Appreciating Both Mud And Flower
So went the tittering behind my back. But despite the knowing whispers and wagging heads, I had thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Even at my age.
A few weeks ago, Stephen Baker (age 20) and I batted around the possibility of a camping trip, but it never materialized. He used the excuse of wanting to wait until he had his own 4-wheel drive truck, but I suspect that he didn't want to ride in my old '91 S-10. So when Stephen invited me to join him and Luke Williamson (almost 20) on a "4-wheeling" excursion, I eagerly accepted.
I had reservations. Floundering in a mud hole or stream bed 20 miles from nowhere and having to hike to civilization promised no glory. But hearing that Keith Bolton (somewhat closer to my age) would be taking his Jeep dumped a measure of sanity into the mix. The trip was on.
After the two-hour drive had deposited us at our jumping off point, Keith reviewed his checklist for successful back road travel: Start with less than a quarter tank of gas. Take shovel with rotted handle. Pack tire pump that leaks. Leave maps on kitchen table. And so on.
So much for sanity.
Thus encouraged and thoroughly prepared, we took to the road. Swarmed with maps and compasses in the lead vehicle with Keith, I navigated. By being in front, we gladly avoided the perils of gooey mud slung up by spinning tires. But flying mud was exactly what the young guys in the trucks behind us desperately worked not to avoid. Their equation for a successful mission: more mud equals more fun.
Propelled by the prospect of many more years of high adventure, the young men relished the thrill, danger and excitement of fording streams and muddy pits of indeterminant depth by the deepest and dirtiest routes. Repeatedly, if necessary, to have their fill.
Where no challenge or danger existed, they improvised by engineering an appropriate situation--and then pushed machinery, skill and ingenuity to the limits in order to extricate themselves.
For me, the journey--the process itself--provided sufficient enjoyment.
As they cut branches to allow the vehicles to pass, I photographed scenery they might otherwise miss. Clusters of red berries on a vine entwined around a bare branch. Like captured desperadoes in an old western, naked trees reaching for the sky. The lone flower jeweled with a single water droplet.
Given the opportunity, experience proves herself a stern disciplinarian. A few decades in her school teaches us that problems need not be sought. They come on their own, invited or no.
We pass one test--and another even more intense lurks around the bend. But the delicate and subtle joys sandwiched in between provide the balance and perspective to appreciate both mud and flower.
I'd go "mudding" again. Any time.
Copyright 2003 James McAlister
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