Down the Mississippi #3

 After a few days of serious driving, life slowed. We checked into a motel in Bemidji for four nights and spent Saturday at Itasca State Park, exploring and hiking the headwaters. Saturday also happened to be Yom Kippur, a day of fasting, reflection, and seeking of atonement. We didn’t mess with the fasting or atoning, but we doubled down on the reflecting.

The Great Spirit bade us welcome as we approached. So far, we have seen two bald eagles up close in their full black-and-white, broad winged splendor. Both flew directly in front of us from left to right as we approached our first two river crossings. We are in Ojibwe country. Like much of New Mexico, this land feels sacred and holy at a deep and very ancient level. We feel welcome and very, very humble.

The river here is just a tiny stream. The classic tourist rock crossing where it empties out of Lake Itasca was a bit too treacherous for these old legs. Instead, we walked across a log about 20 feet downstream. But that didn’t satisfy my sense of elation. I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pants, and waded across the Mississippi River a few times, basking in the feel of the cold, clean holy water.

I envisioned Big Muddy. Ol’ Man River. The Great River. The Gathering of the Waters. The “misi-ziibi.” I felt a part of North America and thousands of years of human history.

The journey has begun in earnest.