Glorious mud

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist 

There has hardly been any sunshine of late and not only has the sky been gloomy and gray, it has rained – a lot. I feel as though every time I venture outside I am playing an endless game of hopscotch. I carefully navigate from one dryish patch of less muddy ground to another.

We certainly wear our tall rubber boots when we do our animal chores and even though we might be able to rinse the mud off at the frost-free spigot, we must still step through our creek valley world with caution. Mud, you see, is rather slippery and has caused our morning chores into a particularly challenging adventure.

One of my chores is to carry a large armload of hay into the goat and sheep yard. I first peel layers from a round bale and pile it up in the back of the four-wheel drive green machine. I then drive up the hill to the goat/sheep yard, thankful for the four-wheel drive that allows me to ascend the steep driveway that is now made up more of mud than gravel. 

I park just outside the gate, walk around to the back of the green machine and reach into its bed to grab a massive amount of hay that is piled so high in my arms, I can barely see over it, much less see the ground over which I pass. I accordingly step with great care on my way to the feeder. 

With each forward step, I make certain that my foot is firmly planted, and settled securely, before I place my full weight upon it. The goats watch from their shed door. The sheep gather around. They don't seem to mind the mud at all and jostle for their favorite feeding position in anticipation if my arrival at the breakfast bar. Finally, the hay and I make it to the feeder, and I plop the hay down on its top, and stuff it in at the corners so it doesn’t spill over the top. Ahh ... the satisfaction, albeit muddy satisfaction, of success.

The goat/sheep yard, however, is really like a walk in the park compared to the pasture. Granted, we use Old Blue, our trustworthy, hardworking tractor, to move large round bales of hay out to the cattle, but at this time of year I also lean over the fence to scatter two scoops of feed into the cattle trough to help assure that our bovine maintain a good weight. The silly creatures, however, seem inclined to move their feeder away from the fence and out of my arm's reach. I watch as they nuzzle it aside in order to get every last bit of grain that might have fallen to the ground below. I sigh, for this requires me to enter their pasture world and pull the trough back to the fence. This is not an easy task.

There is absolutely no dry ground anywhere near the cattle feeder. Even though I move it at least once a week, it quickly becomes a trough island in the middle of a very muddy sea, and this cattle trodden mud is not just slippery mud. This mud is a boot sucking, bottomless, unbelievable quagmire.

I enter the pasture and our two bovines dance and prance towards me as only cattle, with unbridled excitement, can. I actually believe that these two heifers could just about jump over the moon, they are so joyful to see me, though I realize that it is likely not me, but my promise of a treat, that causes them to be so jolly. I, however, am no fool. Half a ton of heifer is nothing to be trifled with. Accordingly, I always face them, my hand extended as if to say "Keep your distance girls." They oblige.

My boots sink deep into the muddy muck. I grab the feeder and drag it free of the sludge and over to an area of less muddy ground along the fence line. I turn to leave. The heifers nuzzle around the feeder, imploring me to hurry up and get them their treat, but I cannot hurry. I must step carefully. The thought of falling in this particular kind of mud is so daunting that I even take extra time and move ever so carefully. My heels rise out of my boots with each step as the mud tries to grab a hold, but finally I am safely back on my side of the fence. I pour two scoops of grain into the trough and the cattle set about swishing up the grain with their amazingly long tongues. They are content, and I am pleased with the success of my mud-full endeavor.

I am, however, not quite done with my muddy chores. I turn towards the horse paddock, which presents its own unique challenge. The horses also need a large armful of hay in their feeder. This chore is fairly easily accomplished, as their feeder is under a shelter that allows both horses and ground to stay dry, but my dear equine friends do not always stay on the dry side of their paddock. They actually seem to take great joy in frolicking on the muddy side, and I feel compelled to cross over the mud and enter their little trailer/stall to fetch their brush and comb.

Again, I am no fool. Their paddock is fenced with sturdy metal farm gates, so I simply step up on the lowest rung and sidestep my way over to their trailer/stall, all the while while holding onto the top rung. When I look down, over my shoulder, the muck below leads me to clutch the top rail even more tightly. In careful time, with the grooming implements tucked securely into my back pocket, I retrace my sidesteps along the rails to dry ground. I brush and comb the horses, trim the muddy tips of their tails, and then turn to leave. There is no pressing need to return the grooming implements to the trailer/shed, but alas! No sooner have I secured the paddock gate, then my two foolish horses prance over to the muddy side where they happily slosh about, mud and muck splattering all over their bellies and gathering once again on their tails. What can I do but smile? 

This is the season of glorious mud.