Everything I knew about quicksand was what I had learned from action programs on television. As a young boy I experienced it; well, at least I thought I did. This is my story.

My father was a hardworking man, but every now and then he took an afternoon off to tend to some family activity.

One summer afternoon in the late 1950s Dad indeed took off an afternoon and announced he was taking his three oldest sons fishing. He wasn’t an avid fisherman but he apparently thought an afternoon of angling would be good for his ornery sons.

Our nearest fishing spot was Little Wall Lake, a couple miles south of our town of Jewell. Today Little Wall is a lovely lake with an adjoining campground improved over the past few decades.

Nearly 70 years ago it was just a glacial remnant that was nearing the status of marshland. Dredging and a new source of water saved it and it is now a popular place to fish and boat.

An abandoned dredge machine was situated on the shoreline the afternoon we went fishing. Dad helped us as needed to get started, and we found spots on the edge of the dredge from which we cast our lines or dropped our hooks and sinkers.

I never became a fisherman because I find drowning worms boring. Soon enough I was bored.

To my left I saw a couple of guys pulling in some fish along the shoreline a short distance away from the dredge I was sitting on. I wound in my line and began the move.

From the dredge I had to step into an old row boat that had been pulled up onto the shore. From there I stepped out onto what appeared to be grass-covered dry land.

The grass proved to be deceptive, and the moment I stepped onto it I began sinking.

I panicked and immediately conjured up the television shows’ depictions of explorers getting sucked into quicksand. It would be fun at this point to tell you that my life flashed before my eyes, but I was so young I hadn’t had enough of a life to review.

What I had stepped into wasn’t quicksand but a goopy, soupy muck. I began screaming for help before realizing that my descent was slowing. I stopped sinking when I was hip deep.

Still panicking, I began fighting to step out of the muck but I couldn’t lift my legs. The muck seemed to be sucking at my chubby frame.

By this time my father had reached the abandoned row boat and had extended a stick (I cannot recall what kind of stick) for me to grab onto.

With great effort, and the stick, I made enough progress for my father to grab my hand and help pull me back into the old row boat.

Finally, I was back on the dredge machine, and safely at that.

That led to another challenge: how was I going to get back home without defiling a car seat. Everything from my hips down was covered and soaked in a smelly, slimy muck.

My father found a piece of cardboard and I sat on that for the short trip home.

Mom was happy to see me when she had heard my story, though I suspect she was worried how she was going to get that mess cleaned up.

I was sent to the basement to get out of my clothes and wash the stinky muck off my lower half. That was followed by a long, warm bath.

I showed up at the supper table squeaky clean and smelling much better. I wanted to recount my terrifying adventure at the table but by then everyone had heard the story. It was already old news so I was unable to milk the situation for benefits.

Apparently the story of your oldest child nearly dying when sucked into quicksand-like muck and mire wasn’t all that exciting anymore.

The old dredge machine was removed a few years later and the lake highly improved. Initially as a teen and later as an adult I have driven past that unforgettable site on U.S. Highway 69 countless times.

Over the years, driving close to a lakeshore or along a river has always made me anxious, and I loathe driving on long bridges. I suspect a psychologist could relate that phobia to my youthful experience at Little Wall Lake nearly 70 years ago.

Arvid Huisman can be contacted at huismaniowa@gmail.com. ©2026 by Huisman Communications.