Megan Eaves

slurp.

that sound.

there is nothing quite as unsettling as the sound of mud. boots struggling through it. slop slop slopping. a momentary stuckedness, then the unsuctioning of a boot bottom and, with it, the noise.

there is nothing that a desert flower detests more than mud. i can assure you, being one. i’m not saying that british people like mud, because i don’t think anyone likes mud apart from 11-year-old boys and black labs.

but desert people are raised in an odd, waterless world. rain is a joyous, almost spiritual experience. it doesn’t make mud; it just causes more dust to be raised. a water droplet hits off of dirt so dry that it literally can’t form mud, it just poofs up in a small whiff of dry dirt, then settles into the soil and vanishes as if it never existed.

i used to feel like the wicked witch when it rained. water? on my skin? what is this devilry? i didn’t learn to work an umbrella until i was 20 and moved to the east coast. when new mexico rains come, they fall hard and fast, then they move on. it is a giant, violent and all-encompassing monsoon that sprays the landscape for 15 minutes and doesn’t dally, leaving you to wonder if you dreamt it. this happens once an afternoon at about 2pm everyday during the months of july and august. after that, it is bleak blue sky and white sun that washes out everything within view, until winter winds and, maybe, an overnight snow that brings a pile of white fluff. it, like the dust, blows away in the wind, and does not create any mud.

slurp.

my right foot suctions down into poopy-looking goop, then rises too easily against the force of my leg, spraying the back of my calf with droplets of brown semi-liquid. i plant my left foot forward, but it slides unsteadily a short ways, and this process is repeated.

it rained most of yesterday and dawned today a bright, cold blue. my companion and i are somewhere west of wendover, trudging through the chilterns on a mad mission to get through the first hike of the year. all things considered, it’s a good day for it (in british, this means it is not actively raining right now), and given a choice, i’d battle mud over sweat any day.

it takes about eight hours after a new mexico rain for the crunchies to form. this is the term my sister and i as kids gave to the mudcracks that would form where fleeting puddles lingered for too short a time to be splashed through. it seemed like the rain went straight from droplets to crunchies, and that there were never puddles to be enjoyed. rather, enjoyment came in the gleeful stomping on the crunchies, which made such a delightful crispy noise.

long saturdays, we’d spend a full hour or two wandering up and down the length of our mile-long dirt driveway hoping to find a patch of crunchies after a monsoon. sometimes this would end in a fight as we battled for who would get the last toe over the final crack. who knew when it would rain again; you had to get the crunchies while you could.

walking in mud, for me, is overcoming a deep-seated and dark force. mud inspires in me a visceral dislike, such that i would do almost anything to avoid it, even despite the logical knowledge that i have on boots prepared for such an occasion.

this january walk through the chilterns is an exercise in mud-dodging. my companion picks her way up a small leafy slope while i spread my feet apart and hop from foot to foot straddling a slop of puddle. we face an epic slope, skiing our feet upwards and back in vain effort: moving a lot but not going anywhere fast.

then there is the constant struggle to dislodge the mud from the sides and bottoms of your boots as it tacks itself on, adding more and more weight to your already straining quadriceptic efforts. god, my knees fucking hurt.

in the desert, rain is a special thing. it freshens up a world that feels dead from the baking sun. it springs you to life, infusing the air with a coolness and the intoxicating scent of ozone and damp soil. the droplets hit your car windshield, and you roll the window down and stick your arm out to let the cool spray coat your hand, dried in an instant. and the rain stops before you can even enjoy it.

these moments are not unlike the fleeting hours of sunshine on a january day in britain. lauren and i break just before midday in whorley wood, too famished from mud-dodging to continue. there is a howling, icy wind that abates in a small clearing under a copse of giant elm trees. she ungloves a hand and tests a log for dampness, then another, finally settling on the ‘least wet’ one and we sit, unearthing sandwiches and crisps from the depths of our backpacks.

the wind carries on its way. our fingers go numb. clouds part for a moment. the sun hits our backs and suddenly it is warm like a summer. then all too quickly, the sun is gone again. like rain in the desert.