In the summer of 2000 I found the following passage on page 12 of Ralph Nading Hill's, Lake Champlain: Key to Liberty:
"In 1938 Dr. John H. Bailey, reporting for the Champlain Archaeological Society, described a site at Chipman's point below an overhanging cliff where from time immemorial a shelter had existed for at least two types of Indians. In the ashes of their campfires on a floor made from chips of limestone that had fallen from the cliff were found a polished stone dagger made from a large animal and the graves of a young child surrounded by large clam shells and of a pet dog under limestone slabs. Long after these people had departed, perhaps several hundred years, another group with arrow-tips of triangular points, and pottery jars moved in, spreading fallen rock over the old habitation to make a new floor. Along with stone arrowpoints they used awls and fishhooks of bone. They, too, lost a child whose remains were unearthed near the wall. And they were cannibals, for the bones of a woman, perhaps a captive, were buried in a pile with her skull placed on top."
Moved by curiosity, I consulted a map of the lake and was surprised to find that Chipman's Point was located just four to five miles (by water) north of my family's house on the Vermont side of the lake. Years later I would find reference to the same site in a book owned by some family friends, that described the bones of the captive woman as having been "boiled, cut, and gnawed upon."
From that moment on I experienced a growing desire to find that overhang and stand in the place where cannibals had once stood. I'm not sure why this hardened into a goal, but it did.
I told my brothers about it and together a few of us drove up there to see if we could find the spot, but the helpful proprietor of the Chipman's Point marina, a foreigner of unknown European origin, told us that the site was only accessible by boat.
It took some time before weather conditions cooperated with my days off to provide me with an opportunity to seek the place out. I didn't have a motor boat so I would have to paddle the four to five miles in my row boat. This meant having to wait for a day when winds were favorable.
On a Saturday morning, with a slight breeze out of the southwest I decided to give it a go. After packing a lunch, and saying goodbye to my folks, I shoved off from the shore and began rowing north. With the lake calm, the rowing was easy. The oars rose and fell in a steady rhythm and the boat's wake trailed out behind like a long widening scar.
Rowing long distances is a boring, mindless thing. The shore is too distant to make out much, and after a while, the mechanics of rowing requires no conscious thought whatsoever. The muscle memory in your thighs, back and arms takes over and your mind is allowed to wander. My mind, however, always seemed to wander off completely, and afterwards I could never recall having thought of much of anything particular. Occasionally, when rowing, something would come along to break up the monotony, like the time my line intersected with a deer that was swimming across the lake or when I found a dead dog floating with its leash still attached, but mostly it was just heave-ho, heave-ho, heave-ho.
Eventually, I drew within sight of Chipman's point. Reeds whispered against the underside of the boat as I entered shallow water. Dragon flies skimmed the surface, mosquitoes whined in my ears, and a Great Blue Heron lazily lifted from the water and landed again further down the shore. Following the directions that the foreigner had given me, I made for the shore beneath an imposing limestone cliff. There was no beach to speak of. All manner of shrubs and downed trees crowded the water. The mossy trunk of a downed birch tree, which ran horizontal to the water, looked to be the best place to pull the boat out. Within a yard of the tree I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of the boat into the water. Then hoisting the bow up onto the trunk I was able to get the rest of it out of the water by walking around to the back and giving a push. The keel slid easily over the back of the tree trunk.
After retrieving my shoes and lunch from the boat I battled through the dense underbrush towards the base of the cliff, and when I found the spot I had to admit that it was not as impressive as I had imagined. It was a rocky ledge, possibly ten feet across at its widest and overgrown with weeds. The cliff, which provided only a slight overhang, rose 40-50 above. The cliff would have protected the site from the elements to the north and east but it was open exposed to the south and west. I imagined trying to make a home out of the place and even on a warm, summer day it looked uncomfortable. The original inhabitants must have leaned posts up against the cliff, I decided, and closed it off with hides or something.
The spot afforded you uninterrupted views of the lake in every direction, and could only be accessed by water. The indians must have been dependent on boats to come and go except in the winter when the lake froze. I think perhaps the only reason to make a home in such a spot would have been if they lived in constant fear of attack. They certainly would have felt safe there where the only possible approach was by lake, and they could see any visitors coming from a long ways off.
I sat on the limestone chip floor of the overhang and swatted mosquitoes as I ate my lunch- a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a pepsi and some raisins. "Far cry from captive woman," I muttered to myself, "...but it'll have to do."
As I sat there, the wind changed and came blowing out of the north. A north wind would be in my favor as I rowed back south toward home. Part of me wished for a storm that would force me to spend the night under the cannibals' overhang. That would have made a great story. I looked around for building materials. There was no shortage of downed trees and driftwood. I felt excited, like a little boy, as I contemplated constructing a crude shelter beneath the overhang. However, a storm never materialized, and I returned to my boat and shoved off again- this time for home.
Home- to think people called that place home. From my vantage place in the boat, I tried to squint my eyes and picture the spot as it would have looked in antiquity. A collection of crude shelters, little better than tents, crowded above the water with campfires reflecting against the sooty cliff. The place must have smelled awful. Unwashed bodies, rotting animal carcasses, and human waste.
It made my scalp tingle to think that other boats and other men had idled in the same spot and looked on a very different scene. Part of me wished I could peak through the veil of time and share in their story, or at a minimum witness it, but the very thought made me feel soft and unprepared- too spoiled by the age in which I live to think of going toe to toe with such people. Like a lap dog running with wolves. My bones would doubtlessly have ended up boiled, cut, gnawed upon, and piled in a heap with my skull on top.
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