There is a kind of buzzing under my skin in late February and March: it’s not bees, it’s a persistent, recurring agitation. It is mud.
Late February, regardless of cloud cover, the sun is warmer. Driving the dirt road to our house I notice a new shiny slickness. The road becomes consistently wet, resembling the result of a dropped a bowl of chocolate pudding. For a while, things freeze up at night. We hurry to finish morning chores in order to get on the road to errands while it remains firm.
Just off the steps to our front door there is standing water. We step off and slosh through on the way to the truck. We pass this water only to lunge into the muck that covers the rock path. This is the time of year I constantly make bets with Paul that we’ll never see these rocks again. My farm boots become my sole footwear for the better part of a month. Standing in line at the grocery store we see hoards of them poking out from under skirts. I wrap my jeans around my calves and shove my feet in with a slight air of defeat albeit mixed with relief.
The interior of our truck is splattered with gray blobs of dried mud. Our back seat has a canvas cover draped over it that is constantly sliding off to one side. This, our futile attempt to protect the seat from the dogs. I type a note, “Please do not let the dogs inside” and magnet it to the front door of the house. People come in, banging their cello case against the boot rack and I hear them repeat, “no” as they acrobatically try to close the door, balancing on one leg, while the dogs do their best to shove their way inside.
If the light is just right and you cock your head to the left, you’ll notice thousands of paw prints across the wood floor of the kitchen.
The warm days and cold nights are the perfect storm for sugaring. This is the time of year when you see great clouds of steam rising from sugar houses. Some friends tell us these are the best days of the year. They likely don’t have dogs.
As the frost continues to push its way out of the road, the ruts become cavernous. It takes a special skill set to maneuver a vehicle around these. The term “washboard” seems optimistic. Driving to paved roads normally takes us about fifteen minutes. These days it takes us at least an extra ten. All checkups on vehicles include cleaning the brakes of debris, rinsing out the wheels and re-balancing all tires. Until then, when we are finally on pavement there is a strange metronomic thumping as mud creates an out-of-round feel to the tires. In the winter we hear that and it is ice. Come February- it’s mud.
Our arrival anywhere has the feel of bursting into a room. We are always a little late, clutching our bags, out of breath, with muddy dog prints on the backs of our coats that we haven’t yet discovered and, wearing those same boots.
Monday evening we climbed into bed, exhilarated to be above the fray for a few hours, and woke to snow. Eight inches of heavy wet white and no electric power. I was still thrilled for the reprieve of, if nothing else, wiping paws.
Oddly however, if offered the chance to pave our roads, we would protest until the cows (or sheep) came home. There are still more miles of dirt than paved roads in our state. I take comfort in the familiar, ruts and all.
John Muir said, “Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.”
We have no choice but to oblige. This is, after all, Life in Vermont.