We often speak of seasons
by their limits.
Dread, when nature
flips the light switch off.
Freedom, when it flips back on.

But “first snow”?
Sometimes that’s in June,
6 a.m., unzipping the tent flap.
Not a closed gate. Just rhythm.

“Fall colors”?
They look a lot like alpenglow
on a peak in July.
Or noon on the Colorado Plateau.

And “camping season”?
That always draws a chuckle…
from those who never stopped.

The season that gets me, though,
is mud.

Saturated ground,
sliding beneath careful steps
that still leave deep prints.

A system in flux.
A landscape between forms.
Not frozen. Not firm.
Not ideal when you’re searching for solid.

Heavy with what came before.
Still shifting underfoot.
Every step a question:
Will this hold?
Or will I slide?

And like true mud season,
it gets everywhere.
In the seams of your boots.
Under your nails.
Hard to clean.
Impossible to ignore.

You don’t blaze trails in mud season.
You move carefully.
You notice things.
You learn where the weight really sits.

Some seasons ask for caution.
Others offer clarity.
Mud season does neither.
It just… holds you.
Or doesn’t.

Mud season doesn’t end
with a breakthrough.
It ends with a freeze.

Stillness. Structure.
Something that finally holds.

Hopefully,
winter is coming.