The mother and daughter were apparently from Boston. There, they had plenty of pairs of hikers, of which they could not be bothered to bring at least one pair to the High Country of Colorado's pointylands. Investing in a new pair, or even renting, seemed an imposition. These circumstances created a joke motif as the mother asked me where one could go for a walkabout in either running shoes or Uggs, and not encounter a lot of snow or mud. My finger pointed east.
"Down where it's flat," I said. "It's probably drier there. You've arrived just in time for mud season here."
The idiocy and outright hubris of travelers confounds, amuses, and frightens me. Miguel Loco and I still have a hearty laugh over the Newfoundlander who was convinced he could climb one of the nearby fourteeners in shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers. He planned to grab trees and use those on his ascent.
"But there are no trees up there!" Miguel Loco will chuckle.
"We should've let him go," I might add. "Alpine Rescue could've used his bones as a cautionary tale."
Though marshy, I am reminded once more there is grass around the House of Owls and Bats. For the first time in half a year, I fired up the grill for the night before's dinner. I kept hoping to hear a hummingbird on the breeze, but it's a little early for that yet.
My mudding boots have earned their moniker when I've headed out into the bush. The trails, the dirt roads, are all but glacially flowing rivers of soaked-to-the-point-of-squishy. My gators are worn to keep my pant legs clean and dry. The snow I've encountered is slushy and dirty looking. Although the resorts are starting to ketchup on their snow-packs skiers and boarders bitch about the texture.
The equinox may still be almost a week away, but it would seem mud season started a a week ago. A friend of mine spoke of seeing spring omens on a recent journey down below. Meteorological prophecy foretells of warm weather for at least the next five days. There is a certain excitement to this; the last vestiges of cabin fever being cast off like a snake shedding its skin.
My eyes track outside. Slight breezes tickle the trees. A warm suns shines from a immaculate turquoise sky. I have no pressing obligations for the next two days. The mud from my previous walkabout have dried upon my boots. I find I am possessed of the urge to alter that circumstance.