“Alright as we bring this meeting to a close,” The Colonel said from the head of the long table that dominated the conference room, “I just wanted to address a personal pet peeve of mine that is going to start becoming an issue again shortly.”
My ears perked up, I stopped doodling in my notebook, and my head rotated from the general direction of the Mission Support Group staff meeting’s PowerPoint. The briefing had been mind-numbingly dull, and I had not paid attention from my seat on the side of the room, in the second tier and away from the table.
“As you are all aware,” The Colonel continued after he was sure all eyes were on him, “it is now springtime, and with springtime comes mud.”
I was completely intrigued, this was my first spring in Texas, and I had been surprised at the amount of rain this arid-steppe in Central Texas had received over the winter months. The Colonel was looking around the table and the peanut gallery surrounding it, where I was sitting, to make sure that everyone was following what he had to say.
“Around this time of year,” the Colonel said, leaned forward over his notebook and rotating his head around the room, making eye contact with everyone, “it seems that everyone heads out to Twin Buttes Reservoir and drives their trucks around, covers them with mud, and then drives back to base to allow the dried mud to drop off of their truck and onto my parking lots.”
Taking this moment to look around the room I noticed that the gather Squadron Commanders, Senior Non-Commissioned Officers, and assorted other Officers were all riveted to the Colonel, nodding thoughtfully with every word he spoke.
“So tell your squadrons,” the Colonel stuck his pointer finger onto the table to articulate his point before continuing forcefully, “that I do not want to see any caked, dried mud in our parking lots.” Some of the officers around the table wrote in their notebooks. “Now,” The Colonel continued, softening his tone slightly, “I do not mean to prohibit our personnel from offroading, or mudding, or whatever,” the tone changed back to sharp, “but I do NOT want to see any mud in my parking lots!”
The gathered Air Force leadership nodded their heads, acting very much concerned with the Colonel’s new directive. I was remembering my first interaction with the Colonel, and every interaction I had experienced with the man in the five months since I had first met him. Almost all of these experiences had been negative, and as the men and women around the main conference table nodded their heads in agreement the wheels in my head began turning.
I could see that the Colonel was very much passionate about the topic of muddy parking lots, his face was twisted in a snarl and he basically spat each word as he continued on his anti-mud diatribe. Before the Colonel called the meeting to a close, I already had a loose plan put together in my head.
It was a Thursday, and as the meeting came to a close my commander and I walked back to our squadron.
“Sir,” I asked as we crossed the street, “Was the Colonel serious about the whole mud thing? That was not a joke?”
My commander sighed, “No. He is serious. He gave this speech this time last year as well.” My commander regarded me suspiciously for a few seconds as if he was going to issue me some sort of warning, but then decided against it. “I’m sure the rest of the commanders are going to disseminate that little warning to their squadrons.”
The commander switched topics, discussing the upcoming rain storm that was predicted for the next day, the relative success of certain sporting teams, and where the best place to get a burger in San Angelo was.
Sure enough, the next day the rain came. It rained softly all day, with scattered lightening, and my plan formed even more solidly. Friday passed quickly, and the squadron headed to the bar next door.
“What are your plans this weekend, Ell-Tee?” one of the gathered airmen asked, “Girlfriend coming to visit?”
“Ah no,” I responded over my beer mug, I had no desire to truthfully divulge my plans for the weekend. “She is staying in Colorado for work. I’ll probably just chill at home with my trusty hound and play Xbox Live with my brother.”
The squadron members at the bar hung around for an hour or two, before everyone started to peel away one or two at a time. I left as soon as I could, paying my tab and heading home to let the Dog out for a walk.
That night I did indeed play a little bit of Xbox live with my brother before turning in relatively early. The next morning I woke up somewhat early, loaded the dog into the truck, and headed outside of town to the Twin Buttes Reservoir recreation area. The normally hard-packed dirt trails that criss-crossed the dried up reservoir had been churned into a dense, stinking mud.
I pushed the little Nissan truck through the area, the tires throwing mud all over the sides of my truck. Once I found a nice, muddy flat spot, I threw the truck into a series of doughnuts, throwing mud over the hood and onto the roof. The windows went from clear, to opaque, to completely obscured as the mud splattered across them.
This was the first time I had ever been “mudding,” that well-known and often scorned Southern hobby of just slamming your vehicle through mud pits with the express goal of making them as dirty of possible.
And I was doing it out of spite.
To be honest, it was exhilarating. The roar of the engine, the loud music, and the semi-concerned look of my dog, Ash, as he sat in the passenger seat. After a few minutes, even Ash seemed to be enjoying it, and I decided to roam around the area a bit more. I had arrived at the recreation area early, and as time went on, more and more vehicles started showing up.
After a few hours, I had my fill and knew my truck was more than dirty enough. I drove through the muddy reservoir area, passing the Texan merry-makers with their four-wheelers and lifted trucks, and headed back to my apartment.
My parking spot at the apartment was uncovered, and the sun had risen to its noon position by the time I rolled to a stop. In stark contrast to the day before, this day was hot and clear, perfect weather for baking mud onto a truck.
The quietest time on Goodfellow Air Force Base is before sunrise on any given Sunday. Compared to the hustle and bustle of the rest of the week, it feels like a ghost town. So I rolled through the gate in my muddy truck before the first tendrils of light started peeking over the horizon that Sunday.
I maneuvered my mud-caked truck to the Colonels parking spot, left the truck running, and hopped out. It took only about a minute, the mud was caked together, so a few good kicks knocked much of it loose. I kicked as much off as I could, then got back in and left, leaving a ring of mud behind.
Time to go cover my tracks.
“Damn, Ell-Tea,” the Flight Chief greeted me on Monday morning, looking at my freshly washed and waxed Nissan, “Did you get a new truck?”
“Nah,” I smiled in reply, “Just had to get the mud off of it.”