Bemidji, Mississippi River

Having flowed gently downstream, the river nudges me toward Bemidji, winding through soft, rolling hills, forested slopes, and stretches of open wetland. I lean back, letting the current rock me into a lazy, daydreaming mood. Eagles circle above, herons pose in the shallows, and deer peek through the trees, checking if I’m worth worrying about. The air smells like pine and fresh water, and the river gently gurgles over stones. The sound is soothing and steady. I watch the sky, my mind drifting, enjoying the quiet pulse of life before the small city, the first on the Mississippi, pops up ahead. The river widens briefly as it enters Lake Irving, before slipping into a narrow channel that threads toward Lake Bemidji. 

There on the lakeshore stands the towering Paul Bunyan and his bright blue sidekick, Babe, patiently waiting, as if they’ve been expecting me all along. Since 1937, this giant lumberjack and his pet ox have kept Bemidji in check, a playful nod to the lumber industry that turned this tiny lakeside trading post into a bustling logging town. As the fur trade dwindled in the late 1800s, timber took over, with vast stands of white and Norway pine felled across the region to feed growing demand. By the early 1900s, sawmills lined the banks, men hauled logs across the frozen rivers, and the air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut pine. Tales of Bunyan likely began as exaggerated campfire stories among these lumberjacks, growing over time into the larger-than-life legend it is today. The boom, however, was short-lived. Within two decades, sawmilling declined, and Bemidji had to reinvent itself. While the wood industry remains even today, the local economy centres on education, healthcare, manufacturing, and regional services. 

As I drift further along the river, my mind wanders further back in time, imagining the first people to live here. The Paleo-Indians, or Lithic peoples, were the earliest settlers of the Americas, having crossed the Bering Strait from North Asia over a land bridge thousands of years ago. They moved through this land when it was still a frosty, wild playground, hunting woolly mammoths, mastodons, and caribou, bundled up in furs and skins, tracking game across melting glaciers. As the ice retreated and the world warmed, the river drew people with its bountiful fish, game and edible plants. Gathering over time, they moved with the seasons, figuring out the rhythm of the land.

Eventually, they got a little more organised. They began planting, giving birth to agriculture and farming, growing beans, corn, and pumpkins. Villages inevitably grew, and tribes such as the Sioux, Choctaw, Natchez, and Ojibwa made the river their lifeline. I like to imagine them seeing this same current I float on, thinking, “Yep, this river’s worth sticking around for”. Even now, it still gives up fish, fertile soil, and a corridor through the forest, quietly reminding me that the Mississippi’s been the ultimate provider for thousands of years.

Glancing back at Bemidji, I tip my cap at Paul Bunyan and guide the boat toward the river’s outlet, following the bend as it sweeps to the right, the water curving like it has its own plans for where I go next.