The men grunt as they off load the ATVs from the trailer. “Urgh, Urrrgh.” It reminds me of the show Home Improvement with Tim Allen doing the Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor grunt. The kids are squealing with exuberance while playing the game, Kick-the-Can in the semi-dark. The women are readying the trailers. And me, I am my kid’s mom, my husband’s soul mate and a city kid turned forest ranger for the weekend.
Whose idea was it to go camping the long weekend in August? Don’t they know there’s a folk festival on this weekend!
Everyone settles around the fire as darkness engulfs us. It’s a clear night, one of the first this wet and cold summer. I look at the ensemble. Seven children, four adults, one dog and six, lean, mean man machines. All-Terrain Vehicles. ATVs. Known as quads to some. Four-wheeling, squealing, roaring beasts.
They sit quiet, menacing, waiting for sunrise. Waiting for me.
Yes, that’s right. Tomorrow, bright and early we hit the outback. The men grunt, “Mud bogging, Urgh, Urrrgh.” Up one cutline, down the other, throwing up the mud, chewing up the earth.
I shudder at the thought.
The next morning, I open my eyes to the warmth of sunlight streaming across the bed. I stretch like a cat, taking my time to rouse.
Then I hear it.
The rumble of a quad being turned over. It spurts and coughs. I would to if they forced me into action so early on a Saturday morning. The machine coughs again and dies.
Good! One down, five to go.
But no. Wait. What is that sound? The rumble is unmistakable. The quad is running! I peak out the window. Four kids clamber onto the thing and after five pokes at the gears, it rumbles, farts, and disappears down the road, dust and smoke left in its wake.
I slump against my pillow and groan.
If the kids can do it, I guess I can too, or look like a wuss. That was the creative word around the campfire last night. I recall the ringleader saying, “We’ll have no wussies in this camp.” Then came the grunts.
I emerge into the daylight, only because I don’t want to be dubbed the ‘sleep-in queen’.
The men gear up. Gloves and helmets appear. We’re wearing our oldest and grubbiest clothes and runners. The stoked fire reflects hot coals so we can use it to dry out when we get back. I question this logic. How are we going to get wet? Laughter greets me.
It’s my turn to mount up. Immediately I wish that I only condo camped. As I swing my leg gingerly over the seat, I hit a piece of dried mud with my finger. Crap! I broke a nail. I try to repair the damage and nearly end up on the ground at the back end of the quad. Hubby gives me no warning as he fires the beast into gear.
“Woo-hoo,” I yell to show a fraction of enthusiasm, remembering the wuss thing.
The first root catches me unawares and I jerk to the left. I feel my back snap. Mental note to myself, “Book a physio appointment on Tuesday.” Then we hit the edge of a bog. A muskeg bog to be exact. Did I forget to mention mud? I see lots of it.
Everywhere.
The guys are quick to dismount. They shove, wiggle, and curse each machine through the mire one by one. Then it is our turn. Soon we are stuck deep in the thick of it. Muscle power pushes at us from behind. I’m given the look. That, “get the heck off there and push” look.
I slip off the side of the quad. It starts suddenly under the direction of my husband. Mud spurts from behind and covers my face. I groan and then gingerly pick my way through the boggy area sticking close to the outer edge. The guys continue to fight with the foul machine just ahead of me. I try to reach the quad to help push it the rest of the way.
Oh No! I’m sinking. I freak out when my thighs disappear, shrieking at the top of my lungs. My elbows rest against the scummy muskeg. I try to pull my leg up, but can’t move. My shrieks finally reach a decibel louder than the roaring engine of the quad. Hubby and his buddy look up in surprise.
Is that shock I see for an instant in their eyes?
They climb over to me, and each take an arm, pulling me toward them. The suction is tight, but soon I am up and out, resting on my knees. I still have both runners on, but when I squeeze my toes the sludge oozes between them. I stop my mind from wondering what other manner of microorganism might be down there, or on the rest of my lower torso.
I question the meaning of life while crawling on my hands and knees in the middle of the forest, green slime squishing between my fingers and around my calves. Watching my friends laugh at me, I ignore them, rolling my eyes skyward. There above is the bluest sky and the brightest sunshine we’ve seen this summer.
Back at camp, as darkness settles, we circle the campfire. The ringleader declares there are no wussies in this camp. Several jeers and grunts emit from the crowd. As he singles me out, everyone stares. All seven kids, four adults, the dog, and those dirty-faced, lean, and mean man machines, smirking in the darkness.
They dub me ‘Muskeg Mama’. It’s a name I’m sure will take many years to live down, and one that not too many city ladies can claim. Now take me to the folk festival. Tomorrow I’ll search for a used quad. Urgh! Urrrgh!
©2022 Patricia L. Atchison All rights reserved.
Authors Note: This story won third prize years ago for the Calgary Writers’ Association (now defunct) Sunshine Sketches Award. Yes, it is based on a true story - fun times from my youth.