Category: Illinois

As soon as I was old enough to drive, nearby road trips lead me to hiking in canyons along the Illinois River.  40+ years later I return.  I will always return.  It is my special place.

During my early 20s I introduced several special friends to this magical world of wood, water and rock, during different seasons and personality.

I figured this would be the least changed place I could visit from my pasts.  And sure enough, except for a now paved parking lot instead of dirt I wasn’t disappointed.  Except there was no flowing water after the dry summer.  I had seen it dry before, flowing sometimes weak or strong, even frozen.

A small shallow cave lies off the left side of the trail as a teaser to what’s ahead.

Generations of fallen leaves cushion the trail with a green sun-dappled canopy overhead.

A tiny pool of still water sits in a creek channel almost dry.

There it is, my special place. Council Cave.

I’ve spent time here in council with myself.  Letting the sun’s energy bath me through the trees.

Thank you kind stranger for taking my photo.

Ancient sandstone laid down in a shallow inland sea about 425 million years ago then later carved by a catastrophic flood caused by the breach of a glacial lake has changed very little in my lives.

I continued on to the split for Ottawa and Kaskaskia canyons, the later being my choice.

Bamboo grows in the moist drainage even without the flow of water.

Sunlight speckles the trees and bluffs.  Occasional bird song drifts through the canyon.

I reach the spillway where no water pours to find only a small pool with fish trapped within.  The evidence of water flow is revealed by the large trunks and undercut rock.  I once stood beneath a waterfall here.

The skeletons of memory lies around me.  Upon my return through the forest I feel at peace.

If you would like to read about a past life at this magical place leave a comment and I will email the necessary link.

Read more about Starved Rock including the story behind its name.

That’s Illinois, with the “s” silent.

Twenty years ago I could drive west about 15 minutes from the suburbs where I lived finding Illinois farmlands.  Corn fields as far as the horizon.  Now the suburbs extend many miles further west.

Driving west on Interstate 80 I finally found some farms and barns approaching Ottawa.

Ottawa hadn’t changed too much from the memories of my younger years.  Tall stately buildings of local quarried sandstone still stand along the main street like the La Salle County Courthouse named for Robert de LaSalle, the French explorer who effected the first white settlements in Illinois and explored the Mississippi to the Gulf.

I liked the addition of the historic murals.  This mural by Roger Cooke represents the original inhabitants known as the Ottawas, or “adawe” meaning to trade who hunted the Bison that used to roam the prairies near the confluence of the Fox and Illinois Rivers.

Living in Arizona I don’t see this type of farm machinery coming down the road.

Or grain silos either.  And it’s not like I want to move back to Illinois.

Yet I wonder if these farms are still family owned or operated by some big corporation.  And if houses continue to spread across the land where will our food be produced, in a test tube?