The Water Remembers

A monument to American ingenuity and adaptation was dug out of Illinois ground following the ancient Mississippi River bed from Chicago to Rock Island—a beautiful thing, the Hennepin Canal. A simple twist of fate made it obsolete almost before the concrete set. What does it mean when a canal becomes obsolete before it's even finished?

It made sense. Rock Island was a strategic junction where the first railroad bridge spanned the Mississippi River, a bridge to the west. As a thriving port city with military industrial significance and commercial importance, connecting it directly to Chicago meant linking Great Lakes trade with Mississippi River commerce. The Hennepin Canal was designed to bring prosperity to rural Illinois counties just as the I&M Canal had transformed Chicago.

I was born in one of those rural Illinois counties in the early 1950s. We’re still waiting for the prosperity.

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The canal was a huge mistake. Built from 1892 to 1907, it was meant to connect the Mississippi to the Illinois River to reduce the distance from Chicago to Rock Island. Shipping from Chicago to Rock Island took a circuitous water journey: from Lake Michigan through the Illinois &Michigan Canal to the Illinois River, then south to the Mississippi, then north again to Rock Island—a massive detour. The Hennepin Canal meant a direct shortcut. It was like cutting across the hypotenuse of a triangle rather than traveling along its two sides.

The Hennepin Canal would have revolutionized shipping had it not become obsolete before it was finished.

What happened? Bear with me.

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Lock chambers are essentially water-filled "elevators" for boats that allow vessels to navigate between waterways of different elevations. The width of a lock chamber is critical because it determines the maximum width of vessels that can pass through. If a lock chamber is too narrow for a vessel, that vessel simply cannot use that waterway.

The Hennepin Canal was designed with lock chambers of a standard width in 1892. Sometime later, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers undertook projects to widen the lock chambers on both the Illinois and Mississippi rivers to accommodate larger vessels. In other words, the Corps was widening the locks on both rivers while the Hennepin Canal was still under construction.

Looking back, I am struck by the haphazard construction habits at the turn of the century. This widening of lock chambers on the main rivers would do…what? stimulate increases in the size of barges? The Hennepin Canal's lock chambers were narrower than the rivers to which it connected.

What do you do with a concrete canal that nobody wants?

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Picture a large, flat-bottomed vessel—a barge—approaching a lock chamber from a wide river like the Mississippi, preparing to be lowered to the level of the Illinois. The barge might be carrying coal, grain, or other bulk materials. As it approaches the lock, the vessel slows to nearly a stop. The lock gates open, revealing a rectangular chamber with concrete walls rising on either side.

I know whereof I speak. My father worked the midnight shift at a lock on the I&M canal for thirteen years shortly before he died. My mother drove him to work sometimes, and I got to ride along. I loved running along the chain link fence keeping observers safely away from the action.

The barge captain carefully maneuvers the vessel into this narrow passage. There is such a small space between the barge and the walls, a dark space that sometimes reflects shafts of moon shine. In a properly sized lock, there would be only a few feet of clearance on either side of the barge. Crew members use poles to fend off the creeping walls, preventing damage to both the vessel and the lock structure.

Once inside, the massive gates close behind the barge, sealing it inside the chamber. Water levels then shift, either rising or falling depending on which way the barge is traveling, until they match the level of the next section of waterway. Watching the barge rise up in the high tower lights before my eyes is an incredible sight, never failing to hold me in awe of the raw power of water. I still see it in fragments. The gates on the opposite end then open, allowing the barge to continue its journey.

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It was always cold those mornings Harvey from up the road or my brother made me “get my ass out of bed” and help load up the car. There was fishing equipment to stow, the fiberglass poles, the tackle boxes, the bait, the camping gear. We often had fresh crawdads for bait from the previous night’s nets on the Illinois River.

Looking back, I’m not surprised that I didn’t know a thing about how the canal got there. Why would I? I don’t know what I assumed. It was a place we went to camp out and fish, a place that at night was like heaven with stars out and fish frying. I was more into watching everybody fish than actually fishing, though I did fish, and I did eat.

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There's a particular stillness found on the banks of the Hennepin where a person can sit with a fishing pole in hand, watching concentric ripples dissolve into the glassy surface. Time swims in molasses. The man I read about in a recent obituary, the man who evoked this essay, who took his own children to camp along these waters felt heavenly molasses. Year after year, he'd return to the canal, collecting stories along with bluegill, walleye, crappies, and bass, building memories that would outlast his earthly presence.

Fishing is not about catching fish—it is about the art of patience, about being present while dreaming. It is an act both humble and profound. The fisherman casts his line and, in that moment, connects with something primal and true.

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The Hennepin stands unique as the first American canal built entirely of concrete without stone cut facings. These engineering innovations would later influence the construction of the Panama Canal—a reminder that even "failures" can birth significant successes elsewhere. The concrete that forms its 33 locks and nine aqueducts has witnessed generations of midwest families making memories.

Today, the entire canal is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Its towpath, once meant for mules pulling commercial barges, now offers 155 miles for hikers, cyclists, and equestrians. What was built for profit now offers something far more valuable—connection, recreation, natural beauty available to all.

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Let us remember the custodian who took pride in his work at the local elementary school for decades, who kept spaces clean and safe for children. The same man who found his greatest joy fishing these canal waters. There's a beautiful symmetry there—the care for community spaces, the appreciation for this reclaimed waterway. Both speak to values that transcend our divisions: stewardship, simple pleasures, connection to place.

Perhaps that's what the Hennepin offers us now—a reminder that our greatest national treasures need not be grand or perfect. Sometimes they are the quiet places where generations have gathered, where fish tales grow taller with each telling, where children learn patience and wonder from parents and grandparents who themselves learned it there decades before.

The Waters Remember

The waters of the Hennepin remember everything:

The ambitious dreams of 1834 when the canal was first conceived.

The laborers who poured its concrete from 1892 to 1907.

The disappointment when it was deemed too narrow before its completion.

The laughter of Depression-era families who found free recreation in difficult times.

The countless fishing lines cast through decades of changing America.

These waters recall a father teaching his child to bait a hook, to feel the subtle tug that means life stirs below, to wait with patience for what might come, to find meaning in both catching and releasing, to return home with tales instead of trophies.

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In our divided times, what humble things might still unite us? Perhaps it's these repurposed spaces that belong to no political faction but to all. The Hennepin asks nothing of those who visit except perhaps appreciation for its quiet beauty and respect for its historic significance.

Like fishing itself, the canal invites contemplation. It asks us to slow down, to observe, to connect with something older and more enduring than our current conflicts. It reminds us that the most American stories aren't always about groundbreaking successes, but about adaptation, reimagination, and finding new purpose when original plans give way to different realities.

The Hennepin Canal—once an industrial dream, now a recreational haven—offers us a microcosm of American resilience. In its waters, we might still find reflections of our better selves and glimpses of what could yet unite us: appreciation for simple joys, respect for history, care for shared spaces, and the quiet dignity of a line cast hopefully into waters that remember.

The Hennepin Canal story resonates in my memory. Watching a stick bobber float until it dances and then pirouettes in canal water stocked with fish every year taught me patience and respect. Time slowed as dragonflies skimmed the surface and concrete lock walls echoed with unrequited history. In those moments of suspended anticipation, I discovered that waiting itself could be the reward—a lesson I've carried through life.