In May 2013, the dam wall on Lake Arrowhead needed extensive repairs, necessitating dropping the water-level down between 6 and 8 feet, and our attractive, lakefront property became a smelly silt-deposit-frontage. I wrote about it in my letter to family (my father was living with us at that time, but decided it wasn't worth sharing with HIS friends because it was just about mud!). I've reposted it here, despite it having occurred after mud season because, well, ... it's all about mud!
"Oh my body aches! And it’s not just that I’m getting old, it’s that I’m doing hard, manual labor that someone my age with bad knees shouldn’t be doing, but I do it anyway because it gives me such a thrill. It really matters to me. The drained-out “lake” leaves exposed layers of silt and mud, which have become a nursery for invasive milfoil, so I have been raking, scooping and digging as much of it out as I can and then transporting it up and away from the lake. The mud-ooze is so powerful and strong - it clings to the shovel, and can’t easily be flung off and away, requiring even more effort to move it out of the cove. It does have a nice voluptuous quality to it, though - it moves and jiggles like cellulite, and the wobble is quite pleasant to see when it’s not one’s own body! It’s jolly hard work, but for me, so satisfying. I remember how proud I always felt as a child when my Mom described me as a Tom-Boy, and I’m still one! And still proud of it!
The lake floor looks deceptively firm, like a thin bed of slick-topped soil, partially dried out, but I discovered very quickly that it wasn’t thin, nor firm. Before I knew how sucky-viscous it was, I'd sunk in above my knees, and the aqueous mud had rolled downward into my boots (looking like slow motion, but actually happening quickly), making it impossible to lift out as one - it was like being stuck in concrete. In attempting to continue moving forwards and get back onto firm ground, my foot slid right out of the boot. The pressure from the mud on all sides immediately forced my boot to collapse inward. I was forced to put my sock-exposed foot into the mud for balance, and then fumble around for the top of my boot top to free it with my mucky hands, which though gloved, also had to endure the insidious ooze of mud. Quite an exhausting mode of locomotion, when there is so much suction and pressure - one just HAS to give up the idea of not caring about getting too muddy!!!! Maybe I should take up bog snorkeling next? Did I mention that I was having fun?
With the lake level so low, we could walk all the way to the dam along the exposed shoreline, which I did a few days ago with a wheelbarrow to collect a large flat rock for my rock garden. The one I picked was spectacular - broad and flat on one side, but heavy and thick. I had to push the loaded wheelbarrow through soft muck at times and it kept sinking or tipping over, so I scrounged for discarded boards washed up at the edge of the woods to place under the wheel and supports for purchase, and support. I felt as if I was dealing with a challenge from the Amazing Race, or Survivor in the blazing sun, and despite toiling for about 30 minutes, I discarded my chosen rock after noting how little progress I was making (I’ve now put it on my “Wishlist” for Mother’s Day). Mud provides a perfect medium for tracing the delicate, zig-zag movements of crunchy leaves and acorns, as well as tracking the more indented prints of squirrels, foxes, deer and humans. I figured that one day, many years hence, scientists will be examining the mud-struggle pattern of my fossil trace in the rock strata, trying to determine what that human was aiming to do! The mud patterns make for quite an interesting “documentary” of my “progress,” or rather attempt, at claiming a prized, carefully selected treasure.
I’ve been having so much fun, despite the difficulties I experience during and after my time in the wobbly and fickle mud. At the end of the day, I soaked my hands and feet in water for hours to get rid of the dark stains that had insidiously trickled into every crack and line of my skin, and under my nails, giving them an overall unhealthy looking yellow tint. I don't mind the feel of the mud - it's actually beautifully smooth, sensual, and cool, and I honestly loved my mud adventure. Dealing with unseen fish hooks, branches, rocks, mussels, broken glass and leeches was a tad off-putting, as was the strain on my knees when I tried changing direction whilst impounded. But now at least I have the lingering sensation of luxuriantly silky mud on my skin, knowing that at the same time I'm fighting milfoil!
I’ve always felt close to nature, connected to it, so tackling this task satisfied my environmental-evangelist tendencies (I’m one of those people who imagines a physical blow to my own body when I contemplate habitat loss and environmental destruction). I tackled it with love and gusto, and the satisfaction and sense of fulfilment I derived from working in the fickle mud made every residual body ache and pain worthwhile."
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