Little Falls, Mississippi River

I'm in a small motorboat, nothing grand, nothing built for barge traffic, just a simple, sturdy craft that can skim over the skinny water near Itasca yet still feel steady in the wider stretches downstream. It’s been my little floating world for days, humming along at an easy pace, slipping from lake to river and back again without fuss.

But here’s the catch, and the reason my arrival in Little Falls feels more like a full stop than a comma: the hydropower dam just south of town. Even before I see it, I sense the shift in the air, the faint vibration of falling water. A low thrum grows louder as the current tugs me forward. Then it appears, stretching from bank to bank, water spilling over in an insistent white curtain. It’s obvious my journey can’t continue beyond this point. There’s no lock here, no steel gates waiting to cradle me through. The Mississippi simply drops over the dam. Canoes and kayaks can manage the portage trail on the right bank, but my motorboat cannot.

I tie off my boat and head to the southside of town, where another craft will carry me onward, but not before visiting the Charles A. Lindbergh Historic Site. Lindbergh, the pioneering aviator who made the first solo nonstop transatlantic flight, grew up here, on the banks of the Mississippi. Enrolled at the Nebraska Aircraft Corporation’s flying school in his late teens and spending time performing aerial stunts, he soon bought his first biplane, a Curtiss JN4-D nicknamed Jenny.

After graduating top of his class from the Army Flying School, it was the $25,000 prize offered by Raymond Orteig for the first transatlantic flight from New York to Paris that caught his attention. Securing backing from St. Louis businessmen, he acquired a single-engine monoplane, . By the time he was ready, six well-known aviators had already died attempting the flight. Undeterred, Lindbergh took off on 20 May 1927 and, 33.5 hours later, touched down at Le Bourget Field outside Paris, completing the first solo nonstop transatlantic flight.

The museum brings his story vividly to life. Models of early aircraft, replicas of planes he flew, and pieces of flight gear fill the rooms, but one exhibit alone commands the space: a 1916 Saxon Six. This vintage six-cylinder touring car gleams in deep green with a black folding soft top. Remarkably, at just 14, Lindbergh drove this car on a 40-day cross-country road trip, even navigating backwards up the Rocky Mountains because these cars couldn't climb forward without a fuel pump.

At the heart of the museum is the Spirit of St. Louis exhibition. Maps trace the route from New York to Paris, alongside survey maps completed by both Charles and his wife, Anne, a skilled pilot herself, whose work helped shape air routes still in use today. 

From here, I step into his boyhood home, a modest house, tucked among leafy gardens. Inside, the rooms feel much as they did a century ago, with photographs and personal mementoes offering a glimpse into their private world.

Stepping back into the gardens, I make my way to the river to board my new motorboat, ready to continue downriver, the Mississippi waiting to carry me onward.