Kspitz’s Weblog

(Final Revision)

It was not much, really, just a narrow strip of woodland alongside the Wapsipinicon River in Northeast Iowa.  My dad’s younger brother, Wayne, had purchased the land from the county sometime in the mid-1960s and for almost three decades the Timber was our own private paradise. It provided the adults in my family with a quiet place to relax, and for us kids, it was a wilderness – a place we could run free while still in relative safety.  

Every trip out to the Timber was cause for excitement and anticipation even though it was only 12 miles from our house in town. I remember leaning over the front seat of the family station wagon as we approached the access road that led down to the river. Dad would slow the car to a crawl and steer carefully over the narrow wooden plank bridge, then into the stand of small evergreens, and past the potato gardens where Uncle Arnold grew the biggest potatoes I had ever seen. Then the road narrowed again, becoming little more than a wide path, deeply rutted by spring rains and winding through taller stands of hickory, walnut, oak and elm trees. When we emerged into the clearing that had become our campground, we would first look around to see if other family members might be present, and then we were off to explore. There was always something new, some little change that Mother Nature had created since the last time we had visited. 

When I was very young, we camped in tents, the heavy canvas kind with exterior aluminum frames that had to be laid out, fitted together, raised up, and secured to the ground. It took at least two adults – or four kids – to slip the poles through the loops attached to the canvas, and then hoist the tent into place. Our large, drab green tent was big enough for our entire family of six, our sleeping bags and a few personal items. Our camping gear was minimal back then, and although we always had a radio along, it was rarely turned on except to listen for weather advisories. This left only the sounds of our family, the birds in the trees, and the gentle rippling of the nearby Wapsipinicon River.

During the summer months, the Timber and the Wapsi (as we called it) became like a second home to us. Each year my dad and my uncles, who were all skilled carpenters, would make improvements to our outdoor living quarters. Within a few years, our campground resembled a county park; it had two screened wooden shelters, a large cinderblock fireplace, swings and a volleyball net, a smokehouse, wash area, clothes line, and of course, a latrine (a two-holer with real toilet seats!). It should be noted that the “wash area” was used mostly for washing our hands after playing in the pond, or for the doing the dishes. If a total bath was needed it usually meant a dip in the river!

Each family had their own designated spot for a camper or tent, but we always gathered together for meals. The moms cooked burgers, hot dogs or freshly-caught fish and we ate from colorful plastic picnic ware. The screened wooden shelter housed several tables and a variety of mismatched chairs. It provided a safe haven from the hungry mosquitoes that emerged from the woods at about the same time our supper was ready. As the sun went down, Coleman gas lanterns were lit and hung near the shelter providing light for card games and conversation. The grownups would often play 500 or Cribbage late into the night, after the kids had been sent to their sleeping bags.

During the long summer days, we kept busy doing all sorts of outdoorsy things. Dad taught us how to bait a hook, to sit still and be patient, and how to take a fish off the hook. We learned how to tell the difference between oak trees, elm trees and hickory trees; which nuts we could collect for eating, and which weeds would give us the “itchies”. As my siblings and cousins and I grew older we were often left to our own devices for hours at a time. We swam in the river, climbed trees, and explored the woods. Our favorite activity was patrolling the edge of the nearby pond for frogs, turtles, minnows and the occasional garter snake. During those years, our most-used toys were fishing poles, buckets, minnow nets and our own bare hands and feet. These items and the creatures we could catch with them were far more interesting to me than my cousin’s new Barbie Dream House back in town. 

The Timber was the perfect place for family get-togethers that would include aunts, uncles, cousins and 2^nd cousins from across the state. The adults on my dad’s side of the family were ferocious game players and took great pleasure in making each other laugh. We would set up lawn games and team events like scavenger hunts, even elaborate obstacle courses and relay races. There were always a few unexpected, slightly embarrassing practical jokes – something at which my dad was particularly adept at planning. The Whoopee cushion, fake vomit, and a rubber chicken were always lurking about, and occasionally there was a bucket of water carefully poised above the latrine door. The unexpected dousing would always result in gales of laughter as the targeted victim chased the perpetrator from one end of the campground to the other, sometimes ending with one or both of them being tossed in the river! There was always a good supply of fireworks for the Fourth of July; sparklers for the kids, and roman candles that my uncles would buy from vendors across the state line in Missouri. We would gather along the bank of the river to ooh and aah as the explosions lit up the sky and sparks fell harmlessly into the Wapsi.

As the years went by, and the kids of my generation grew into adults, our visits to the Timber became fewer. The upkeep of the campground, which was no big deal when we shared the chores, became more difficult as my dad and uncles grew older. I think eventually a few of my male cousins would have taken over the mowing, trimming and maintenance, but the Wapsipinicon had other plans. The river not-so-subtly began to remind us of something we had known all along – that our campground sat squarely within her flood plain and while she was only too willing to let us borrow the land for a while, it was now time to return it to its rightful owner.  As the river slowly changed course over the years, our campground, which usually flooded a bit every 4 or 5 years, would flood more often and with greater severity. The men gradually began to dismantle the buildings and move the campers back to town; campers which would eventially all be sold.   

The last time I visited the Timber, I remember thinking how much smaller and closer everything looked. The vast wilderness of my youth was, in reality, only about 40 acres. The pond had silted in to become little more than a huge mud puddle and the mighty Wapsipinicon appeared lazy, shallow and dirty – not something my adult self would consider swimming in.

Uncle Wayne eventually sold the land back to the county, for what price, I have no idea, but I’m sure he was not all that concerned with making a huge profit. In terms of family time spent together, lessons learned, and laughter shared, the Timber had already given us more than what could be reflected in any given dollar amount. It was priceless.