Well, it’s raining. In January. In Wisconsin.
I heard the rain as it moved through our area between midnight and 3:00 this morning. There were a few flashes of lightning, but nothing severe. Gentle raindrops pelted the windows, and I was glad to be inside.
One of the more memorable experiences of my childhood was a severe storm that ravaged our area, dumping nearly 13 inches of rain in one night way back in the early 1990s.
Thirteen inches of rain fell in one night. The damage the next day was breathtaking. Our low-lying cropland stayed underwater for days. Fence lines were flattened, trees uprooted, cattle from neighboring farms washed away, and three feet of water in our basement. Local bridges were washed out. I can remember my dad hanging carpet and rugs out to dry on bale cage wagons.
When the waters receded, great boulders, beams, and debris were scattered across the low-lying fields. We even found check stubs and financial statements from an area business located several miles upstream.
Standing in the face of the power of nature as a kid had a profound impact on my life, and I’ve never forgotten the reminder that we are mere stewards. We are not masters; we just think we are.
There was a silver lining to the storm of my childhood, in the form of a swimming hole. Once the debris was picked up, fences fixed, and animals and property accounted for, my dad turned his attention to Richland Creek.
Richland Creek typically meanders through our farm as little more than a muddy trickle. In spots it may be waist deep, but mostly averages several inches or so. If you’re wearing a good pair of waterproof work boots, you can walk across Richland Creek without getting your socks wet.
On Montgomery Road, there is a bridge that spans Richland Creek. Since Montgomery Road is elevated several feet above grade, the only chance for large amounts of water to escape is underneath the bridge. The bridge acted as a funnel, and 13 inches of rain transformed Richland Creek from a tidy little stream, to a violent gorge. The power of so much water dredged a channel underneath the bridge, resulting in a swimming hole straight out of a Mark Twain novel – at least in theory.
I remember my dad peering over the bridge railing, formulating in his head how deep the creek could possibly be. I remember looking down. The water was as clear as coffee. We rummaged around an old storage shed and produced a 12-foot long two-by-four, and returned to the creek. Standing on the bridge, my dad probed the depths, but could not scrape the bottom. Satisfied, he climbed to the top of the railing and jumped off.
I remember watching my father disappear in a splash, followed by bubbles, and then nothing. Silence. Here and there, a few bubbles broke the surface, and clouds of mud swirled lazily about. After what seemed like an impossible amount of time to hold one’s breath, he broke the surface, happily exclaiming that the water feels great! I handed him the two-by-four, and we measured the swimming hole at 13 feet deep. He had to hold the end of the board under water to scrape bottom.
For that summer in the early 1990s, we had ourselves a swimming hole. On the hottest days of the year, following the dustiest and dirtiest farm chores you could imagine, we would retire at sunset, stand on the railing, and jump off.
It was more than 10 feet from the railing to the surface of the water. We would jump into the air and then free-fall, experiencing the rush of air followed by the hard splash of water. The deeper we dove, the colder the water. Anyone brave enough to dive to the murky depths would feel the pressure in their ears.
For one summer, we had the perfect swimming hole. The following year, so much silt had washed in, that our feet got stuck in the mud if we jumped from the railing. Shortly thereafter, our swimming hole was filled in by a dozen dump truck loads of rock, to prevent the bridge abutments from washing out.
As I drove to the farm this morning in a dreary January rain, I paused on the bridge and paid tribute to Richland Creek, and the priceless memories it provided during my youth.
The creek was swollen from last night’s precipitation, and chocolate-brown from agricultural runoff and soil erosion. I couldn’t imagine jumping off the railing into such soup, and was reminded once again that we are mere stewards.