The Levee Ken McCullough
The Levee: Then and Now for Mayor Mark Peterson “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time.” —Norman McLean, from A River Runs Through It If you took a time lapse photo of the levee you’d see the cycles, the ebb and flow— the river swollen from bluff to bluff or shallow enough to herd your cattle to Wisconsin; you’d see natives in dugouts, Frenchmen in pirogues, and Capt. Orrin Smith, on the Nominee, looking for a landing. Later, the faces of swells and high rollers, of presidents, of scoundrels and confidence men lolling on the decks of the riverboats. You’d see thousands of steamboats and sternwheelers; in recent times, the updates: the American Queen, the Mississippi Queen, the Delta Queen, the hullabaloo when the big boats are moored to the heavy iron rings, the gangplanks set in place. You’d talk to river captains, sitting on shaded benches like Frank Fugina, Walter or Dick Karnath, hear their salty tales even though they called themselves brown water sailors. And if you listen closely, you can still hear the notes of the calliope haunting its way upriver. At the start, nothing but a sandbar, and several burial mounds, and then the sprawling village of Wapasha’s band. You’d see visitors like popinjay Zebulon Pike, who described the vista from Sugarloaf or at least claimed to have gone up there. You’d chat with Seth Eastman, soldier and artist, who sketched a mock charge on his military detail by Wapasha’s warriors— afterwards, they had a good laugh then sat down to parlay;
116 Summer 2018
