A Ramble with Hal

Here’s Mud In Your Eye

After the deluge, the mud.

Up here in no-frills North State, we residents get an extra-helping of dirt so sticky, it should be patented. In its own unique way, mud is an extra dimension—and the fifth element: There’s Earth, Fire, Water, Wind—and an admixture two: Mud.

All those years ago before streets were paved, Downieville and other little Mother Lode burgs were replete with boardwalks, and quaintly, some still exist. In Old Sacramento, they laid down cobblestones in the new little city growing by the side of the Sacramento River. Some of that paving still exists, too.

It’s interesting to consider the impact lowly mud can have on man’s activities. Mud can be good exercise. When it starts to rain, that’s the time for ditch maintenance. I go around the property looking to see where the water flows, where it’s blocked and open the channels that get clogged with mud. There’s the small seasonal rivulet that feeds the pond, there’s both sides of the culvert under my driveway that need cleaning and clearing, and a few culverts in the county road that drop water onto my ranch. I clear them all of dirt, rocks and weeds. Rabbits and other small animals use them as homes and are constantly working the dirt, so they need regular tending.

The rain makes the ranch inaccessible unless I am wearing boots. The clay is a vise grip on shoes’ soles, so wrongly attired, my feet sink into thick, goopy mud. Across the landscape, I can see shiny patches where the water doesn’t even soak in, the ground is so dense. The most porous dirt is where the sagebrush grows thickly. Here’s a countryman’s hint: If you see large sagebrush bushes, tall with thick trunks, that’s the best place to put a septic tank for that’s where the water will drain best. No charge for that advice!

Mud can be historic. It’s had strategic consequences on that most man-made of manias: war. Just ask Napoleon, or Hitler—or, Putin. Muddy conditions in the autumn and spring have their own name— rasputitsa and are sometimes referred to as General Mud. The Russian Mud has defeated armies. Mud is where man’s hubris sinks into earthly reality: God’s revenge, as it were—and rightly so.

Springtime here in the Great Basin is punctuated by rains and mud. People don’t bet on basketball, they wager when their neighbor’s tractor will finally get yanked from the pasture. Drive around the country lanes and here and there you can see trucks, SUVs, farm equipment sunk to their hubs. From a distance, the sight of a tractor in the field for months, maybe framed by a barn, can be picturesque— bucolic.

Especially vulnerable to mud’s grip are optimistic lowlanders— the newly relocated—who believe with assurance of saints that their Subarus are really Willy’s jeeps unawares. Well, even the jeeps get stuck. Get your vehicle bogged down to the rocker panels on your ranch, and it’s unlikely that the tow truck company will want to pull it out. The operator will ask how far off the road it is. If the rig’s cable won’t reach, then the company will take a pass. Even tow trucks get stuck.

A neighbor still joshes me about the time he and another neighbor unstuck my Subaru. I was slowly working my way up the muddy track using pieces of cardboard, but the fuel gauge was nearing empty and the daylight dwindling. So I took the tow and still take the ribbing.

So whether you own a tank, tractor or Toyota Tundra—beware of the Muds of May!

A native Californian, H.A. Silliman grew up in the Gold County and currently lives in the northern outback. He is author of the Where Two Rivers Meet anthology, which had also appeared in this newspaper. © 2023 H.A. Silliman.