mud

Rivulets Run Through It

After a snowfall of any size, there is always mud. Gradual melting is a rare event. Instead, after a few chilly days, temps rocketed up to 50 or 60 degrees. And if you’re lucky, a heavy rain lumbers through — like yesterday — and voila!

Major mud… plus a bit of flooding, free of charge.

This afternoon, as I waded through the mire to hay the horses, I heard running water. Clearly, Martin forgot to turn off the tap after filling the water trough. It’s a common mistake — I’m guilty, too. It’s a 150-gallon stock tank and it is slow to fill. You get distracted, wander off, and that’s that. Eventually, someone walks out and hears it: that steady rush of water cascading over the side, pattering the ground, and burbling as it forges its way along the slopes.

So today, when I heard the sound of forget, I bee-lined for the trough. But the water was steady and nowhere near the rim. The hose wasn’t even hooked to the spigot.

It turned out, the sound was emanating from the vast amount of rainwater and melted snow flowing unfettered through the horse field, carving rivulets in the grass. There wasn’t a visible origin or a final destination. It was just water on-the-run, racing to congregate and make mud.

More damn mud.

I refuse to photograph mud. Instead, here’s a look at this week’s sunsets. Each night threw a different hue.

Monday, we saw the faintest peep of departing sun, shrouded in snow-fog.

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Last night, after a day of rain, a strange gale wind roared through like a rogue wave. It blew for 10 minutes and then fizzled out. But it thinned the fog and cracked the cloud cover.

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And finally, tonight. Uncomplicated and uneventful, but colorful enough to upstage the mud below.

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Mud weary

 

Now that I’m done complaining about snow, it’s time to gripe about mud:

Thanks to snowmelt and rain, we are mired in shoe-sucking muck. In every direction.

It looks like we’re farming it — planting and raising mud as an agricultural product.

Certainly, the horses are doing their part, tilling the pasture and stamping out the last dregs of green.

Maisie is advertising our product, with dreadlocks clotting her belly and legs.

Muddy conditions have made an impression on our trash service; they won’t empty the dumpster, because our property is “inaccessible” at present time.

And that’s kind of ironic, because we’ve lost all semblance of a driveway/lawn division. Winter has been a vehicle free-for-all, judging from the wheel ruts browning the yard.

Earlier this week, mounds of unmelted snow put another loss in the “team grass” column.

That day, I was startled when the UPS truck flashed by my office window, trundling past its normal stopping point. By the time I realized the driver wasn’t our regular, he’d gone counter-clockwise over the snowy land between barn and house.

Stunned, I met the guy outside as he surveyed the truck’s loopy trail of mud and slush.

“This is a circular driveway, right?” he asked.

Well it is, now.

 

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Photo note: I don’t do mud, so I pulled this image from the archives. Back in 2009 we had a thriving pothole population, but the driveway wasn’t up for debate.