Grand Rapids, Mississippi River

As the boat twists through sharp bends, I ponder the river’s name. The Ojibwe people saw its vastness and called it Misi-Ziibi, meaning “great river”. Sensible, simple, elegant. Then French explorers arrived, translating it into their own phonetics, piling on double letters and extra consonants. There’s something lovely in both forms, though the modern spelling does lean a bit heavily on its s’s and p’s.

This stretch belongs to the Upper Mississippi, where its flow is narrow, winding, and surrounded by forests, wetlands, sleepy little towns and historic sites connected to early exploration and Native American cultures. It’s a quieter, more intimate section of the river, where the current is gentle, wildlife is abundant, and it’s a long way from the commercial bustle of the lower stretches.  

The first European sighting of the river was made by Hernando de Soto, a Spanish captain in search of gold. Hacking through the Arkansas wilderness, he lay eyes on the Mississippi in 1541. Crossing it at night on floats with his troop of 400 so natives wouldn’t spot them, they explored parts of today’s Louisiana and turned back. Sadly, he died of a fever only a year later. It wasn’t until 1673 that Jacques Marquette and Louis Jolliet paddled along much of the river’s course from the Great Lakes region southwards, but stopped short of the Gulf for fear of Spanish attacks. Nine years later, René-Robert Cavelier, better known as La Salle, a French fur trader from Montreal, Canada, set out on a daring expedition. An explorer at heart, after being told of a grand river flowing southward, he had to find out for himself and paddled the river wherever it took him, since at the time no one knew where it ended. Upon reaching the Gulf, La Salle planted a French flag and claimed the entire Mississippi basin for France—Louisiana, as they called it. 

I glide past Cass Lake, named after Lewis Cass, who explored the headwaters and later served as U.S. Secretary of State. The lake is a magnet for anyone chasing a day out on the water—boating, swimming, camping, or trying their luck with walleye, northern pike, or perch. I follow the river, and it suddenly widens, almost as if it’s taking a long breath before spilling into Lake Winnibigoshish. I drift along its northern end, where the Mississippi behaves less like a river and more like a broad, placid sheet of water. As I mentioned earlier, this is technically the widest point in the river’s journey, though only because it’s a lake. In terms of navigation and shipping, where an actual channel matters, that honour sits with Lake Pepin, where the navigable stretch still spreads out to a roomy 2 mi (3 km) across.

Soon enough, I arrive in Grand Rapids, its name borrowed from the river’s rapids that once churned through this stretch. I decide to hop off the boat for a short visit, mostly because I can’t resist the chance to wander through the childhood home of one of Minnesota’s most recognisable figures, Judy Garland. Born to vaudeville parents and originally named Frances Ethel Gumm after both her mother and father, Judy started performing almost as soon as she could walk, clearly predisposed to singing and dancing. Adopting the stage name Judy Garland, she went on to become a cinematic sensation after starring as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz at just 17. Walking through the museum dedicated to her life and career, it’s amazing to think that a girl from this quiet northern town ended up shaping Hollywood history. And, of course, she went on to raise a star of her own: Liza Minnelli.