River and life are wound together

A few weeks back, my wife and I hiked along the Salamonie.

It’s not much of a river, truth be told.

But it’s better and cleaner than it was when I was a kid.

In those olden days, Salamonie was another word for stink.

I’ve been told that the name derives from a Miami Indian word that translates as , “yellow paint,” the Native American name for the wildflower we call bloodroot.

But when I was a kid, it just stunk.

As if that were not enough, it also flooded now and then.

These days, the flooding tends to come from the Miller Branch backing up into catch basins downtown. But when I was a kid, the river had a tendency to come over its banks, which was a little scary.

The 1957 flood cost a farmer his life when he went out to gather his livestock and was swept away by the river. A similar but less deadly flood hit in 1959.

From a kid’s standpoint, both events were just a chance to splash around in flooded streets or maybe take a raft or a rowboat through neighborhood backyards.

Grown-ups had a different viewpoint, and through some political pressure the river was dredged about 1961. That process — which would be universally condemned by environmentalists today — essentially turn a portion of the river into a ditch. A big ditch, but a ditch just the same.

But on that hike with my wife a few weeks back, I found myself remembering the river the way it was before the dredging.

It must have been about 1960. All of the elementary schools in Portland — this was before consolidation — had gathered at Portland High for a field day.

Races were scheduled. Clock-watches were readied. And the kids were supposed to compete.

Except, some of us didn’t.

A handful of us wandered away from the activity toward the river.

Sure, we thought, the river stinks. But enforced track and field competition stinks too. We figured we’d take our chances.

Sneaking away, we crossed over Wayne Street, ducked under the bridge for awhile to make sure we hadn’t been seen, then took the bridge to the south side of the Salamonie.

Hudson Family Park did not exist then. Weiler-Wilson Park hadn’t yet expanded to the south side of the river.

It was, as I recall, just wilderness. At least it was wilderness to a group of 11 and 12-year-olds.

Safe in the shade and hidden by the trees, we continued our explore. There was no nature trail, but there were traces of paths that could be followed, spots that took us up to the river’s edge.

Today, with the vantage point of time, it seems pretty silly and pretty lame.

But at the time, it was an adventure.

After all, we had escaped the oversight of our teachers. We were, in effect, playing hooky. And when you are 11, playing hooky is about the most exciting and daring thing you can imagine.

This summer, stopping on the Kelly Baggs Nature Trail to look out over the river, I found it both familiar and alien.

Familiar because it is, after all, the same old muddy Indiana second-rate river. Alien, I suspect, because of the intervening years between that hike so long ago and the one this summer.

The river had changed, and yet it was the same. I had changed. And yet I was still the same.