This is one of the many designated campsites along the relatively new Northern Forest Canoe Trail. The trail stretches over 700 miles from Old Forge, New York, to Fort Kent, Maine, and during that distance passes through some pretty spectacular country, as well as quite a few towns – New England villages were almost all founded next to rivers and waterfalls for the power – farm country, and several watersheds.

Our party of six includes the Executive Director of the Vermont River Conservancy, the Chairman of the Board of the MIssisquoi River Basin Association, a TV crew of two, and an old friend from long-ago prep school days with whom I’ve paddled many hundreds of miles over the past few years. Our mission is fourfold: to scout this section of the river for a guidebook to be published by the Canoe Trail Association; to shoot an outdoor TV show; to talk with knowledgeable people about the condition of the river and its valley; and to have fun. We’re doing just fine in all four departments.

The TV crew, after shooting a fireside discussion before supper, left us for the fleshpots of civilization. They don’t seem to care for camp chow, anyway, and have never betrayed a strong interest in sleeping on the ground. When I mentioned the watering holes, bright lights and dancing girls of St. Albans, a distant look came into their eyes, and they split as soon as it grew too dark to shoot without lights. Now the stars are beginning to come out (still no bugs!), and the conversation is growing desultory as bedtime beckons. John Little, the Chairman of the MRBA, arrived here this afternoon by poling expertly upstream, and not planning to spend the night. A change of heart and a cell phone call altered his plans. But he has no sleeping bag; so Bob and I will lend him our fleece jackets, and he can sleep between us in the big tent.

The Missisquoi was a favorite route for native Americans on the move. The Lamoille, to the south, was probably handier, but it’s more rapid. The Missisquoi, by contrast, has long, flat stretches connected by short rapids – much better for travel by birchbark canoe. The meaning of its name, which is undoubtedly a corruption of Abenaki (the ending looks French), has been blurred by time. Some say it means “place of slate” – there are some slate deposits here and there, and what seems to have been a slate-trading post on an island near the river’s mouth. Others translate it as “winding river.” It certainly is that. A little less than eighty miles long, it rises in the town of Lowell and flows north, looking for a way through the mountains to the west. It crosses briefly into Quebec, finally finds a way through, and turns west through Enosburg Falls and Swanton, losing itself at last in waterfowl rookeries in the MIssisquoi National Wildlife Refuge on Lake Champlain.

I’ve been surprised by the amount of farming activity here. The valley is probably an arm of the post-glacial Champlain Sea; there are banks of varved clay and sand above the current river level, and fields on both sides seem stone-free and fertile. Blue steel silos punctuate the horizon.

Therein, however, lies the root of a problem: phosphorus pollution of Missisquoi Bay. You’ve no doubt read during the past couple of years about the noxious algal blooms in the bay that have closed bathing beaches and even proven toxic to pets who drank from the lake. The pollution is a result of inadequate or inadequately enforced buffer strips between eroding river banks and fertilizer-treated fields. The good news, besides that the MRBA is monitoring the river’s quality, is that Governor Douglas’ recent dustup with the EPA has brought the problem more into the public eye, and soon there may be increased vigilance and remediation as a result.

This section of the river is mildly famous for a two-mile-long boulder field known as the Abbey Rapids. One guide book refers to them as “2 mi. of quick water,” while another warns of tricky paddling, crosscurrents, and hidden boulders. They’re both right. We’d have liked a few more inches of water today to avoid bumping over the shallow spots. A headwind didn’t help, mainly because instead of a bow paddler I had a videographer whose aid I could enlist only when the wind blew us sideways, a rock spun us around backwards, or the peril of capsizing was imminent. But it was worth it; I’m sure he got some lovely stuff. I just hope the mike wasn’t on.

The Big Dipper, high above us, is right-side up, the Little Dipper upside down, with Polaris at the center of the circle. We’re not far removed from human activity here – an occasional truck or motorcycle rumbles past on Route 105 behind the silver maple forest on the far bank. The sparks from our fire twist upward into the dark. The ancient yellow plastic coffee cup under my nose steams up my glasses if I bend my head forward. Perhaps there will be a little chill tonight. I hope John won’t be cold, and that the edges of the two sleeping pads beside him side will ease the lumpy rocks underneath. Bob, who’s always one jump ahead of me in housekeeping details, has already filled the Coleman stove for breakfast. He’s brought his own syrup, too, which he says is the world’s finest. If so, it’ll match this day and this river. Time to go brush ‘em up.