I have never worn rubber boots in public.

For someone who has authored a site like this one, it’s a pretty terrific thing to admit. Which means I’ve also never been on my own mudding adventure. At least half of my erotica content is dedicated to the WAM brand of the footwear fetish (possibly more–I’ve never counted). I thought it was high time to get out there and do what my characters have been experiencing all along.

I picked a miserable day. It was overcast, drizzly, and barely 50 degrees–colder when the breezes blew. It was also a day that I figured absolutely no one would be visiting the local hiking trail. And I was right. Only one other truck was in the parking lot when I arrived and self-consciously popped the hatch and pulled out my pristine-and-recently-conditioned Hunters. Yet it felt like hidden eyes were on me while I plodded down the main drive to the reserve, the shafts of my boots slapping my calves.

This particular trail rings a small but frighteningly deep lake, the vestiges of a century-old iron ore operation. The path winds and plunges along the folds of the steep hills that were haphazardly cast to the side by the once greedy industry. There were plenty of dips and turns that were slick with rainfall draining into the lake from above and delightfully sticky to march through.

An unexpected thrill came from the sense of invincibility that the rubber boots instilled. I didn’t have to carefully pick my way around the soggy bits. I veered off the path and into boggy patches with reckless abandon. I ventured along the outer edges of the lake’s murky waters, kicking up clouds of slime in my wake. None of this would have happened without boots that climbed nearly to my knees–at least, not when I have a car with an interior I give a damn about.

But it wasn’t until I eased my way around a parked backhoe and into a culvert construction site that things truly got interesting. I clambered over mounds of freshly piled clay the color of newly-minted pennies. Each step sank further than the last, my Hunters getting magnificently coated in the orangey-pink slime. The fear was palpable. I was roaming in a place I wasn’t supposed to be and performing an act that wasn’t easily explained should someone happen upon me. What’s more, I could tell from the mud’s grip on my boots that a misstep could create serious problems, and I am certainly not experienced at extricating myself from such sticky situations.

The episode really got me thinking about all of these guys who risk getting stuck or caught to create the compelling video content that many of us enjoy so much. So here’s my little shout out to a few of my favorites, to whom I subscribe on my YouTube channel: Flood Your Waders, Paul bronson, faintresemblance1, and Wellies Boy. Maybe someday I will source the right locations and develop the coordination to hold a camera and post some videos of my own. But until that day comes, I have a new appreciation for these guys!

I left the reserve not just with plastered boots and this bolstered respect, but also a photo. The entire construction site had been marked with these boot prints that were so huge, they made my size 11 Hunters look like kiddie galoshes. I spend the entire evening scouring the internet to determine what model boot had created them, desperate to be able to adequately picture the mystery man who had been slopping about the work site prior to my clandestine visit.

It took three hours, but I was rewarded for my efforts.

As it turns out, mystery man was clomping around in a pair of Wolverine Raider DuraShocks–this is the only line of boots with this particular tread pattern. As for which exact boot he was wearing…well, this is left to the imagination. And I do have a vivid imagination.

I’ve happiest thinking that these prints are the result of some massive Carbonmax Wellingtons, which go up to size 14. Considering how gluey the site was (and how gloriously deep some of his prints were), it seems a realistic and most satisfying conclusion to my lengthy diving into the world of boot tread patterns that he was sporting these taller, waterproof boots.

I love that I stumbled across this. I get excitement out of thinking about our construction worker plowing through the coppery ooze with far less concern than I gave it. But perhaps most thrilling is that when he goes back to resume work on the culvert, he will see the telltale wavy-lined treads of my Hunters pressed right alongside his massive boot prints, extending beneath the caution tape and past the orange mesh barrier.