Weekends in the mire

People from all over the surrounding counties participated in the weekend ritual of thrashing through the pits of mud that was commonly known and mostly referred to as Red Lane and the Pits. The area that is hidden in the country, set miles beyond the civilization of town.

Vehicles of all shapes and sizes, from Trucks and jeeps, with big tires and extra height added to the chassis, to little cars like tin cans on wheels, all gathering at this hidden play yard. The time and place to meet were never announced. It was as if the cosmos drawled them in and people just started showing up.

It was a well known, unspoken fact among the crowd that this weekend ritual was frowned on by the law enforcement. Driving through the ponds and marshes; that were easily above the grill of the tallest four by four’s, often caused damage those vehicles that attempted the worst of the worst. The looming threat never stopped the hordes of people who began to meet as the evenings warmed, as early spring began to thaw the layers of ice that accumulated on the mud and the various fissures of water.

Coolers of drinks set at the periphery of open fields. Spectators watched victim after victim of drowned motors, and tires sticking in the waist high mud, as men trudged out to help release them from the mire. The more audacious drivers chose the challenging and deepest pits. The pits and ponds could swallow a four by four f-250 and leave only the roof of the cab as evidence that there was a heap in its midst. These particular experiments were attempted at least once every weekend.

A few highlights of these gatherings would be times when trucks would race each other across the pond waters to reach the small island that sat in the center. Another time a compact car could be seen starting into the pool of water and gave it all the fight it had, but sank before it get very far. It was nothing to see the cab of a truck with exhaust stacks at the corner of the cab circling the island in the water as a shark, this same truck driving out the water to pick up different passengers and make a return trip.

Laughter rang out often as each person with steeled guts tried their hand at the tempting fun. The deepest pits and ponds were able to be conquered. Bragging rights went to those who were able to successfully maneuver through the ruts of the hidden embankment that led through the water. The trick was to keep from losing ground and sliding off the side of that hidden earth.

As headlights arose in the distance a familiar hush fell on the crowd, whispering questions of the approaching vehicle. It was understood that look outs would sound an alert if it were trouble headed their way. Fun continued when anxiety was eased by seeing it was just more people joining the entertainment.It was common for the mud to fling through the air until long after the waning moon. The unfortunate ones who encountered damaged engines, various broken vital parts or those who found their self stuck while playing in the gluing mud; found rides home with friends each time the night came to a close.

Each new weekend brought more spectators to the famously grimy scene. The increase of traffic traveling out to the country limits became a signal to those waiting to catch the violators. Waiting for the crowd to grow comfortable that they had gone undetected, and giving them a chance to become involved with the activities, forgetting to stay cautious. The law would then spring into sight as a predator stalking their prey. The delayed announcement of their arrival sent people scrambling for vehicles. Coolers were tossed aside, hidden in the brush, or tossed into truck beds.  Dust on country roads was made by hundreds of tires treading in a hasty retreat. People moved quick, tripping, falling and leaping into cars full of strangers, to avoid being caught in the field.

Some were too slow to out run the threat to their freedom, so they would drive into a brush covered path and turn off their head lights. The passengers reflexively held their breath and prayed they were not spotted. When the threat passed they pulled out of the brush, heading the opposite way, all eyes watched, out the side and rear windows, for the menace to return. Sweating while country back roads seemed to stretch and grow longer with each second. Passengers became eager to see the highway, waiting to release a sigh of relief that they were able to escape.

The mud bogged four by fours flinging the mire from under the wheel wells, were obvious that they had been somewhere they shouldn’t have. The best they could hope for was to out run the approaching law. Once the trucks could make it back to town a stop at the closest car wash was the first option a driver would look for. The other option was driving farther in to the country so the mud would fall off on its own, and hoping that the law was not waiting for them when they returned to town.

The wreckage's left behind were given last rites by the spectators as the law would stop to issue their wrath in the form of a pink slip of monetary vengeance. The following morning would result in rehashing the exciting events and planning out the escape for the next weekend.  The thrill always won out over any fear that someone would wind up in confinement. Waiting for the next weekend was the main conversation among familiar groups of friends. Finding a substitute vehicle or repairing the broken or damaged was the only concern that was forefront on every drivers mind. Repossessing and filling up the coolers was the center of attention for spectators eager to return. Renewed hope of victory over the sticky marshes became the mantra as Friday night grew closer.  Repeat performances of being chased away looming.