting to jump from one large piece of ice to another as they moved. 

I remember standing on the banks in my one-piece snowmobile suit, safe with two of my brothers, watching with both great admiration and a sense of my dad's impending doom. When you're as small as I was, all water seems over your head. But in reality, it was shallow enough. My dad, of course, fell in. When we got back to the car, he switched on the rattling heat in our old blue station wagon with the rusted-through floor, turned to us with a smile and said, "Don't tell your mom."

May's Ledge

In my early teens, my Uncle Pat introduced me to the canoe. A St. Louis Park cop, Uncle Pat moved his family to a little farmstead in Cambridge, Minnesota and commuted back and forth from the Twin Cities. He loved opera, read books by Aldo Leopold and Annie Dillard, and canoed in his spare time. Over the years, he would organize different collections of cousins to bring on canoe trips. We went to the Boundary Waters and many Minnesota and Wisconsin rivers.

We learned how to canoe whitewater on the Brule River in northern Wisconsin. Before we attempted to run May's Ledge, a Class II-III rapids section, he taught us the basics of setting up a good line, but after that, his only instruction was to hold on tight. It was the first time I felt small in the power of a river current. You plan and prepare, but once you're in, you can only do so much to control the canoe, and then you just need to place your paddle on the floor in front of you, grab the gunwales, hold on and enjoy the ride. We ended that day canoeing the Brule right out into Lake Superior.

Sit spot 

In my mid-twenties, I discovered Hidden Falls Regional Park with its old cottonwoods, their roots exposed and hanging over the Mississippi River. I worked nearby at the University of St. Thomas for over 20 years before beginning my job at FMR. For most of those years, several times a week, I would drive or bike to Hidden Falls to eat lunch and get away from the busyness of campus. 

I am so thankful for the peace and joy this place has given me. This habit has afforded me the pleasure of seeing a little stretch of a mighty river in every season for many years. Returning often to the same spot, patterns emerged. Eagles watching the river from the same tree — most likely a trusted branch with a good view. The same fisherman, dog walker and couple on their walk.

I have been touched by the realization that the river just keeps moving along at about the same pace. The world changes around it. Seasons change, we all grow up and grow old, and the river just keeps flowing — slowly carving this ancient gorge. Something about it all seems patient and wise. In a world where both seem, at times, in alarmingly short supply, I am thankful for the reminder. With the strange days we find ourselves in, I’m also immensely grateful to be working alongside such good people — my coworkers, our volunteers and supporters — on behalf of this remarkable river. 

While good science and policy are necessary to protect the river, so are personal relationships and connections with the water and each other. To celebrate the way our own experiences with the river have led us to the work we do today, we're publishing a series of stories exploring our personal connections. 

Look for more stories in our enewsletter, Mississippi Messages. And if you join us at a volunteer event or another FMR gathering, we'd love to hear yours.