There is an area in south Minneapolis, along the Mississippi down by Fort Snelling, where I take my dog for hikes. The two of us like to bushwhack there, seeking out the less-used pathways and following where they lead.

This morning I took a footpath I had never seen before. It led along a river inlet, then cut back into the woods. Soon I was clambering up rock cliffs, shinnying down the other side, and fording several mighty 2-foot spans of a splintered body of water called Coldwater Creek.

At the base of one little ravine, I came upon a kind of broken brick pedestal. On it was some kind of document shielded in one of those cheap plastic sheaths you get at office supply stores, and weighted down by a brick.

The document was a computer-generated letter on light blue paper, the toner ink bleared from the moisture of several months outdoors. But it was still legible. It was addressed "To whom it may concern."

Although I wasn't supposed to, I pocketed the letter and took it home. There I scanned it and retyped the sections where the ink smeared. I was even able to replicate the typeface (Comic Sans MS), and upload the document to my website.

I offer it to you now, for your edification:

Last spring I was walking with my friend, Bill. He and I came down here a lot because he said that it helped clear his head. Bill has always complained about the government rerouting roads and waterways and just plain spoiling nature.

"All of these streams obviously flowed freely at one time," he'd say. "But look at them now!"

So last spring, as a surprise for Bill, I cleared a whole bunch of smelly, rotting logs away. The logs had been cut by a chain saw and carelessly thrown to the bottom of the falls, blocking up the creek. The water was very high and bitterly cold, but I cleared the logs away anyway.

I wanted to surprise Bill. He didn't get to come down to see it right away. But later in the spring he did. And he sat and watched the falls all morning.

Bill always mentioned this little stream. He wondered just how many thousands, even millions of rocks lined the bed. He again said he wished it would flow like it did before construction crews changed Mother Nature's plan.

This summer, I got very busy with a work project and didn't have much time to come down here. But Bill's request haunted me. I thought, "Maybe it will rain again (a lot) and the water will flow." But it was late summer, and it remained quite dry.

Then one night as I was drifting off to sleep, I saw clearly how to make Bill's dream come true. By digging out the rock bed where it was blocked, I might be able to restore the rush of flowing water. At least a part of Bill's wish could come true.

So, a couple of months ago, I set out on this project for Bill. It was hard work, but within a couple of days, I got the water flowing again.

Native history says that these waterways are one of seven spirits meant to flow into the Mississippi and purify its waters. My hope was that my efforts helped free these spirits as well.

Last week, Bill died. He'd been fighting cancer for 2 years. I'd wished somehow that he'd been able to see his stream flow before he went. I knew in my mind and heart that he was already too weak.

I remember him sitting there all morning looking at the little trickle. I'm not exactly sure what he saw, but I knew it was important to him. All I wanted to do was let the water splash over the rocks of this tiny creek for him. I know his heart is still here.

Then I thought I'd place this letter where only Bill and I used to go.

I don't know if this is too much to ask, for the little creek to flow once again. I sincerely hope that I didn't affect the environment adversely. The water seems fresh and positive. And I know Bill's spirit lives here, now.

Bless you for taking the time to read this....

That's the letter. It strikes me it might be propaganda for the group that is trying to protect the area from a highway construction project. If so, it's very good propaganda. I don't think it is propaganda, though.

And it was wrong of me to take the letter home. My plan is to make a fresh copy, and have it laminated with a double coat -- so it lasts through the winter. Then I'm going to bushwhack my way back to that brick pedestal, where the spring waters of Coldwater Creek come rushing down, and put it back where it belongs.