THE ANGRY RIVER DRAWS me, as close as I dare walk to the raging waters. I cannot stay away. For the third time in 24 hours, I have moved in close, taken photos, captured in digital format this history, this flooding of Faribault that I am witnessing.
I am not alone. Residents, young and old, are drawn to the water. Dads bring their children, clasp their hands tightly, keeping them safe from the muddy, churning waters. An old man hobbles to the edge of the Straight River under the viaduct, lifts his cane and points. Others flip open their cell phones, snap images.
As the sun begins to slide in the sky, glaring across the water’s surface, I take photos. I climb the hill and stairs to the viaduct, intending to shoot a bird’s eye view of the flooded river far below. But, because I am afraid of heights, I cannot force myself to walk onto the bridge and I turn around.
A few blocks away, I slip past the barriers barricading Ravine Street near Faribault Dairy on the banks of the Straight River. I walk past the bright orange sign that warns DANGER RAW SEWAGE SPILL.
A company employee outfitted in blue and wearing knee high waders guards the entry to the cheese plant. I figure he might give me some information. But he says only, “Everything’s secure and under control. That’s all I can tell you.” He suggests I check a Web site and then says I need to move back, on the other side of the sidewalk line that separates public property from private. My toes are only inches across the line, but he has his orders and I respect those.
Near the wastewater treatment plant, I cannot believe how much the Straight River has risen in 24 hours. Water now skims the bottom of the bridge. The plant is nearly submerged.
There I meet a young man who tells me that his sister was getting ready to move into the home she purchased about a year ago right next to the viaduct. She’s been redoing the house. But the Straight River overflowed, flooded the basement with three feet and seven inches of water, he says. With three sump pumps working, the water has now receded to 27 inches.
By the Faribo Woolen Mill, I duck under yellow police tape to view the flooding of the Cannon River. As I walk onto the Second Avenue N.W. bridge—the road is closed—I wonder for a moment if this bridge could be swept away like the one in Oronoco. The water is that fast, that scary.
Then, as I leave, a cop car arrives and I think that I’ve left just in time. I know I should not have crossed the yellow tape. But, like all the others who have come to see this moment in history, I cannot stay away.
These photos were taken between 5:30 – 6:45 p.m. Friday evening.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling