Whether you celebrate Easter or the equinox, spring can be a magical time of transformation. And mud.

 Images of lambs bleating and chicks peeping is all well and good on a verdant farm, but the reality of spring is a big dog who gets covered in mud from her paws to her chin, for example. And then, in this pure hypothetical example, one must thoroughly wash said dog with a hose, which leaves one equally cold and bitter, or in the shower, which leaves a mess. And since the mud doesn’t disappear the following day, the cycle of the dirty dog must be repeated, which does nothing for the pup’s skepticism of the bathroom or the backyard hose, merely increasing her reluctance to follow in that general direction.

Unfortunately for Durangotans, spring (henceforth referred to as mud season) has lasted since that late January rain. There have been moments wherein perhaps winter was returning, but it simply maintained the snowpack and allowed for the high-altitude recreation of skiing or snowshoeing.  
I feel jilted by winter. And as any woman knows when jilted, it’s not my fault! I don’t deserve to be treated this way, given so little time to skate ski at Hillcrest, so few quiet winter mornings! I am embittered by the situation. I am bored of mud and fearful of summer. I lament the snowpack and the small runoff it will bring. I make empty threats about moving to the far north where winter never ends, maybe as far north as Crested Butte! I am the Mud Season Scrooge.

BaaaHUMBUG!

Now the optimistic reader will argue that the weather is beautiful, you’ve been on your mountain bike five times already this year! You rode to Silverton this weekend and got a nice bike-shorts tan! It’s perfect desert weather, go climb! Well to you I say, BaaaaHUMBUG!

It’s too early. I only ceased running and riding my bike at the beginning of December. I ran in the mud all February and I’m already bored of the dry parts of Horse Gulch.  I have all spring, summer and fall to enjoy the trails.

 
I crave newness. March used to mark the end of a rigorous ski season full of training and structure and I allowed myself a month and a half of exploration and relaxation before I began training in earnest May 1. Yoga, swimming and downhill skiing were enjoyable distractions at the time, but I want something different, now. I want a new hobby.

Mud season hobbies are tricky to choose: many take a large investment for an unknown activity. I don’t want to spend hundreds of dollars for something for which I have no aptitude or passion. After careful consideration, here are a few ideas. I want passion. I want sexy – not for my own person, but in the new sport I shall chose to pursue. Sexy means alluring and exotic, physical and slightly mysterious. And of course, sexy means endorphins.

- Rock climbing – OK, OK, yes I live in Durango. Yes I have rock climbed before, but I do not even own a pair of climbing shoes. A day spent in the outdoors, the mental challenge of route finding, and a chance for shapely arms are all attractive parts of rock climbing. Yet I have a slight aversion to hanging by a rope, or worse, by my own minimal arm strength, above the ground. It’s not a question of heights but on the sexy scale of climbing, size matters.  I’m afraid that I will be found wanting. I envision scraped hands, pinched toes and no view from my perch 5 feet off the ground where I’m stuck like a kitten who can’t descend the tree stump.  From this point of view, climbing ain’t so sexy.

- Golfing – Now, you might wonder what can possibly be so sexy about golfing – aside from the pants and the polos, not much. Golfing, for me, is a little too masochistic, and since I’m not a sadist, either, I chose to chop away at buckets of balls and resign myself to mini golf.  But I’ve read The Legend of Bagger Vance (no Will Smith in that version) and there is something graceful in golf: the swing, the control, the clubs. I would take pride in a good game of golf, were I capable of the skill and patience it required. I could play with my male relatives when they came to town instead of being relegated to babies and shopping with the aunts.  Androgyny is sexy. But I’d be better off perfecting my mini golf score before I went all Happy Gilmore over a new set of clubs on a manicured course. I think, for me, Hillcrest will always be for skiing.

- Fly Fishing – The reasons I don’t golf are the same reasons I don’t fly fish: it is a sport of finesse and patience, small reward for big effort. And you have to tie your own flies – I’d lose the use of my fingers in the first month! But fly fishing is undeniably sexy, with rods and flies and big browns, oh my! I like the river. I don’t know if I’d like it if I had to stand in it for hours on end, but I like watching water curl and bubble in the rocks almost as much as I like to watch campfires. I had several chances to learn when I lived in Montana, but I didn’t feel like being another out-of-stater who had watched “A River Runs Through It” and thought they had found the meaning of life.

Life is everywhere, even in fish poop at the bottom of a cold Montana river. It’s also at the top of a mountain, or in a puddle hidden by a canyon wall. But I like overalls; I can’t wait until they are back in style! I could rock a pair of waders and one of those hats with flies stuck everywhere. Perhaps I will give fly fishing a chance. Perhaps I’ll get some climbing shoes and attempt a tan.

 Or I’ll wait two more weeks for the river to come up, and I’ll go play in my kayak. Next weekend, I’m going skiing. That’s the joy of Colorado. You can have it all, but you have to wade through the mud.

BaaaHUMBUG!

– Maggie Casey