The first time I set foot in Minnesota was in February of 2002. Math tells me that this was 22 years ago, but my heart tells me it was about sixteen lifetimes ago.

My mom and I flew into town for the weekend to visit colleges. We were staying with old church friends in Minneapolis and therefore did not have to cross the Mississippi until the next morning, when we were headed to Macalester College for a tour.

“Okay, we’re about to cross the Mississippi!” my mother announced as she directed the car onto the bridge. We both looked out the windows and started laughing hysterically.

Have you ever seen the Mississippi in February in Minnesota? It’s completely pathetic, a grey trickle I could easily swim across if not for the fact that it’s deadly cold. I could not believe that this pathetic little leak of a creek was appointed as the major dividing line of our country. Mighty, my ass!

“Is this really it?” I asked my mom. “This is the most pathetic river I’ve ever seen.” She suggested the river must be much more impressive the further south you go. We continued on our way to Macalester where my mother (a civil engineer) was further unimpressed by the stormwater drainage.

The next day brought even more for us to mock. We were headed out of town, and saw signs for the ski area before we saw the ski area itself. I was still snowboarding a lot at that age, and was excited to check out the local ski hill options.

“Wait… is that…?” my mom started.

“That… that’s not the whole thing… is it?” I said.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing again. The ski hill was nothing. You could see the entire thing from the road. The whole hill was about the size of the bunny slope at the “mid-size” ski area I had been spending most of my weekends at recently.

We laughed hysterically again on our way back up I-35.

In the intervening lifetimes since that first peek at the Mississippi, I have learned some respect. The Mississippi is a wild river, volatile. In the late spring and early summer it swells to a terrifying high, engulfing picnic tables and trees, bike trails and roads. In the late summer you can stand on the shore and see the mysterious eddies and swirls of current breaking the surface just a few yards away. People drown in the river regularly.

I no longer mock the Mississippi in February. I only wonder how high it’s going to get this spring.

The ski hills in Minnesota, on the other hand, are still fair game. I have never driven by a Midwestern ski hill without laughing hysterically. I apologize to anyone who is offended by my disrespect, but really… you need to see where I grew up snowboarding in Washington state. I think you’ll understand my amusement.