My blog switched channels from Comedy Central to Lifetime yesterday and even though we are still dealing with personal issues I felt it was time for an injection of normalcy. I don’t want to push the limits of my readers.

---

My friends and I like to fish.

Colorado has been in a draught for the last few years so the water levels in lakes and reservoirs are markedly low. This is not good for the fish so we decided that thinning the herds was in order. Last year, we headed to a fishing hole to kill some trout in order to save them from starvation.

We had never fished at this particular spot but heard it was a decent place to drown a worm. We were giddy with anticipation but soon overcome with disappointment because the water level was so incredibly low. We actually had to drive on the lakebed to get within walking distance of what little water was left.

We drove as far toward the water as possible without being stuck in the mud and made the decision to go the rest of the way on foot.

There were four of us: Mr. Duckslayer, The Skunk Whisperer, The Whisperer’s son and me. We all exited the vehicle and gathered our equipment in preparation for what appeared to be a long hike. The Whisperer’s son (henceforth known as “Mud Boy”) was the first to set out across the muddy terrain. Mud Boy is not a little kid; he’s a full-grown man. He’s built like an offensive lineman (with the exception of his ankles, which his sister describes as “dainty”.)

A crusty layer of dried vegetation covered the mud and enabled us to traverse our way across the terrain…or so we thought. Mud Boy was the first to brave the soft topography. He chuckled as he traversed his way toward the lake because the ground moved under his feet like a waterbed mattress.

That’s about the time he broke through the crust.

He immediately sank past his dainty ankles and struggled to free a foot in order to make his way back to more stable ground. He finally pulled one shoeless foot loose from the muck only to lose his balance and plant the same foot firmly through the crust in another spot. He continued to struggle.

He cried for help…he called for his father...he sank deeper.

He was knee deep in mud and sinking faster but there was nothing anyone could do for him. We were all laughing too hard to aid in his rescue. His father, the Skunk Whisperer, leaned against the vehicle with his head buried against his arm…shaking from fits of laughter. At one point, he reached out for Mud Boy but didn’t have the strength to hold his arm extended due to uncontrolled guffaws.

Mud Boy made desperate attempts to grasp his father’s arm but failed every time.

Here I was, watching a man who drove 90 miles to find a new home for a skunk laughing at his son while he slipped into the mucky darkness of a lakebed. This family’s priorities baffle me.

The fear in Mud Boy’s eyes was obvious. He knew the lakebed would swallow him and the last thing he would see on this earth would be three men laughing hysterically at his demise.

We began to feel bad when the only visible part of Mud Boy was the top of his head and the middle finger of his right hand held high.
We never saw Mud Boy again.

Ok…I made that last part up for effect. Mud Boy got out with no help from any of us. He lost his shoes and his legs were coated with thick, glue-like mud that stained his skin black. (That’s a lot of fish poop).

Seventy five percent of us laughed about it on and off for the rest of the day realizing that the outing was worth the drive even though we never caught a fish.

Good times...