Diary of a Mud Adventurer - Part 1

I'm posting this as a blog instead of a story, partly because it is non-fiction - an account of my actual mudding adventures, and because I'll post more accounts in the future. This adventure just happened the day before I posted it. Later posts will be both recounting past adventures and detailing more current ones as they happen.

All of my mudding fun for the past 3 years has been solo. It does allow me to do things that I wouldn't do with another person along. That is partly because I do things spontaneously if I'm out seeking adventure and partly because I take more risk of discovery when I'm alone than I would if I had company.

But some day I'll find a place that is private and is consistent enough with mud availability that I'll gladly share it with others. It's just difficult to find such places when you live in a semi-desert where the rain makes all the difference between muddy fun and no fun.

I'm not going after ratings with these mud diary entries but I sure would enjoy some feedback in the comments if you enjoyed reading this account of my muddy adventure.

I've been living in my new community for a month and a half now. It's in western Colorado, a very dry area except for farm fields irrigated with river water and occasional rain storms. The rain often comes in heavy, very localized storms that move across the area quickly, leaving surrounding areas surprisingly dry.

It is these weather patterns over the centuries that shaped the dramatic erosion landscape of western Colorado, southern Utah and northern Arizona. There are thousands of dry washes that become filled with raging torrents of water when a heavy storm passes by. A woman hiking in a canyon in Zion National Park was killed last week when she was swept away by flood waters.

Even though we had some good rain here in town last week, my motorcycle trip out to the desert, where I hoped to find lots of ruts on the dirt roads filled with water and mud, yielded a disappointing and totally dry landscape.

So yesterday, I tracked the storms on the online weather radar and decided that I needed to make my first exploration into Utah since I moved here - it's just 17 miles up the highway. I geared up in a pair of slim fit white jeans, favorite red-dirt colored t-shirt, old ratty Levis jacket, 18" Hoffman Vibram-soled logger boots and a mud-stained baseball cap that I found at a mud volleyball tournament several years ago.

Since the jeans have tapered legs, I tucked them into the shafts of my tall boots before lacing them up. My usual attire is Levis 501s but there's just something about the thought of white jeans getting plastered in mud, becoming white no longer, that was my motivation for buying them at the thrift store. It was time to indulge in that exciting transformation.

I filled my new 5-gallon jug with cleanup water and gathered spare clothes, cleanup rags, drinking water and my GPS unit. It was raining when I headed out but as I went west the rain had already passed through the area and the sun was warm and bright.

I sold my Jeep a while back so I have been using my 4x4 truck for mudding adventures since then. It doesn't have serious offroad tires on it so I have to be somewhat careful about the places where I go with it.

I headed west on a paved road that turned into a dirt road that parallels Interstate 70. It is the original 2-lane US highway that was there before the Interstate was built. I then turned south on a dirt road that had lots of puddles from the storm that had just moved through but no real good stomping mud so I just got my boots slightly muddy with some splashes of mud on the white jeans.

Some of the shallow washes that the road crossed had a bit of water running through them but nothing that would stop me from crossing. At one point I saw a fresh trickle of water fanning out onto the road from a shallow wash that intercepted the road but it did not register with me what that meant.

My destination was an overlook of the Colorado River at a campground 4 miles away. The landscape along the way had that surreal look of crazy red and tan sandstone geologic formations. The view of the canyon with the river and railroad tracks far below was impressive.

On the way back to the main road I was shocked to discover that the fresh trickle of water I saw earlier had turned into an impressive river of water rushing down the roadway from edge to edge! Clearly that formerly dry wash was a now a major conduit for a heavy rain that had fallen an hour earlier upstream.

And that is why this terrain can be so dangerous for hikers in steeply walled canyons. A heavy passing storm an hour ago and miles away can suddenly change dry landscape into a life-threatening hazard. If you can't climb to safety above the water you risk being swept away in the current.

Fortunately, the water was only six to eight inches deep so I drove very slowly into it. There were a few places where there was some debris floating on the surface, which I managed to skirt. The entire roadway width was now a riverbed, inundated for many hundreds of feet in three different places over the course of a mile. Each time I reached some dry ground I saw water ahead again. Finally the road moved to higher ground right where I had seen that little trickle an hour earlier.

Of course the truck was splattered with mud at that point, which looked kinda cool. I headed back to the frontage road to continue my exploring. One bridge over a wash showed pockets of mud below but most of it was a dried-up cracked mud surface. I continued on.

Then I came to a place where the frontage road was fairly close to the Interstate highway and there were three bridges across a large wash and what looked like a dirt road below. There was a side road branching off the frontage road so I turned onto it and went down a hill. A yellow warning sign reading, "Road May Be Impassible At Times" certainly piqued my interest and my excitement level.

As I turned the corner where the road went under the three bridges I couldn't believe my luck. Obviously the area under the bridges flooded and turned the roadway into an impassible quagmire. The area under the first bridge had dried up enough so that there were two deep ruts passing through mostly dried up mud on one side and a lagoon of fairly thick liquid mud on the other. Lots of dirt had been moved by machinery in the area, presumably to help drain the sump and allow the road to be passable in the past.

I found a place to park, took off my t-shirt and buttoned up my Levis jacket over my bare chest. There was no one on this road or going over the bridge above so I walked towards the mud hole, my manhood springing to attention in anticipation.

After a quick listen for any vehicles in the area I walked into the mud pit. With each step my foot went in deeper until the mud was over the top of my 18" boots and almost up to my knees. I climbed up out of the pit onto the dirt mounded between the road and the wash, getting my knees muddy.

