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;

You’d hear chatter from the summer lodges, but those voices faded west when the land was ceded. Claim shanties went up on Keoxa hard words, fisticuffs, eyes gouged, shots fired. The town dubbed Montezuma, ’til Henry Huff changed the name to Winona the town grew fast and slapdash. The sky grew black and passenger pigeons crashed the branches with their weight.

In 1861 we stood on the levee to see our boys off when they shipped out to fight the Rebs. We can still hear the cheers, the snare drums and the oompah. In more recent times, when the river crested at over 20 feet, we looked out across the hissing cataract and it made our hackles rise. So we built up the wall, good to 22 feet. Later, we watched Leo Smith and Peter Shortridge assemble their Escheresque frieze along that levee wall like something fit for the Nile: it has served us well.

We were here on the levee when the Grand Excursion made its way upriver in 1854, and again for the Sesquicentennial. Ladies in their finery waved their hankies at us and smiled coquettishly, and I blushed. Piccolos and flutes chortled in the June breezes.

Many of us learned to swim across the way at Latsch Island pavilion, lessons from Cabby McGill, under watchful eyes of Lloyd Luke and that tanned and trim lifeguard who became our mayor, Jerry Miller. John Latsch, our benefactor, built the pavilion so that young swimmers were safe in the roiling waters.

We’ve had our times on Latsch Island, on Wolf Spider Island. And all of us wished we lived in boathouses there. And countless years we’ve watched the fireworks reflected in the river, the booms and explosions the oohas and aahs, our kids on our shoulders.

Various bridges have come and gone we watched in horror as that first locomotive plunged into the river and the bridge collapsed. No one died, no one injured. Rebuilt in 1852 and stayed in use for 100 years its skeleton survives. Some boats had brief lives here like the James P. Pearson, (the Wilkie I), the Wilkie II and the dredge William A. Thompson, an also-ran. Listen for all the hot air expelled over the fates of these vessels. Now, the streamlined Cal Fremling and Aaron Repinski’s Winona Tour Boat wait at anchor in their places.

This used to be the gateway to the west when all the rafts of timber from upriver wound up here, and sawdust filled the air. Until they clear-cut the old growth white pine. You can still smell sawdust when the wind is right. All the wheat from west of here used to pass through until the railroads cut into that market. And now the long strings of monster barges being pushed by tows, the deck hands, the steersman. The ebb and flow, the ebb and flow. The river is our highway once again.

In 1897 we built the gem of Riverside Park, envied by all the river towns in America; its geometrical promenades, its plantings But that faded into a ghost of itself. We have watched lovers walking arm in arm along the shady walkways, now and then a wedding, echoes of banjos and fiddles, trumpets and accordions. Yes, this used to be known as the gateway to the west Now, when we look out through this arch we see that it is the gateway to the future the slumbering downtown come to life again. And when we look through this arch with its brilliant stained glass panels, when we look toward the river, we see the history we share. We’ll see new art, hear new music, dance new dances, in concert with the old, the river flowing in our veins. Winona, the firstborn daughter, who adopted all of us, is back to stay: “…all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.”