By Judi Platt
Eastman kayakers on the Missisquoi River / Judi Platt
“Charlie, let it go. It isn’t worth it. Just give up and let’s go,” I pleaded with our group leader. The whole armada of Eastman kayakers had assembled behind us. They were a hungry group, and I was holding up our lunch break. My stomach was growling, too, but Charlie persisted.
One leg mired in some pretty stubborn silt, the other perilously perched in my Pungo 120, my rear end was turned up to the cloudless blue sky, for all the rest of the group to see as they rounded the southern tip of this island that was going to be our lunch stop. “This is ridiculous,” the thought seeped out of my head as Charlie dug in the mud. “I’m a grown woman stuck in the mud like a pig wallowing in a barnyard after a Mississippi rainstorm.” Only we weren’t in Mississippi. We were in Vermont on the Missisquoi River. How many hundreds of times had I gotten in and out of this kayak in Eastman Lake? I admit, seldom gracefully, but it’s one thing to flop around alone at the West Cove boat launch and another to be displaying my clumsiness— er, posterior—in front of a group of veteran voyagers.
“Arghhhhhh!” Three bald eagle chicks peered over the edge of the nest high above us. My cry rocked the rookery on the other side of this slender piece of land and a flock of herons could be seen heading for the Canadian border. Muttering a few “naughty-cal” phrases, I berated myself for being the first one to reach the shore when Charlie had signaled the group that he had found a spot to set up lunch. After two-plus hours of paddling down the river under a hot June sky, my long legs were screaming to get out of the cramped cockpit. So, as soon as the stern of my boat hit what was supposed to be solid ground, my left leg jumped the side of the craft without asking my brain’s permission. And my plight began.
I sank. And sank deeper, and still deeper. My leg disappeared down to just below my knee in a depth of less than a foot of water. I’m sure I heard a slurping sound as the silt sucked it in. I tugged at it again to no avail. And again. Not even a tiny nudge ensued from all the repetitive tugging. My other leg straddling the kayak, I tugged again, hoping that I wouldn’t lose what little balance I had and lose both legs to whatever underworld monster had a hold on me. This wasn’t the Missisquoi; this was the Styx, and unlike her hold on Achilles that left only his heel vulnerable, she wanted my whole damn leg!
Another loud Arghhhh brought Charlie, who had gone to round up the rest of the paddlers, to my rescue. Sidling his kayak next to my submerged appendage, he gave me an arm to hold onto. Now anchored to him, I tugged a couple more times and, finally, my leg exploded from the river bottom’s hellish grasp. Sans sandal. The mighty Missisquoi had swallowed my shoe.
My posterior then securely seated in my kayak, I began fishing around in the mud for the discount-store shoe. Charlie, always a prince of a guy, jumped out of his kayak to help—and immediately sank into the mud up to his knees. Waving off the other kayakers with warnings to stay in their boats, he persisted in a valiant search until we both knew it was hopeless and surrendered; the sandal would be a sacrifice to the gods of this mysterious aquatic underworld.
We did find an oasis of sorts for a quick lunch—a spot on the other side of this sliver of land where a few lucky kayakers managed to disembark without sinking into the mud. The group, assembled on a 10-foot-square “dryish” mound, dug into an assortment of lunch items in a vulture-like feeding frenzy appropriate for this wildlife refuge on the Missisquoi. The mighty, mighty Missisquoi. Her tranquil waters belie the powers that lie beneath.
The Prince Charming in this story, Charlie Taber, handed in his paddles when he retired in June 2017. The ill-fated sandal remains buried in the Missisquoi silt near the Canadian border.
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