The Heart and Sole of Mud Season

A muddy path

Winter has passed, but spring hasn’t quite started yet. We are in the transitional period that results in that fifth season, known all too well by North Country residents: Mud Season.

As a child, this was by far my favorite “season.” My mother would no longer be nagging me to button up and put a hat on. I could slip into my (very fashionable) classic black rubber boots with red soles, to which I had formed a rather strong attachment. To me, those boots meant adventure, the freedom to explore beyond the fair-weathered limits to which my sneakers confined me.

I would romp around in the puddles and wallow in the mud like a little pig. Well OK, maybe I didn’t wallow per se, but I really liked to play in the mud. I loved the sounds my boots would make when I walked through a particularly deep patch. I fought with the soggy soil to keep my boots, even though the ground tried to suck them right off my feet.

A young pig playing in the mud

Sometimes I lost the battle. North Country mud puts up a good fight, mind you, and at times can be too much for a youngster. On a few of my wild expeditions, I can recall walking faster than my boots, and I would therefore out-step them, planting my exposed toes straight into a slimy mud pit. I’d look over my shoulder, as if I were doing something wrong, and silently slide my muddy foot back into my boot and carry on like nothing happened.

But that’s the beauty of rubber boots. They are designed to get dirty. When they are covered with mud, inside and out, the simple remedy is to blast them with the garden hose and hang them upside down to dry. In those days, it was always so simple.

Since then, I’ve taken quite a different view of Mud Season. I no longer envision slimy days of play and adventure, but rather annoyance at never being able to keep my car clean. I tire of raking up the clumps of mud that inevitably make their way into the house. I finally understand why my mother would get so upset when I accidentally walked inside before taking off my muddy rubber boots.

Muddy ruts in a North Country field

That’s how I discovered that I’m finally growing up. I’m not a little kid anymore, and those days of muddy adventures are over. They always told me to enjoy it while I could, and as much as I’d like to be able to say I made the best of it, I’m sure I could have squeezed a little more fun and excitement out of my childhood.

But for now, as a testament to my youth—and a strong resentment toward my adulthood—I’m going out to buy a pair of rubber boots. They will not be pink with purple polka dots, or anything as fashionable as that. I want a solid black pair, with red soles, of course.