When they described the swamp at the end of Schuyler Avenue, the adults in Sarah’s
life seemed confused. Whenever she asked about it, Sarah’s dad would chuckle.
“You’d better stay away from the Meadowlands,” her father said.
Sarah’s sixth grade teacher, Mr. Morrison, said only parts of the Meadowlands are
swamps. He explained to the class that the Meadowlands are precious wetlands, one of the
last places near New York City where birds migrating from Florida could stop and rest.
“The Meadowlands once had a lot of garbage dumps, which polluted the water pretty
badly,” Mr. Morrison said. “But most of the dumps are closed now. And the habitat for wild
birds is recovering.”
From her yard in the winter, the Meadowlands was as her dad described: brown, dead‐
looking weeds with Doritos bags lying at the water’s edge. By springtime, however, the reeds
turned green and flowers grew along the shoreline.
So which one is it, Sarah wondered. Is the Meadowlands a big, ugly, dangerous swamp?
Or is it a beautiful oasis of birds and flowers? Despite her dad’s warnings to stay away, Sarah
wanted to see for herself. She went under the porch and dragged out her dad’s old fiberglass
canoe. She threw the paddle and an old pink life jacket into the boat and dragged it across the
yard, down Schuyler Avenue to the edge of the swamp.
Whatever it was, she saw now, the Meadowlands was big. Sarah always thought of it as the
swamp at the end of her street. Now she realized that the wetlands actually stretched to the
north and south, and she couldn’t see either end. Directly across the water, the skyscrapers of
Manhattan seemed to line the opposite shore, even though they were actually twelve miles away.
Sarah could feel the fear in her throat. But she didn’t want to drag the canoe back up
the hill. She zipped the life vest up to her neck, pushed the boat into the water and jumped in.
The Meadowlands
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Past the reeds, she found herself paddling in a shallow pond surrounded by muddy islands.
She saw ducks, swallows, yellow flowers, purple flowers, white egrets. A blue heron, disturbed by
the splashes of Sarah’s paddle, jumped into the air, uncurled its long wings and flapped away.
“This is all so beautiful!” Sarah thought.
The canoe slowed down, as if caught by invisible hands. Sarah looked down and saw the
boat was scraping along the muddy bottom. Clouds of brown mud rose to the surface with
every paddle stroke, and inside each cloud little bubbles of gas burst when they hit the
surface. It smelled like a combination of old paint and rotting food. Sarah nearly threw up.
Soon she was stuck. She tried paddling backward to free the canoe from the mud, but
each stroke released an overwhelming gas smell. She started to cry.
Just then something heavy and dark crashed through the weeds in front of the canoe.
A hand pulled the reeds apart, and out poked the head of Sarah’s dad.
“Sarah! What are you doing out here?” he called.
Sarah tried to explain, but all she could do was cry.
“Well, it’s a good thing you dragged the canoe—you left a trail in the gravel a mile
wide,” her dad said. “Here, take this rope.”
He threw a yellow plastic rope, and after a few tries, Sarah grabbed it. Her dad pulled,
and the boat skidded over the mud to shore.
Sarah worried that her father would be furious. But when he offered his hand to help
her out of the boat, he laughed.
“I did the same foolish thing when I was your age,” he said. “Did I ever show you the
otter den?”
Sarah wiped tears from her cheek and shook her head no.
“Well, c’mon. I’ll show you,” her dad said. “The swamps can be pretty disgusting, but
there’s some beautiful stuff in here. You just have to know where to look.”
Explanation: they seem confused about the medowlands according to the passage
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