The Mud Called to Us
No matter how many quarters we popped into the self-service car wash, the mud kept oozing from the wheel wells in a sludgy mess. I fed the machine while Trev lay on his back with the water nozzle in hand, blasting the van’s undercarriage. His parents had replaced a CV joint last week, and there’d surely be hell to pay if they found out we’d been mud skiing again.
Mud skiing didn’t feel much like snow skiing. In the mud, our skis wouldn’t glide. Our teeth chattered from the unpleasant scraping of rocks underfoot. Our shoulders and abs ached from holding the rope and trying to stay upright. Turning was impossible and painful falls unavoidable. But for a few sacred weeks in November of our senior year of high school, the mud called to us. The simple feeling of putting on ski boots and clicking into bindings, plus the thrill of some speed, made it worth it.
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