Sarah Nigbor

The first hint of spring always brings me back to my days wandering the banks of the South Fork of the Kinnickinnic. My friend Meghan and I could hardly wait for the snow to melt, turning the dry run near my house into a raging river, that emptied into the South Fork. If our parents couldn’t find us, they knew we were most likely under the bridge between our houses.

Beneath the bridge was a manmade cement drop off that turned into a perfect waterfall when the creek was high. The deep hole beneath the drop off made a perfect swimming hole. The snow had scarcely melted and we were already in the water, wading and sometimes even swimming. I remember swimming in the freezing cold water one April, no joke. I’m sure my grandparents would not have been pleased.

We spent hours on the South Fork, building forts out of rocks, burying our feet in the sand, chasing little crawdads and trout, and in the dog days of summer, laying in the water to cool off. We made boats out of leaves and sticks, chasing them through the swirling pools until they rammed into the banks.

We learned the hard way to avoid areas of stagnant water, where leeches were waiting for a host. I remember the first time I found a leech attached to my foot. I thought it was a chunk of stubborn mud that refused to come off, so imagine my surprise when I found out it was a blood-sucking creature. That was the first and last leech I had.

We wandered the banks and searched for the little wildflowers that told us spring was really here. Buttercups, ladies slippers, columbines, Dutchmen’s britches. Spring beauties, shooting stars, and my favorite, violets. It felt heavenly to collect those beautiful blooms after the long, gray winter.

Sometimes our creek adventures got us into a pickle. One time we were wandering down the creek bed, when a neighbor notorious for her love of Dobermans let them out just as we were wading by. Her backyard bordered the creek and those vicious beasts, four in all, bounded down to the water barking ferociously. I’ve never run so fast in my life, with them nipping at our heels. We finally got away when their owner hollered for them to come back. It was a long time before I would consent to going past that neighbor’s place. It didn’t help that previous dogs’ graves were marked in the yard with tiny headstones.

Now when I read stories (or write them) about the Kinni and its tributaries, I realize that I grew up on an area treasure. When I was young, it was just “the creek” to me, but the South Fork will always have a special place in my heart. Every time I cross “our” old bridge on Saddle Club Road, I see myself and Meghan in the water, splashing and laughing. Now as an adult, I take every chance I can to go wading in creeks. There’s really nothing that says spring and summer more to me than dipping my toes in that icy water.