And I get it. It’s fun. Driving fast and getting dirty. What could be better?
My brothers and I went mudding a number of times.
But then a kid in the next town was thrown off his ATV when the front tires hit a hidden rock while he was going about twenty miles per hour. He landed on his head, broke his neck, and ended up in a wheelchair. For the rest of his life.
Our parents forbade any further four-wheeler use on land we didn’t know well and where we couldn’t see the path.
And then we were caught mudding again. By Scott Hansen.
I thought he was going to kill us. I really did. I’d never seen him so angry.
Three days after he hauled us home for our mom and dad to deal with—they called our grandma and grandpa too, which was even worse—Scott came to talk to me one-on-one.
He brought me out to the field we’d torn up with our four-wheelers and explained to me all the negative effects we’d had on the area.
He’d shown me how our tires had torn up the vegetation and left bare dirt that would wash into the river and impact the fish, birds, and animals that needed the river to be clean.
He explained how we’d destroyed native grasses and plants that the birds and animals needed for food and habitat, and told me that weeds and noxious plants would move in instead. He’d also shown me how we’d wrecked areas where animals built burrows and nests. He said it was possible we’d smashed eggs or demolished tunnels. He said that meant the animals would move to other areas, possibly places where they’d be less safe.
Scott had written us up, and we had to do community service. Our parents and grandparents had agreed. I remember our grandfather pushing for a stricter punishment, in fact.
Scott had assigned my community service that day: to research all the animals and birds that could possibly live in a field like the one we’d torn up and write a report on each of them. Then, I was to return to the field and see if I could find any of them.
I had done all of it. I’d found several of the animals, too.
And I’d loved every second of it.
Not that I’d ever admitted that to him.
I don’t know what he said when he talked to each of my brothers, and I don’t remember what their community service had been, but mine had definitely stuck with me.
I’d never suggested mudding again, and the next time my brothers brought it up—on our own land, incidentally—I talked them out of it using the information I’d learned.
I’d felt bad about the kid over in Coralville but, honestly, knowing the effect we’d had on the animals had really hit me hard.
Now I stand on the rise, hands on my hips, watching the three kids tearing up a field. I reach into my truck and lean on the horn.
One of them looks up and notices me. He pulls his vehicle over and motions to the other two. They also look up at me and stop.
“Get up here!” I bark.
They look at one another, and I brace, wondering if they’re dumb enough to take off.
I’ve seen their ATVs now. Their helmets. I will find them.
Finally, one pulls his helmet off and says something to the other two. Then they start toward me.
When they pull up, I say, “Kill the engines.”
They do.
“What are your names?”
The one without the helmet tells me. “I’m Kyle. This is Haden and Colt.”
“This land yours?”
It’s not. They look to be about twelve or thirteen, and Brett’s kids are older than that, but it’s possible they’re related. It won’t matter, though. I’m still giving them the spiel about why mudding is bad.
