the last ferry driver

Until 1964, rural Dunn County drivers depended on a ferry, not a bridge, to cross the Chippewa River. Jim Alf reflects on a boyhood spent at the Caryville Ferry. words by: B.J. Hollars photos courtesy of: Jim Alf

On a cool summer morning in 1950, 12-year-old Jim Alf woke upstairs in the ferry house beside the Chippewa River. He stirred in his bed, then tiptoed past his snoring brothers and slipped out the back door, his fishing pole in hand.

The walk from the Caryville ferry house to the ferry landing wasn’t more than a few hundred feet – far enough to keep the Chippewa River from flooding their home, but not so far that Jim, his parents, and his brothers were inconvenienced by their dozens of daily walks to the landing.

In later years, Jim would refer to such early morning moments as his “golden hour” – a photography term for when the light touches softly first vehicle of the day puttered to the ferry landing on the south side of the river. He’d clean the fish, then hand them to his mother who’d fry them on the wood stove and send their scent wafting up the stairs.

The Alf family would then gather in the ferry house’s modest kitchen, squeezing around the table alongside the stove, the cupboard, and the pitcher pump – the latter being the most technologically advanced feature in their semi-primitive home. Though electricity now buzzed through out much of Dunn County, the Alfs’ home wouldn’t be wired until later that year.

Yet as a boy, Jim was rarely bothered by the lack of mod ern conveniences.

“Though it would have been nice to have indoor plumbing,” he concedes.

As for the ferry, which crossed the river about 10 miles west of Eau Claire, it ran by the most advanced technol ogy of the time. A repurposed Model-A Ford engine powered a winch-and-cable system. A cable anchored on both sides of the river wrapped around the winch drum, providing traction. Before engines, the ferry was powered by current alone, though the addition of the engine ensured a two-minute trip regardless of the speed of the current.

Which was good news for the Alfs, who in 1950 were still new to ferry life. Jim’s father, Bill, had previously worked as an ice delivery man and a farmer before receiving the ferry contract in 1949. The contract came just in time: costly technological advancements to refrigeration and farming had priced Bill Alf out of both industries. Running the Caryville ferry was stable work, with Dunn Coun ty paying Bill’s annual salary of $3,120 (approx imately $38,000 in today’s money). That was for working 18 hours a day, seven days a week.

It was hardly a king’s ransom, though the job came with perks, including the ferry house and a river’s worth of good fishing. But Jim enjoyed another benefit, too: the chance to interact with dozens of passersby each day. The ferry landing near Caryville was the one place in the township where most everyone traveled.

Rather than go out in search of the world, most days, the world came to Jim.

•••

Seated in his recliner in his assisted living facility, 84-year-old Jim reflects fondly on his many golden hour mornings alongside the river.

“They’re some of my best memories,” he tells me.

In the decade I’ve known Jim, he’s often allowed me to accompany him on his nostalgia-infused time travels. He tells me about his early years on the family’s farmhouse porch; how he and his brothers spent their August nights listening to the corn growing in the near by field. And how their father could cradle even the most raucous chicken in the crook of his arm and rock that bird to sleep.

Life at the ferry landing was different. No longer were they dependent on their crops; now, they were dependent on the river.

Jim spent his formative years helping his family run the ferry. While most transports occurred without incident, a few stories remain vivid in Jim’s memory.

Like his assisting Rev. John Ritland on his week ly Sunday morning crossings.

Given the shortage of ministers at the time, Rev. Ritland, whose parsonage was in Caryville,