This is what the Knife River looks like

in my memory. I thought I was looking downstream, but what did I know? I wasn't even three. That would have been the Winter of '65. We lived right near the mouth of the river in a small cabin. There was a rotting rope bridge across the river. Unbelievably (perhaps), I crossed that thing once. My tiny feet were enough to break some of the boards. I tried several times. Once, I walked out on the ice and fell in. Mom had to come get me.