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The Mighty Minnesota
In November of 1985, the city of Montevideo placed a Chevrolet Caprice Classic on the frozen river. They drove the vehicle onto the river and let it sit about 100 feet upstream from the dam. The purpose of the car was for Montevideo residents to bet on the date that they assumed it would fall through the ice. There was some type of money reward or something for the individual who got that date correct. I was four years old when I saw that old blue Chevy on the ice. My buddy “John Peet-o-son” lived in it. This was my first recollection of the Minnesota River. The river runs through the southwest corner of my hometown of Montevideo, Minnesota.
I remember the day when my father took me down to the river to see the old blue Chevy and, immediately when I laid eyes on that car, I knew that that was where my imaginary friend, John Peterson, hailed. I mentioned that to my father, and it was confirmed. “John Peet-o-son” lived in that vehicle. Every weekend thereafter I had my mother or father drive me down by the dam so I could wave at my friend. Months passed and on March 16, 1986, John Peterson drowned in the Minnesota River.
During the summer before my eighth grade year, I started getting back in touch with the Minnesota River. A couple of older friends of mine told me of a new sport that they had recently taken part in. They called the sport “bridge jumping”. Now, of course, being that I knew everything because I was going into the eighth grade and all, this was something that I just had to do. I rallied some friends together and set off for the river. The first bridge that we chose was the railroad bridge. This bridge sits about a quarter mile downstream from the dam where my friend passed away.
Four of us journeyed to the river that day. The entire bike ride down to the bridge was filled with stories on how great this was going to be and who was going to perform the coolest trick off of the bridge. When we reached our destination, we placed our bikes in the tall grass neighboring the river. We climbed up some rocks leading to the bridge. There was a strong odor that seemed to be coming from the bridge itself. The smell wasn’t anything like that of rotten fish or tar or iron from the rails but more on the lines of feces. It wasn’t enough to keep us from jumping, of course.
We all walked slowly to the center of the bridge and looked down upon the river below. There was a long moment of silence. All of us had our suits on already, we had all been bragging how good we were at flipping and spinning and yet no one jumped. Everyone backed away from the edge at about the same time. It was a feeling as if we had been had. There was no way that I was jumping off that thing. It had to be at least 1,000 feet high.
About an hour into our trip, still sitting at bridge center and as dry as the Sahara Desert, my crony, Chris, chose to do the impossible. Without any words or warning whatsoever, he jumped. He leaped right into the mighty river below. It was amazing. We all watched in awe as his head came up from underneath the water. After his death-defying feat, the rest of us weren’t nearly as frightened. We all took our turns jumping off the bridge for the remainder of that afternoon.
Later on that same summer, after many visits down to the bridge, we got to thinking that there had to be some other bridge in town that we could jump off of. Well, as it goes, there was another bridge but this one was no railroad bridge. It was a cage bridge and it sat about another quarter mile downstream from the railroad bridge.
On the way to the new hot spot, that grotesque smell of feces was starting to become more evident. We reached the bridge and could barely take a breath, yet none of use knew where the mysterious odor was approaching us from. Vehicles traveled across this bridge. It was a monster. This bridge sat at least 3,000 feet high. Although when I spit from the base of it, it only took my saliva seconds to reach the water, which really boggled my mind.
My friends and I decided that we were professional enough to climb the cage part and leap off from a higher point. Although this time we didn’t take turns. We all planned to jump at the same time, which was exactly what we did. It was great, for two of the four contestants that is. Unfortunately, the jump was not a good time for Chris or me.
First of all, when Chris jumped in, his big toe landed on a stick, which just happened to be passing by the time. He swam to shore and was bleeding profusely. We ended up flagging down a motorist and taking him to the hospital, where he received eight stitches and the reward of stupidity from the doctor.
Secondly, I happened to jump directly into a stream of sludge. This was apparently where that terrible odor had been coming from. Little did any of us know until that evening at the hospital that the city sewage plant lies adjacent to the river approximately 150 feet upstream! As it turned out, there is a water line that flows into the river which carries treated water from the sewage plant. That was the path that I took. Lucky me.
The final recollection that I have about the Minnesota River was one that occurred in April of 1997. It was a flood. Later to become known as “The Flood of `97”. Montevideo, as well as other surrounding cities, was hit pretty hard by this natural disaster. Many homes and businesses were destroyed, including the homes of three of my close friends. This surely is a year to remember. One I will not soon forget.
The snow fell quite plentiful that winter, as did the rain in the spring. When the two are put together in such great numbers as they were then, it doesn’t make for a very pleasant ending. I remember taking an entire week off of school that April and helping with sand bagging, food preparation and cleanup. I learned a lot about myself in that week. I felt that I touched the lives of many people, including my friends. This was a time when they really needed me.
Over six months had passed, cleanup was still being done and families were still without homes, including my three buddies and their families who had to live in an old hotel building for approximately seven months. Today, most of the flood plain area of Montevideo sits empty. All three of my friends relocated to a new development area in town along with the majority of the others. The state helped them with financing for new homes and their old homes were torn down by the city. I guess the term “The Mighty Mississippi” doesn’t really pertain to me that much but “The Mighty Minnesota” sure does and, if you could ask him, I am willing to bet that John Peterson would say the same thing.
Adam Christenson
Montevideo, MN
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