At that point I decided to explore the wash, which had a steady but fairly small current of water flowing through it with lots of muddy flat areas between the banks. I went both upstream and downstream but did not find any mud deeper than about six inches. So back to the mud pit I went.

This time I jumped from the dirt bank on the side into the deepest part, misjudging my forward momentum in the process. So after my feet landed I ended up on my knees in the mud, which brought it up to my ass and crotch. Oh well, so much for the controlled transformation of white jeans to shiny brown ones.

I turned around in the mud and crawled up the muddy embankment to dry ground. At that point I decided to walk around a bit and admire my handiwork. Indeed, it was first class clay mud, nice and shiny and silky smooth.

With no traffic on the road so far I got emboldened to go back for more. This time I walked into the deepest spot and sat down, getting mud higher up on my torso, partially covering the Levis jacket. I got back on my knees and scooped that slick clay mud down into my crotch and then once again crawled up the muddy embankment. That magic lubricant inside my jeans and the friction of grinding my crotch as I made my way up the embankment yielded the desire results and the explosion of cum inside my formerly white jeans was most satisfying.

Once again I walked around, enjoying the endorphin rush and admiring my appearance. Kind of like when you launch a rocket, there is a point of commitment from which there is no return, I just knew that I could not leave this place without swimming around a bit in the mud.

So I went back and rolled around in the slop, pulling out the waistband of my jeans and the jacket to get more mud inside and laying on my back, scooping mud over my chest and shoulders.

Just as I was savoring that "pig in slop" moment I heard a vehicle approaching. OH CRAP!. I scrambled up on the embankment just as I saw the front of the truck come around the corner. Fortunately, there were multiple very thick columns supporting the bridge so I hid behind one of them. The truck stopped for what seemed like an eternity but was probably just a minute.

Had he seen me? I peeked and saw a speedboat on a trailer behind the truck. WTF? Who would drive something like that down a road like this? And where on earth was he going with the boat. Finally he started moving and I held out hope that he had just stopped to survey whether he wanted to drive through the rutted area and had not seen me.

As he moved forward I inched my way around the column to stay out of sight of the front of the truck. And he kept going after he got through the deep ruts. So I'll never know if he saw me but it was one of those rare times that I did not have a ready explanation for what I was doing in a compromising situation. When I do that sort of play while out riding my dirt bike it seems easier to make up a semi-plausible story when you have a ready excuse right next to you.

While I was relieved that he did not stop and ask questions, a new variable appeared on the horizon literally. There were storm clouds forming in the sky in an area upstream of my play place. And since I was on dirt roads that could become slick and impassible with heavy rain I decided that cleanup time was ahead instead of more play in that liquid mud.

As I made my way to the dirt piles, I felt the weight of many pounds of mud on my clothes and boots. Those recently moved piles of dirt consisted of warm fine clay particles. I found an area on one side of a pile that was mostly out of sight of anyone driving over the nearby bridge. I played King of the Mountain and got totally covered in dirt. Of course as it absorbed the moisture from the wet mud it clumped up and I got even heavier.

Keeping an eye on the storm clouds, I spent the next hour happily playing in the dirt like a little kid. I opened up my Levis jacket and enjoyed the view of the mud impaled on my thick chest hair. I slowly worked the dry dirt into the wet mud and pulled the resulting clumps off of my clothing.

This after-play is one of the reasons I so enjoy mudding with clothing on. Between the incredibly sensual feeling of my body sliding around inside my clothes when I get the mud inside and the fun I have cleaning up, when the conditions are right it creates an hours long pleasure. Seeing my tall black leather boots caked in mud and pulling it out of the Vibram with my fingers as I cross my legs while lying on a dirt pile is just one of many aspects of my mudding adventures that I've learned to enjoy.

I finally took off the jacket and shook it a few times to get more mud chunks off and waked back to the truck. I cleaned up my arms with the wash water but left my chest with the dried mud in my chest hair as a badge of honor. I put on an old ratty blue chambray work shirt with the sleeves partially cut off and left the snaps open, placed a plastic garbage bag over the truck seat and headed out.

I went further down the road to explore more but realized that without a good map of the maze of dirt roads ahead I had no idea where I was going. My Utah road atlas was still packed in a box somewhere. So I turned around and headed back. By this time my formerly white jeans were mostly dry. Of course I had to go under the bridges again and after driving past the mud hole I couldn't resist parking and walking through it one more time, from end to end, getting muddy up to my knees.

I walked over to dry ground and stomped around to shed as much liquid mud off my boots as I could before getting back into the truck. By then it was getting quite dark so I drove up the dirt road another mile until I came to an interchange on the Interstate highway and headed home.

I stopped at the car wash to clean up the outside of the truck, my boots and the Levis jacket. Then when I got home I sneaked into the back yard and used the garden hose to clean the more mud off the boots after taking them off and hose down my jeans. Fortunately no neighbors had their yard lights on at that time of night so I got nekkid, dried off my feet and went in the house for a nice hot shower.

Later I went out to put the boots on the boot dryer and this morning I finished hosing off my jeans and hung them up to dry in the sun. They have nice streaks of mud stains on them that I think will look nice on my next adventure.

So why do some of us enjoy getting dirty? In my case it was a combination of growing up in a city where I had no opportunity to get dirty since the whole yard was grass or concrete. Then seeing people out west while on family vacations where getting dirty was a part of ranch life. So I guess in rebellion from my disgustingly clean youth and finally getting my first dirt bike I learned the joys of getting stuck in the mud of upstate NY and the sexual release I could achieve while getting me and my bike unstuck.