Tim Spitzack

FACT...

Historic Flood Prompts Foolhardy Act.

The Mississippi River is generally a sociable neighbor that quietly weaves in and out of our lives without much notice. But sometimes it’s a grouch. Sometimes it gets angry and agitated, and when that happens, you better watch out. People in the river valley in April 1965 learned that lesson the hard way. That month the river rose to a record height of 26.01 feet – 12 feet above flood stage – and unleashed its fury on homes, businesses, and anyone daring enough to test its boundaries.  

It was a dreary and dreadful period. Dark clouds hung over the city for weeks, swirling like steam from a bubbling cauldron and constantly spitting rain. Cold drizzle fell on April 1 and precipitation continued all month. By the time the river crested on April 16 residents had been soaked 13 days. With each rainfall the river rose a little higher, grew a little more powerful.

Normally, the river is happy to accept rain and whisks it away without complaint but that year it was being taxed with record amounts of snowmelt from its vast watershed, the fourth largest in the world. The Mississippi drains rivers and creeks from about 40 percent of the continental United States, nearly 1.2 million square miles.

Much of the runoff affecting St. Paul was coming from upriver, including St. Cloud where residents were nursing sore muscles from shoveling massive amounts of snow the month before. That city was besieged with late winter storms and received 51.7 inches of snow in March alone, making it the snowiest month ever recorded. And then the rain came. Two inches fell the first two weeks of April. It melted nearly all the snow but deep frost prevented it from seeping into the ground so it rushed downstream in torrents.

In St. Paul, the river had become the talk of the town by April 12. It dominated front page headlines and people flocked to it like lemmings, crowding on bridges to view its immense power as it climbed ever closer toward their toes. That day the river was rising one foot every five hours and was filled with a variety of flotsam: logs, large ice chunks, even entire buildings. The home of Floyd Anger, Lilydale mayor and resident, fell victim that week. According to a written account by his granddaughter, one day the mayor’s home was knocked off its foundation, the next day it was floating down the road, and the day after that it was gone.

A large building at the St. Paul Yacht Club was also dislodged from its foundation. Fearful that it would swirl downstream like a rudderless arc and crash into a nearby bridge, the Club received the blessing of City leaders to dynamite the structure on April 13. Following the explosion, much of the building floated away in small pieces. That which remained burned and smoldered ethereally in a watery grave.
The next day President Lyndon Johnson toured the ravaged city and inspected the St. Paul dike, which was leaking like a sieve yet holding the river at bay, thanks to workers who had spent many days piling more and more sandbags on it. Standing in light drizzle, the President pledged the maximum amount of federal aid to assist with disaster relief and urged the nation to pray for the flood victims. At that point, the Red Cross said 18,000 had been displaced.

The river was also claiming lives. The first of nearly one dozen flood related fatalities in the state occurred on April 11 in St. Paul when a young man fell into the river and drowned.

Amidst the chaos and confusion, two youth hatched a foolhardy plan to canoe the raging river. Not much is known of the event – it garnered just one short paragraph in the Pioneer Press – but apparently two young men attempted the feat on April 15. That was the same day a small bridge to present day Raspberry Island gave way, washed downstream and crashed into a tangled mess around the Great Western Railroad Bridge. Upon learning of the joyride, brave public safety professionals climbed into a motorboat and began a high-speed chase after the canoeists, eventually forcing them off the river near Newport, about seven miles away.

It could be that the youth were from one of the defiant families living on the West Side. Before the crest, the Red Cross evacuated 140 families, but 43 refused to leave. Those people had grown accustomed to getting punched in the nose by the river every few years. Maybe they were canoeing to a friend’s house and got caught up in the enraged current. The lower West Side was under at least six feet of water and many were boating along streets they had driven on one week earlier. Or maybe those boys were simply thrill-seekers. Whatever the case, they miraculously eluded danger – even death – and walked away with an adventure tale of a lifetime.    

Headlines from the days following the crest continued to proclaim the flood, but bore names of other cities: Hastings, Red Wing, Winona. As one community breathed a sigh of relief, another was battling the river, and another was holding its collective breath and bracing for the blow. Such is life in the river valley.

The State Climatology Office-DNR Division of Ecological and Water Resources at the University of Minnesota has since named the flood one of the top five most significant weather events of the 20th Century in Minnesota. It ties for fifth place with the Fridley tornado outbreak, which occurred that same year. Topping the list is the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, followed by the 1940 Armistice Day Blizzard, the 1991 Halloween blizzard and the 1997 Red River and Minnesota River floods.